Читать книгу Witching Hour - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 6

HER heart hammering, Morgana stared back, lifting her chin defiantly. She didn’t recognise the voice. Low-pitched and resonant, with a trace of an unfamiliar accent, it struck no chord in her memory. And she couldn’t see him either, although she had the impression that he was tall.

She wondered why she hadn’t heard him approach, but supposed it had been partly because of the noise of the wind, and principally, because she had been so totally absorbed in what she was doing. All of which he had observed, judging by his opening remark. She felt the blood rush into her face with embarrassment, and her temper rising at the same time as she visualised him skulking up through the bracken, deliberately not using his torch, giving her no hint that she was no longer alone until it was too late, and she had made a complete and utter fool of herself.

She demanded sharply, ‘Do you enjoy spying?’

‘Not particularly, although I must confess it can be most instructive,’ he said. ‘And it’s not every day one gets the paces. But isn’t it a little early for this sort of thing? I always understood the witching hour was midnight.’

There was a trace of amusement in his voice which he wasn’t at all concerned to hide, and it stung.

She said stiffly, ‘I am not a witch.’

‘I think that’s just as well.’ The laughter was open now. ‘I don’t think you’d be very good at it. That stone’s supposed to rock, isn’t it?’

‘How did you know that?’

‘From a book I bought in the village. I hope you didn’t think it was a closely guarded secret.’

‘No, no, of course not.’ The fright he had given her, and her own anger, had knocked her slightly off balance, and she hated the way he kept her trapped in the damned beam of light, so that he could see her, but she could know nothing about him, except that impression of height.

Her voice sharpened. ‘Did your book also tell you that this is private land?’

It was only a technicality, and no one at Polzion House had ever dreamed of debarring any of the interested tourists from visiting the stone, but there was something about this man that flicked her on the raw, that made her want to put him down—to make him feel small in his turn. It was abominable the way he had stood there in the darkness and watched her, and listened, and then added insult to injury by laughing at her.

He said slowly, ‘Is it now? And do you think the owner would mind?’

‘We don’t like trespassers round here—intruders.’

‘I was always told the Cornish were very hospitable. And as for intruding, actually I was here before you. I was standing back so I could look at the stone from a distance when you appeared out of nowhere and began your incantations.’

‘I had every reason to believe I would be alone,’ she said coldly. ‘And do you think you could switch off that spotlight of yours—always supposing you have seen all that you want,’ she added with icy sarcasm.

The torch remained on. He said, ‘Tell me something—are you always so prickly? Even in that weird cloak with your hair all over your face, you’re an attractive girl. You must have had men look at you before this.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘But I’ve always been able to look at them too. The present situation is a little too one-sided for my taste.’

He said, ‘But easily remedied.’ The torch beam swung up and away from her and she saw him properly for the first time. He was tall, his face thin, with prominent cheekbones, a high-bridged nose and firm mouth and chin. And his hair was fair, lighter altogether than Rob’s, and longer too, reaching almost to the collar of the black leather coat he was wearing.

Morgana thought, ‘A fair man—but it can’t be … it couldn’t be! I don’t believe it.’

As if he could read her thoughts, he began to smile, deep laugh lines appearing beside his mouth.

‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

She wanted to ask, ‘Who are you?’ but the words wouldn’t come. Then the torch snapped off, and there was only the darkness and the howl of the wind, and the tall dimly seen figure who said quietly, ‘And perhaps you have, at that.’

He was coming towards her, and she recoiled involuntarily, her hands flying up in front of her to keep him away. Then she stumbled against a clump of grass and went flying.

‘Dear God!’ The torch flicked on again, as she lay there, winded and humiliated, and he bent towards her pulling her up, his voice abrupt as he asked, ‘Have you hurt yourself? Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ She’d twisted her ankle slightly and it hurt enough to make her wince when she put her weight on it, but she wasn’t going admit it. She didn’t want him to touch her again. He’d put his hands under her arms and lifted her as if she was a child, and she’d hated it.

