Miranda's Mount (24 page)

Doubts? He had so many doubts about every decision he’d made over the past few years that he could barely contemplate them. The biggest was that Jumeau had said that Miranda would be taken care of. In what way? Financially? Sexually? He shouldn’t care about what happened to her but he did. He cared so much it was influencing the biggest decision of his life. One he had been set on, since his mother had called him back. He did not want to be lord of the island, he didn’t want the responsibility, the burden of a place and its people, their hopes, fears and livelihoods He didn’t want to commit his life and his heart, everything, to one woman ever again. It had ripped out his heart to lose Rhianna and yet here he was again, thinking of giving everything he had to the Mount and its people – and more importantly to one of them. To Miranda.

It was impossible. He couldn’t afford to care and, more to the point, he didn’t have that kind of commitment left in him. Grief had utterly destroyed it.

He took a breath. ‘No. No doubts.’

The bell of the chapel clock tolled.
Traitor. Coward
. Each chime seemed to mock him for his weakness but he shut out everything and walked Jumeau down the steps and onto the boat. To his horror, and before he’d realised what was happening, Jumeau leaned forwards in the French way and kissed him on both cheeks and Jago felt like Judas.

Sod work
. Miranda
escaped to her cottage after her meeting with Jumeau, locked her door and told the office she wasn’t to be disturbed. She simply couldn’t stay at the Mount, not with Southcastle in charge. Jumeau had as good as said he wanted to remove her from the position by making her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Well, she would tell him to shove it up his smooth arse and she would get another job, no matter how long it took. She’d clean toilets again and work in the ticket office if she had to, and live on baked beans like when she’d left home. She snatched the application form for the Scottish castle from under the pile of magazines on the coffee table, grabbed a pen and tried to fill it in.

Her
hands shook too much.

An hour and an obscenely large whisky later, she’d managed to fill in most of the form. She went to the window of her bedroom and looked out. Jago was on the quayside, showing Jumeau onto a boat. As the Frenchman stepped onto the gangway, a seagull swooped low over his head and spattered him with muck. Miranda heard his angry shout from her room.

‘
Merde!
’

She remembered Braden shouting ‘Poo, Mummy! Poo!’ She saw Jumeau wiping at his suit and Jago’s astonished face and she started laughing. She laughed until her stomach ached, her sides hurt and the tears poured down her cheeks and turned to long, racking sobs.

No one
was more surprised than Miranda when Jago knocked on the door of the cottage a few days later. She’d been having a proper day off, again, even in the midst of all the Festival preparations because Jago had finally admitted he wasn’t the ideal assistant and hired in part-time help.

He followed her into the sitting room and asked, ‘How do you feel about getting out of here?’

The answer that should have been ‘No, thanks I’ve booked an appointment with a gay man in town who’s going to give me an aromatherapy massage’ turned into: ‘Where?’

It wasn’t the most gracious of answers but, in fairness, her brain did seem to have been taken over by another woman – a reckless one who wanted to spend time with him despite all her better judgement. The last time she would spend with him, alone.

Jago didn’t seem to notice, or else was used to her brusqueness by now. ‘I’d like to have a day out at the seaside. Call it going back to the egg or the last meal of a condemned man.’

‘On this occasion, you have the power of reprieve,’ she said softly.

‘Nice
try and I take your point but this isn’t the same situation as Rhianna.’

‘I didn’t mean that!’

He gave a sigh. ‘I know. Now, please, humour me and come out.’

‘Just let me make a phone call and I’ll meet you at the staff car park.’

Her hands trembled slightly as she dialled the beauty therapy centre to reschedule the massage. She had the feeling that everything was slipping away from her, the rope sliding out of her hands as she prepared to let go and just fall.

So why not enjoy one last hurrah? The prospect of spending time with Jago, one last time, just as friends, even though they were enemies, was impossible to resist.

She wasn’t the least bit surprised when, an hour later, Jago guided the Land Rover through the narrow dune-banked lane into the car park at Godrevy and slotted into a spot overlooking the beach. It was not the best of days; the sky was swathed in clouds of grey, white and steel, with the odd patch of blue struggling in vain for attention. The wind blew fiercely, buffeting the car from time to time.

