HIGH TIDE AT MIDNIGHT (20 page)

something about its curve which suggested that an unladylike grin would

never have been too far away. But it was her eyes that were the biggest

give-away. If it was true they were the mirrors of the soul, then Morwenna

Trevennon's soul had been wild, wilful and full of life, as unpredictable as

the sea which had been her doom.

If I was going to draw her, Morwenna thought suddenly, that's what I would

aim for. I'd paint her as part of the wind and sea, daring them to do their

worst to her.

She gave a little impatient sigh, realising how little her painting had meant to

her since she arrived at Trevennon. She'd managed that one brief sketch on

the cliffs above Spanish Cove and nothing more. If things continued like this

she would have nothing to show Lennox Christie when she saw him again.

But did it really matter when all sfle really wanted with all her heart and

mind and body was here in this house? In this brief time at Trevennon, her

life had changed completely. She was no longer the same girl who had come

from London to ask a favour and remained to bestow one on an elderly man

at the expense of her peace of mind. Why hadn't some warning voice at the

time whispered to her that it was her attraction to Dominic, unwilling and

unconfessed though it had been, which had prompted her to agree to stay

with Nick? Why hadn't she run while she still had the chance?

She got slowly to her feet. But she hadn't run. She had stayed, and she had to

accept that it Was an impulse which she might well end up regretting for the

rest of her life. One thing was certain: she would not still be here when

Dominic married Karen Inglis.

Even if she had been able to like Karen as a person in her own right, she

could not have borne that. She looked round the room. This was how this

room had been planned—as a bridal chamber, although it would probably

not suit Karen. She would want to change it all, to alter the decor and choose

other furniture. She would exorcise the ghosts of the past with wallpaper and

paint and billowing new curtains, and relegate Morwenna's portrait to the

head of the stairs.

Dominic was probably with her now, she thought flatly, placating her,

wooing her back to a good humour, making amends for the hurt her aunt had

suffered at his family's hands.

She shivered, trying to close out of her mind the tormenting image of Karen

in Dominic's arms, her dark head pillowed against his chest, her mouth

raised invitingly towards his. Her whole attitude towards him was an

invitation, she thought miserably, remembering the possessive hand on his

arm, the intimate way her body swayed towarcjs him when they were

standing close together. And it was no act, designed to inspire jealousy in the

breasts of any onlookers. It was just the way Karen would normally behave

when the man she wanted was near her. Her claim had been staked long ago,

and she was making no bones about stating the fact. She was probably

Dominic's mistress already and quite content to bide her time until she was

mistress of Trevennon as well. The pattern had been prearranged long before

Morwenna came to Cornwall—the aunt with the uncle, the nephew with the

niece—until her intervention. No wonder Karen had not been able to resist

the impulse to fire a few barbs at the girl whose arrival had thrown a spanner

into the works of this orderly progression.

Now she might well be regretting her impetuosity, and certainly its

repercussions would do nothing to endear Morwenna to her.

Morwenna walked out of the room and closed the door quietly behind her.

She went along to the head of the stairs and stood listening' for a moment.

She could hear the sound of voices, but all the tones she could discern were

masculine, so it was clear that both the Inglis women had gone home, and

who could wonder at that?

She went into her own room, and undressed and got into bed. Although she

had been using this room for a comparatively short time, it felt like home

and the bed cradled her comfortably as if it were fond of her. Tomorrow

night, she would feel like a very small pea in a very large pod, she thought

ruefully, wrinkling her nose. But to please Nick she would make the move as

planned.

She turned over, pillowing her cheek on her hand. Now that Nick had

rediscovered his first love of boat designing, she wondered whether he

would want to continue with the family history. That something they would

have to discuss, because if his interest in it was waning, it gave her an excuse

to leave.

It would soon be Christmas, and the thought of spending it alone in some

small bed-sitter was not an appealing one, but what else could she do? She

would not be wanted here. Christmas was a family time, a time for

reconciliation, and her presence would only be a barrier to this.

For a moment she considered swallowing her pride and returning to the

Priory for Christmas, but she soon abandoned that idea. The thought of

Cousin Patricia's air of forbearance and Vanessa's knowing smile was

altogether too much to take. People said, didn't they, that half a loaf was

better than no bread at all, but she was not at all sure that was true.

Money was going to be a problem, but if she left soon she might be able to

get some kind of work in a department store until at least the January sales

were over. Shops did look for extra personnel at times like this, she told

herself, trying to feel optimistic. She would find some way of keeping

herself occupied during the daytime and in the evenings she would paint

until she had enough canvases to show Lennox Christie and convince him

that she deserved to join his class at Carcassonne.

It was good to take hold of herself and make plans that would fill her

working hours. But what she could not plan for, as the grandfather clock in

the hall below signalled the passing of the night, was how she was going to

be able to stop herself thinking.

She awoke from a troubled sleep very early the next morning. There had

been a sharp frost during the night and the earth and trees outside her

window glinted and sparkled in the sun. She knew there was no point in

trying to get any more rest. She had dreamed fitfully. At one moment she

seemed to be outrunning the tide in Spanish Cove, weighted down by and

stumbling over the heavy skirts of her farthingale. At the next, the door to

Trevennon seemed barred to her and as she beat impotently upon it with her

fists, Karen Inglis, vibrant in flame coloured chiffon, laughed at her from an

upstairs window.