He said harshly, ‘When I said you’d seen a ghost, I wasn’t trying to frighten you. There was no need for you to leap away like that. What I meant was that I thought I possibly reminded you of someone.’

Morgana could have said quite truthfully, ‘You remind me of a number of people. You remind me of at least half the portraits hanging in the long gallery at home, except that they’re all dark, and you’re fair.’ But she remained silent because there was still an outside chance it might all be a coincidence, and she could be wrong. Under her breath, she prayed that she was wrong.

He said sharply, ‘Well?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t spend my life looking for chance resemblances to people I know in local tourists. We have too many of them.’

‘I wasn’t talking about chance, and I think you know it.’ His hand gripped her arm, bruising her flesh, and she said with ice in her voice, ‘Would you let go of me, please?’

‘When you’ve answered a few simple questions. For starters, what’s your name?’

‘If this is a new version of the pick-up, then I’m not impressed,’ she shot at him.

‘I’m tempted to make a very different impression on you.’ His voice slowed to a drawl, but now he didn’t sound amused at all. The torchlight was on her face again, and his hand moved from her arm to grip her chin. She wanted to pull away, but she wasn’t sure she could evade his grasp, and it would be another humiliation to struggle and lose. So she remained very still, making her eyes blank, enduring his scrutiny.

At last he said slowly, ‘I’m Lyall Pentreath. And unless I miss my guess, you’re my cousin Morgana.’

‘Brilliantly deduced,’ she said huskily. ‘And what are we supposed to do now—shake hands?’

‘I think it’s a little late for that.’ His voice was dry.

‘We expected you this morning.’

‘I was held up.’ He let her go and stepped back, and her breath escaped with a little gasp of relief.

‘More business, I suppose.’ She made no attempt to hide the bitterness in her voice.

‘Of a sort.’

‘I suppose it didn’t occur that my mother and I would be waiting for you—would be worried?’

‘Frankly it didn’t.’ A match flared as he lit a cheroot, his hands sheltering the flame against the snatching wind, and she saw his mouth twist cynically. ‘I hardly imagined I would be the most welcome visitor the Polzion House Hotel had ever had.’

She’d heard the edge in his voice when he mentioned the word hotel, and she made her own tone blank and a little wondering. ‘You resent the fact that the family home is now a commercial enterprise? I’d have thought as a business man yourself, you’d have been delighted.’

‘But then,’ he said coolly, ‘I would hardly describe that particular venture as a commercial enterprise.’

Morgana was silent for a moment, her brain working madly. Far from lacking interest in his inheritance, it now seemed he was only too well informed. But where had he gleaned his information? she wondered. Was that where he’d been since this morning? Going round Polzion, asking questions? She flinched inwardly as she thought of some of the answers he might have been given. On the other hand, it was far more likely that he’d found out all he wanted to know through correspondence between his solicitors and Mr Trevick, who would have been been bound to be frank.

She decided to proceed cautiously. ‘I admit we’re not the Hilton, but we make out.’

‘Do you really? You seem to be alone in that opinion. From what I’ve learned, the hotel seems to owe quite a lot of money to a number of people.’

She was mortified, but she made herself reply quietly. ‘Yes—we do, unfortunately. But it’s been a bad year.’

‘It must have been a succession of bad years if all I’ve been told is true.’

‘If you want to put it that way,’ Morgana agreed, numbly hating him.

‘I don’t, believe me.’ His tone was dry. ‘After all—a hotel in surroundings like these. It’s hard to see how it could fail.’

‘In the course of your snooping, you may also have noticed that Polzion isn’t exactly Newquay,’ she said sharply. ‘I’m sorry if we haven’t come up to your expectations, but no doubt you’ll be able to figure out the reasons why at your leisure.’

‘Unfortunately, I don’t have that much leisure to waste.’ He sounded abrupt again. ‘I’m going to walk down to the house now, and meet your mother. Are you going to come with me, or have you got more spells to cast?’