She struggled to push the door open. ‘Not ideal for the beach,’ she called.

‘It looks perfect to me!’ he shouted back and she realised why when she saw the white surf rolling onto the shore below them. Oh bloody hell, was that really what he had in mind?

Jago
had no choice but to hire the wetsuits and boards from the Surfer’s Café. He wasn’t entirely happy with the board, the café staff who doubled as instructors had done their best to find him the best of their hire kit but it bore no comparison to the custom-made board he’d owned in Australia.

He could picture it now, in its bag inside the garage at the house he’d once shared with Rhianna. He hadn’t used the board or lived in the house since her funeral. He’d moved out straightaway, gone travelling and then returned briefly to Bells and rented an apartment in the middle of a town. ‘Don’t you want a view of the ocean, mate?’ the rental agent had asked, clearly guessing that Jago could afford a prime location. But Jago hadn’t wanted a view of the ocean. It reminded him of Rhianna too much.

So why was here now, with Miranda?

Simple lust was one reason, although he’d be lying if he said he’d brought her here simply to watch her wriggling her body into a wetsuit. That had been hugely enjoyable, of course, as had finding that she owned a startlingly small bikini. He even took some pleasure in seeing in her face now, in her body language: apprehension, excitement, a little fear as they walked towards the water. The way she glanced at him as they walked towards the shore, carrying the boards, felt like a demon was scouring his heart. She relied on him; trusted him.

If only she knew that her natural fear and anxiety about this new and possibly dangerous experience were nothing to his. His heart pounded as hard as the surf. It had been three years since he’d been on a board, since Rhianna’s accident, and they’d been the longest and darkest years of his life. He stopped on the hard wave-rippled sand, his heart thudding. He wasn’t sure he could overcome either fear but he had to try.

‘Here?’ she asked.

She
looked at him. She trusted him and he wanted to tell her she shouldn’t, not in the water and certainly not out of it. He steeled himself. He shut out the roaring clamour of guilt and fear that told him to turn away from the ocean and from her. He closed his ears and heart to the conviction that he was playing with Miranda’s life and heart to assuage his own grief and he smiled.

She needed reassurance. ‘Yes. Here will do and don’t look so scared. The lesson starts before we go into the water.’

‘I’m not certain I can do this. Remind me again why I’m here?’

Jago had asked himself the same question. Was he using Miranda to exorcise his demons? A twisted logic told him that if he could overcome his fear of taking her surfing, in this symbolic way, maybe he could overcome his fear of commitment and stay at the Mount.

He tucked the board under his arm and grabbed her hand. ‘Let’s just suck it and see.’

Suck it and see, thought Miranda as she battled through the surf to the beach for the final time. She’d certainly sucked enough of the Atlantic into her in the past hour, or was it two? She’d lost all sense of time. All she knew was that an invisible sea creature had silently sucked the bones from her body and replaced them with mush. She didn’t know who or how but it had. She lay flat on the board, staring up at the sky. All the dark clouds had flown away while they’d been in the water and been replaced with bright sunlight. She closed her eyes against the rays then opened them to see Jago silhouetted against the light.

‘Time
to go. We’ll be late getting the boards back to the Surfer’s Café,’ he said.

‘I don’t think I can get up.’

‘Good. That’s how it should feel.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’ He shifted his body and she blinked as the sunlight dazzled again. Every muscle in her body had given up the ghost. She didn’t ache; she was simply drained of every ounce of energy. Before she’d even got into the water, her thighs and arms had ached from practising paddling and jumping up to crouch on the board.

Once in the surf, she’d felt as if she was fighting a battle; struggling with the waves; wading out, paddling through the breakers, trying to crouch, falling off, getting wiped out, being hauled out of a giant washing machine of swirling surf by Jago. She’d wanted to just give up, ten, twenty, countless times by the end. Just once, when she thought she couldn’t take another minute of pounding, she’d managed to get to her feet and ride a wave. Just for a few seconds, awkwardly but gloriously, before she’d wiped out in spectacular fashion.

‘You did well,’ he said, as she grinned like an idiot at the memory. ‘For a virgin.’

‘Thanks!’