No one jelse was stirring. If she got up now, the beauty of the morning

would be hers alone to enjoy in peace before the inevitable problems of the

day rose to engulf her.

She washed and dressed and slipped on her sheepskin jacket, winding a long

woollen scarf round her head and allowing the ends to hang over her

shoulders. Then she went quietly along the landing and down the stairs

towards the front door. She reached up to unfasten the massive bolt at the top

of the door and discovered to her surprise that it was already drawn back. So

she wasn't the only early bird after all. She let herself out of the house and

began to walk along the gravelled sweep which fronted it towards the cliff

path.

She turned, naturally enough, when she heard the sound of the car engine,

shading her eyes against the sun's dazzle. It was Dominic's car and as she

stood watching as if she was rooted to the spot, it pulled up in front of the

house and he got -oOut. He was wearing the same clothes he had been

wearing the previous night, only his tie was loose and the top button of his

shirt unfastened. She could see the dark line of stubble on his chin.

She understood then why the bolts had been drawn— because Dominic had

gone out the previous night and not come back, and it did not take the least

imagination to surmise where he had spent the night. And by some

ill-chance, she had to be there to witness his return. She felt the hot

embarrassed colour flood her cheeks, and turned away abruptly, her booted

foot scrunching the gravel. His head had been bent but at the sound he

looked up sharply and saw her.

'Morwenna—wait a minute.' His voice was low-pitched, but it reached her

quite distinctly in the crisp air.

For a moment she hesitated, then she hurried on as if she hadn't heard,

hoping against hope that he would go indoors. But the hope was a vain one,

because she could hear him coming after her, and coming fast. She felt a

sudden panic rise in her and before she could regain control of herself, she

took to her heels and fled. The moment she had done it, she was cursing

herself inwardly for being an idiot. Just where did she think she was running

to? And she hadn't bargained for how slippery the ground was in the frost. At

every step, her balance was threatened so there was no way she was going to

outrun him.

She stumbled on, her boots slipping and sliding on the short turf, praying

that he would give up the chase and go back to the house. She would have to

face him later, she know that, but not now, please not now.

But her prayer went unanswered. She slipped and went sprawling to her

knees, and in that instant he caught up with her. His hands went under her

armpits and she was dragged unceremoniously back to her feet and turned so

that she faced him.

He looked thoroughly ill-tempered, as well he might, she supposed. His eyes

were faintly bloodshot and there were deep shadows underneath them, and it

was acute pain for her to have to contemplate what had caused this look of

sleeplessness.

'Don't pretend you didn't hear me call to you,' he said icily. 'Why did you run

away?'

There was no point in denying that she had done any such thing. She had

made sufficient fool of herself already.

'I should have thought that was quite obvious,' she said, staring down at her

feet.

'Not to me. You must have known I would want to talk to you.'

'There is nothing you have to say to me that I want to hear,' she said, still

staring at the ground.

He gave a short angry laugh. 'I can believe that. Nevertheless. there are

things that must be said. And the first is, I owe you an apology—from last

night. I was damnably rude. I can only plead that I lost my temper.'

She lifted a shoulder. 'It doesn't matter.'

'Oh, but it does.' His hand reached out and gripped her chin, turning her

unwilling face up to his. 'You forgave Nick for his loss of temper. Why must

I be condemned to outer darkness for the same fault?'

She jerked herself free and stepped back. 'Of course I forgave Nick. I'm very

fond of him.'

'And of course, you're not fond of me at all, are you, Morwenna?' He

laughed softly, but his laughter held no amusement. There was an odd note

in it, but she was too disturbed and confused to be able to spend time on

deciphering what it might be.

'Do you really expect me to be?' Her voice trembled. 'You apologise for

insulting me, but your entire attitude since we first met has been one long

insult. I thought for a moment that you might be going to apologise for

kissing me as you did, but I suppose as an arrogant Trevennon, you'd think

any woman would be flattered by your attentions.'

Her heart was beating so thunderously she thought it must have been clearly

audible as she waited for his reply. It was a long time in coming.

'Not flattered, perhaps," he said slowly. 'But I didn't think you were

completely indifferent either. Maybe we both need to refresh our memories.'

He pulled her against him so hard that the breath jerked out of her body in a

startled gasp. Then his mouth crushed hers, parting her lips with cold,

sensual ruthlessness, the bristles on his face rasping her soft skin. His lips

explored her mouth, teasing, caressing, probing, arousing feelings and

desires she had never dreamed she was capable of. Her hands, raised in

last-minute panic to push him away, were trapped against his chest and the

warmth of his skin through his shirt seemed to scald her palms. She tried to

twist her head, to drag her mouth away from his. Her senses were reeling,

screaming at her that kissing was no longer enough. She struggled to free her

hands and his shirt buttons parted under her frantic efforts, allowing her

fingers to spread across his bare flesh.

She could hear herself moaning softly, deep in her throat, as the relentless

kiss went on and on. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She was all

sensation. Her arms slid slowly upwards round his neck, her fingers tangling