‘No,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll come down with you.’ She felt chilled to the bone, and cold and sick inside.

‘Good. I didn’t relish the prospect of being turned into a frog as soon as I turned my back.’

‘I think in the circumstances,’ she said tightly, ‘a rat would be more appropriate.’

‘If we’re playing at animal similes, I can think of one or two that would fit you quite well too,’ he returned equably, and Morgana flushed in the darkness. After a moment’s pause he turned away and moved off down the hill, without waiting to see if she was following or not. Morgana gritted her teeth and went after him, fumbling in her cape pocket for her own torch. It couldn’t compete with the powerful beam that his flashlight was sending out, but at least it gave her an illusion of independence.

He said over his shoulder, ‘Be careful you don’t fall.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ she snapped, ‘but I do happen to know every inch of these moors.’ And remembered too late that he’d had to haul her up from the ground only a few minutes before.

‘Then perhaps you’d like to go first. My own acquaintanceship is only just beginning,’ he said silkily.

‘That,’ she snapped, as she went past him, her chin in the air, ‘is entirely your own fault.’

She walked ahead of him as fast as she could go, determined not to stumble again or make a fool of herself in any other way, although every instinct was screaming at her to run and never stop until she reached Polzion House and safety. When she reached the road she made no attempt to wait for him to catch up with her, but simply marched along as if he had ceased to exist for her. Nor did he try and draw level, so he obviously had as little desire for her company as she had for his, she thought defiantly.

She didn’t pause or look back until they reached the front door, and she opened it and went into the hall. Her mother was at the desk, just putting the telephone down.

‘That was Mr Trevick, darling. The Pentreath man is in the area—he called at the office earlier today. Where can he have got to, do you suppose?’

‘Here,’ Morgana said grimly, and stepped aside.

Lyall Pentreath walked forward, and she took her first good look at him. All the impressions she had received up by the Wishing Stone—the height, the fairness—were reinforced, and more beside. His face was deeply tanned, accentuating the strong lines of nose, mouth and jaw, and his eyes were a deep and piercing blue. The black leather coat covered a roll-necked sweater in the same shade, and light grey pants, fitted closely to lean hips and long legs.

Elizabeth Pentreath said helplessly, ‘Oh dear!’

He said quietly and without mockery. ‘This is a difficult occasion for us both, Mrs Pentreath, and anything I say is liable to be misunderstood. I wish we could have met in different circumstances.’

He had charm, Morgana supposed bitterly, watching her mother’s face flush slightly with pleasure as he took her hand. And the cynical lines of his mouth told her that he was quite well aware of it, and knew how to use it to its best effect. She stood and watched, and hated him for it. Hated him for the elegance of his expensive clothes and the slight drawl with which he spoke. Everything about him told of a world very remote from their own small part of the Cornish peninsula. He looked, she thought frankly, as if he’d never actually known what a hard day’s work was, never had his hands dirty in his life, and she despised him for it.

Effete, she thought. A lady’s man. A desk-job Romeo. I bet the typing pool’s little hearts go pit-a-pat whenever he saunters through.

Mrs Pentreath said, ‘Would you come into the drawing room? We’ve just been having tea. I’ll ask Elsa to make some fresh and …’

He lifted a hand. ‘Not for me, thank you. I don’t really have a great deal of time.’ He glanced at the plain gold watch on his wrist. ‘I have to pick up my car and get back to Truro.’

‘Oh.’ Elizabeth Pentreath was taken aback. ‘Then you’re not staying? I’ve had a room prepared here for you.’

‘Not this time around, I’m afraid.’ His smile removed any hint of a rebuff. ‘But when my immediate plans are finalised, perhaps I can take advantage of your kind offer.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll do that.’ Morgana muttered rebelliously, and received a horrified look from her mother.

When Mrs Pentreath turned to lead the way into the drawing room, Morgana suddenly felt her arm seized in a paralysing grip.