He thrust out a
hand and she reached for it. As he hauled her up, she swayed and then steadied. ‘My God. I’ll never walk again.’

‘You will.’ He picked up her board and his, tucked them under each arm, ‘Eventually.’

They handed back the kit just in time and, after a quick shower, Jago waited for her, his hair damp and tousled, a couple of days worth of stubble shading his jaw. He looked so sexy that Miranda wanted to leap on him. Somehow, she would have found the energy. She quickened her step then half stumbled as she got nearer. Shit, her legs wouldn’t bloody work. Most of her joints appeared to have rusted.

‘Sore?’ There was amusement in Jago’s eyes.

‘What do you think? Oh,’ she groaned as she tried to straighten up and her back protested. Briefly she thought she knew how Lady St Merryn felt.

‘You know, back in Oz, we’d have got a body massage after a session like that.’ He flipped his thumb in the direction of the rolling dunes behind the car park. ‘We could do that now, unless you have any objections.’

She could think of at least ten reasons not to accept such an offer, but the chance to lengthen this glorious fantasy day was impossible to ignore. The thought of Jago’s warm hands massaging her tired muscles, of him touching her made her want to explode with lust.

‘OK.’

His mouth opened in surprise.

‘Don’t look so shocked. As a matter of fact, I had a massage booked for this afternoon. Ronnie gave me a gift voucher for the Kynance Hotel Spa and I’d booked an aromatherapy session with their therapist. He’s called Dave,’ she said, enjoying his expression.

‘Dave? I wouldn’t have thought they allowed male masseurs to handle female clients at the Kynance. They’re far too strait-laced.’

‘Of
course they do. There’s absolutely nothing sexual about a massage. It’s purely therapeutic as you said yourself, and besides,’ she had to admit, ‘Dave is very gay.’

Jago gave a sigh. ‘Then I shall try very hard to replicate the experience though I can’t promise pink towels and pan pipes. Let’s find somewhere more private.’

They headed into the sandy
towans
, the rolling heathland that stretched out on the cliffs above the beach. A few hardy walkers were heading towards them after hiking through the dunes.

‘Afternoon, mate,’ called a man taking a chubby Labrador for a walk. ‘Nice day for it, eh?’

Jago nodded. ‘It is.’

The hiker winked and Miranda’s cheeks grew hot. The walkers probably guessed what she and Jago intended and had taken it one step further. She shivered with anticipation as they reached a hollow in the dunes, surrounded on all sides by blades of rippling marram grass. It smelled divine.

‘You know these dunes are one of the last places to see the great crested sand lizard?’ she said. ‘I read it in the nature magazine at the hospital and …’

‘Really? That’s interesting,’ Jago said brusquely. ‘Take off your shorts and T-shirt.’

‘Take them off? You didn’t say anything about that.’

He
tutted loudly. ‘How the hell do you expect me to give you a massage through your clothes? I’m sure you wouldn’t have objected if Dave had asked you.’

‘I don’t know, but you’re not Dave and I really don’t think this is such a good idea after all.’

‘As you pointed out, there is absolutely nothing sexual about massage, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘I’m not that immature.’

‘Then take off your top and lie down. I’ll go away for a few minutes while you undress.’

When he’d gone, Miranda couldn’t hear another human sound, just the hum of insects, the whisper of the breeze in the grass and the seagulls crying far overhead. Glancing around, she unzipped her shorts and let them slip down to her ankles. She stepped out of them and her flip-flops. Surely, at any moment, someone would come along and see her? Or worse, Jago would come back and find her half undressed. She wanted him to touch her so much. So much, she thought, for vowing to keep Jago at arm’s length. She was burning for him to touch her, even it was meant to be ‘therapeutic’.

She pulled her T-shirt over her head, unhooked the back of her bra and shrugged it off. Quickly, she lay face down, her breasts sinking into powdery sand.

She heard him coming back a few minutes later and closed her eyes, trying not to feel awkward about being topless.

‘Now, try to relax and just think of me as Dave,’ he said. ‘Only bigger and hairier.’

Miranda giggled.

‘That’s good,’ he said, kneeling beside her. ‘This might be a bit sore to start with but that’s a good thing. It’s a shame I have no oil with me but I didn’t come prepared for this.’