Lyall said softly and evenly, ‘I’m doing my best to ease the situation, sweetheart, so stop bitching, otherwise I may take advantage of you in a way you won’t like. Anyway, the only person you’re hurting is your mother.’ He let her go almost contemptuously, and walked unhurriedly away. Morgana watched him go, but she didn’t follow. Instead she almost ran down the passage to the kitchen.

Elsa was standing at the deep enamel sink, washing up, but she glanced round as Morgana flew in.

‘Dear soul,’ she remarked. ‘Where’s the fire to?’

‘It’s him. He’s here.’ Morgana sank down on to a chair beside the kitchen table, unfastening her cape, and pushing it back from her shoulders.

‘Well, better late than never, they do say,’ Elsa said comfortably, subjecting a plate to a minute inspection before placing it on the drying rack on the draining board.

‘I don’t say it.’ Morgana pushed her hands through her dishevelled hair, lifting it away from the nape of her neck. ‘Oh, Elsa, he’s vile! And he’s fair,’ she added.

‘The cards don’t lie, my lover. A fair man, they said, and pain and woe.’

‘He’s that all right,’ Morgana said petulantly. ‘Oh, what are we going to do?’

‘As we’re told, I daresay.’ Elsa held out a tea-towel with an inexorable air. ‘No point in fretting without reason, neither.’

Morgana accepted the cloth with a little sigh and began to wipe the dishes. ‘You can hardly say we have no reason,’ she objected.

‘What I say is it’s best we wait and hear what the genn’lman says before we start calling ‘um names,’ Elsa returned.

‘I don’t want to hear anything from him,’ Morgana said passionately. ‘But at least he’s not staying the night here—that’s something to be thankful for. I can’t bear the thought of having to share a roof with him, even for one night.’

From the doorway Lyall said drily, ‘Do you think you could bear to share it for long enough to show me a little of the house? Your mother is otherwise occupied, or I wouldn’t trouble you.’

The cup she was drying slipped from her hands and smashed into a hundred fragments on the flagged floor.

‘Now see what you’ve done!’ Elsa scolded. ‘Of all the clumsy maids! Don’t go treading through it, making things worse neither. Tek no notice of her, sir,’ she added to Lyall who stood watching, his face expressionless. ‘She’m mazed with worry, that’s all. She don’t mean half of what she says.’

‘Even the half is more than sufficient.’ He walked into the kitchen, ignoring Morgana, who had fetched a dustpan and brush from the broom cupboard and was sweeping the fragments into it with more scarlet-cheeked vigour than accuracy. ‘You must be Elsa, the mainstay of this establishment.’ He smiled. ‘Mrs Pentreath’s own words, not gratuitous flattery from me, I promise you.’

‘Mrs Pentreath’s a nice lady.’ Elsa wiped a damp hand on her overall and shook hands with him. ‘And the late master was a well-meaning genn’lman. More than that I can’t say.’

Lyall was looking around him. Watching him under her lashes, as she dumped the broken crockery into the kitchen bin, Morgana was resentfully aware that she was seeing the kitchen through his eyes—the big old-fashioned sink with its vast scrubbed draining board, the range, the enormous dresser which filled one wall, in all its homely inconvenience.

He said almost idly, ‘It must be hell having to cope without a dishwasher in the height of the season.’

‘Tesn’t wonderful, that’s true.’ Elsa allowed graciously. ‘But we manage. And hard work never hurt no one.’

‘How right you are.’ He glanced at Morgana. ‘I suggest as we’re here, you may as well begin by showing me the rest of the kitchen quarters. I take it that this isn’t the only room.’

‘No.’ She would rather have cut her throat with one of Elsa’s brightly honed knives than have shown him a shed in someone else’s garden, but she gritted her teeth. ‘There is a scullery—through here. I suppose these days, you’d call it a utility room. The washing machine’s in here, and another sink, and the deep-freeze.’

‘At least there are those,’ he observed, glancing round, his brows raised. ‘What about a tumble-dryer? How do you manage the laundry in wet weather?’

‘There’s a drying rack that works on a pulley in the kitchen. We’ve always found it perfectly efficient,’ she said coldly.

‘But then,’ he said smoothly, ‘the hotel has never precisely operated at full stretch, has it?’

‘As you say,’ she agreed woodenly. ‘That door leads to a courtyard, and the former stables. Do you want to look at them now? They’re rather dilapidated.’

‘I can imagine. Is there electricity laid on?’

‘Well—no.’

‘Then I’ll save that particular delight for another occasion. What kind of garden is there at the rear?’

She said reluctantly, ‘Beyond the stables there’s a walled area which is quite sheltered. We grow vegetables there, and soft fruit, but not to any great extent.’

‘And use the home-grown produce in the hotel dining room?’

She was a little taken aback. ‘Well, sometimes. We don’t grow all that much. There are a few apple trees as well.’

Lyall gave a sharp sigh. ‘Perhaps we’d better look at the rest of the ground floor rooms—leaving the drawing room out of the tour. I’ve had enough of the stares of the curious.’

‘I suppose you think we should have told our guests to go,’ Morgana said defensively.

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘No—but you obviously don’t want them here. Only it is—or it has been our living, and we didn’t hear from you, so we didn’t know what to do for the best.’

His mouth curled sardonically. ‘That last phrase I’d say sums up the present situation pretty accurately. Now, might we get on, please? As I’ve pointed out, my time here is limited.’

Oh, that it were true, Morgana thought in impotent rage leading the way along the passage to the dining room.

Lyall said little as she did the honours of the house in a small remote voice—like a bored house agent with a reluctant client, she realised with unwilling humour, as she heard herself uttering phrases like ‘original mouldings’ and ‘local stone’.

She tried to look at him as little as possible, so it was difficult to gauge his reactions to what he was seeing—to know whether he was impressed, appalled, or simply indifferent. One of his few abrupt questions was about central heating, and she had to confess there wasn’t any, but that they’d always fround the open fires perfectly adequate. It wasn’t true. Her mother had bemoaned the lack of radiators on innumerable occasions, but Morgana wasn’t prepared to admit that. As far as this—interloper was concerned, the present occupants thought that Polzion House was perfect, warts and all.

Besides, she didn’t want him to like the house. The solution to all their problems would be for him to refuse the inheritance, and he could just do that, if there were sufficient drawbacks. She could imagine the kind of accommodation that would appeal to him—some chic penthouse, she thought impatiently, with wall-to-wall carpeting, and gold-plated bathroom fittings, to go with his gold-plated image.

As she led the way up the broad, shallow curve of the staircase, her sense of purpose faltered a little. At the head of the stairs was the long gallery off which the principal bedrooms opened, with smaller wings at each end, and in this gallery the family portraits were hung. However much she might silently condemn him as an intruder and a stranger, she could not escape the fact that every few yards they were going to come face to face with his likeness, and it wouldn’t escape him either.

She made no reference to them as they passed, but took him straight to the master bedroom which her parents used to share, and where Elizabeth Pentreath now slept alone. He looked around it without comment, opening the door into the small dressing room which lay off it.

‘Are the guest rooms similar?’ he asked, when they were once again on the gallery.

Morgana hesitated. ‘Well, usually guests have a choice of rooms. We charge different prices for them, of course. At the moment Miss Meakins has accommodation in the West Wing, but we moved Major Lawson over to the other side because of his typing.’ He said nothing in response, and after a minute she added defensively, ‘There’s nothing wrong with the rooms in the wings. We always show the guests everything that’s available.’

She walked on quickly down the corridor, and Lyall followed.

He said, ‘Just a moment. Haven’t you forgotten something?’

She stopped and turned quickly. He was standing by a door, touching the handle, his brows raised interrogatively.

She said reluctantly, ‘Oh—that’s my room.’ She half expected him to leave it, and follow her, but he remained where he was.

‘I suppose you want to see it.’ She made no effort to disguise her resentment.

‘I want to see everything. I thought I’d made that clear.’

Yes, you did, she thought, as she walked back. And you’re also reminding me that this isn’t really my room any more. That it belongs to you, like everything else here, and that I’m only occupying it on sufferance. As if I could forget that, even for a moment! I just—hoped that you wouldn’t insist.

Her hand was shaking as she turned the handle and pushed open the door, fumbling for the light switch. Every step he’d taken in this house was an invasion of privacy, but this was the worst of all.

She had always slept in this room, from being a small child. Her whole life was laid out here for anyone to see. At a casual glance, Lyall could find out anything he wanted to know—could see the books, from childhood fairy tales to modern novels, which crammed the bulging bookcase—the worn teddy bear still occupying a place of honour on the narrow window seat—even the scent she used, standing on her dressing table, and her nightdress folded on the small single bed with its virginal white candlewick coverlet.

As it was, his glance was far from casual. He walked into the centre of the room and stood there, his hands buried deep into the pockets of the black leather coat he hadn’t bothered to remove. And he took everything in, while Morgana waited in the doorway, feeling as humiliated as if she’d been forced to strip naked in front of him.

It was deliberate, she knew that. Next time and every time that she entered this room, he intended her to remember his presence there, his scrutiny covering all her most personal possessions, lingering on the narrowness of the bed, while a half-smile played about his mouth which she had not the slightest difficulty in interpreting.

She thought, ‘Damn you!’ and was aghast to see his smile widen, and realise she had spoken her thought aloud.

He said softly, ‘It’s nice to know, darling, that one’s efforts are appreciated.’

She said, ‘When you’ve finished your—inventory, I’ll be in the corridor.’

He joined her there almost immediately. ‘I have to admire your choice of sanctuary,’ he observed rather mockingly. ‘I imagine that in daylight, the view from the window is quite spectacular.’

‘Yes—you can see the sea from all the first floor windows on this side.’ Her voice sounded stilted.

‘And I presume that the eyes I can feel watching me along this gallery are those of our mutual ancestors?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed resignedly.

‘Are they not included in the guided tour?’

She shrugged. ‘As you pointed out, they are our mutual ancestors. You probably know as much as I do.’

He said softly, ‘And you know that isn’t the truth. So suppose you tell me about them.’

There was a note in his voice which sent little prickles of apprehension running along her skin, like a storm warning. There was a brief, crackling silence, then she said, ‘Very well. The man on your left is Josiah Pentreath. He built most of this house at the height of the tin-mining industry, but it’s always been reckoned he built the stables out of his profits from smuggling. He had two sons, Mark and Giles—they’re over there. Giles didn’t just follow in his father’s footsteps, he overtook him. This has always been a bad coast for wrecks, and Giles is popularly supposed to have done his share in encouraging them. He’s one of the Pentreath black sheep. Mark, on the other hand, was converted to Methodism by John Wesley.’ She paused, then said, ‘Mark and Giles—and Martin too—have always been Pentreath names.’

She didn’t have to add, ‘But Lyall isn’t.’

He said, ‘I was named for my mother’s family. You can hardly blame my father for dispensing with family tradition under the circumstances.’

Her voice lacked expression. ‘I suppose not. Anyway, those rather downtrodden-looking ladies you see are their respective wives.’

He said almost sharply, ‘She doesn’t look downtrodden at all.’

‘Which one are you looking at?’ Morgana peered. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean that one. She’s my grandmother.’

‘Not one of the mutual ancestors,’ he said slowly. ‘She was very beautiful, wasn’t she? May I ask why she’s got up like a medieval princess?’

‘There was some sort of Arthurian pageant going on, and she was playing the part of Morgan le Fay.’ She was reluctant to complete the story, but she didn’t want him to probe either, so she went on doggedly, ‘That was where Grandfather saw her, and he fell in love with her at first sight. After they were married, he insisted on having her portrait painted in her pageant costume. They had no daughters, only one son—my father, and he made him promise that if he had a daughter he would call her Morgana.’

‘And here you are.’

‘Yes,’ she said tightly, ‘here I am. Grandfather was still alive when I was born, and he was so delighted to have the little girl he’d wanted at last.’

‘Having no idea, of course, that you’d be an only child. Quite one of life’s little ironies.’

‘You could put it like that.’ She bit her lip hard. ‘Do you want another instalment of family history, or shall we look at the rest of the bedrooms? There are the attics as well.’

‘I think the attics will have to be saved, along with the stables for my next visit,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘I must go. Purely as a matter of interest, you understand, which room was I to have been given?’

‘We’d put you in the East Wing,’ she mumbled.

Lyall lifted a sardonic brow. ‘I understood all guests were allowed a choice.’

Morgana shrugged again. ‘The same rule would have applied.’ She took a deep breath, forcing the words to her lips. ‘After all, they’re all your rooms—now.’

‘Yes, they are, aren’t they?’ he said silkily. ‘It’s just as well I decided to stay in Truro instead. I don’t think you’d have like my choice, Morgan le Fay.’

For a moment she looked at him uncomprehendingly, then as realisation dawned, an angry flush invaded her cheeks.

‘That wouldn’t matter,’ she said untruthfully. ‘As I shall have to move out eventually anyway, it may as well be sooner than later.’

He laughed, his eyes going over her in one swift, sensuous appraisal. ‘Who said anything about moving out?’

Her flush deepened. ‘How dare you?’ she stormed.

‘Oh, I dare,’ he said. ‘When you get to know me better, you’ll be amazed how much I dare.’

‘I haven’t the slightest wish to know you better. I only wish I’d never had to meet you at all.’

‘I gathered that when I heard you casting your spell on the moor,’ he said mockingly. ‘Also when I overheard you bemoaning the fact that you had to share a roof with me. I enjoy a challenge, and it occurred to me that it might be amusing to persuade you to share far more than just my roof.’

‘You’re out of your mind,’ she said bitingly. ‘Or perhaps your unexpected inheritance has gone to your head. It’s the house and its contents which belong to you. I don’t.’

He said very gently, ‘But you will, Morgan le Fay. You will. Because in spite of your little spells and maledictions, I’m here, and I intend to stay.’

He took one quick stride forward and pulled her into his arms, his mouth stifling her instinctive cry of protest on her lips. There was no mercy in his kiss, nothing exploratory or tentative, just an immediate hungry demand, which, against her will, against all her instincts aroused an eventual, shaming response. And at once he let her go, as if her capitulation had been all he’d been waiting for.

Morgana shrank back against the wall, her hand going up to cover her bruised mouth, too furious to speak, too shocked to know what to say. And the worst of it was that Lyall was smiling at her.

‘You bastard!’ she choked eventually.

‘From what you tell me, I come from a long line of them,’ he said coolly. ‘But I’m glad to know that you’re not the downtrodden sort. I’ll see you tomorrow, Morgana.’

‘I’ll see you in hell!’ she raged.

His mouth twisted. ‘Hell’s only the flip side of Paradise. Sometimes it’s hard to differentiate between the two, as you may find, my little witch.’

She whirled past him, into her room, and slammed the door. She leaned back against the panels, her breathing quick and shallow, her small breasts rising and falling as if she’d been running.

She didn’t know whether to scream, or burst into tears, and was sorely tempted to do both, because it was just as she’d feared. Lyall might at this moment be on his way to Truro, but this room was filled with him. She could close her eyes, and blot out his image, but that couldn’t destroy the taste of him, the scent, the feel of his body against her own.

For as long as she stayed in this house, she knew she would never be alone again, and the knowledge made her tremble.