Moth to the Flame (16 page)

Rupert, overhearing, also heard Alicia gasp, and it made him wince. He'd suspected, of course, that she was infatuated with Jared Cowan. But then, she was young, inexperienced. It was a good thing that Alicia had a brother like Neville to protect her. He needed to take home an unblemished bride.

Alicia stared blankly at Neville. ‘Paid . . . ?' she whispered, her mind struggling to find its footing again. She felt as if she'd just wandered off some precipice . . . ‘You . . . paid . . . Jared to . . .'

‘Leave you alone,' Neville supplied for her helpfully. ‘Yes I did. And he laughed as he
took
it,' he finished briskly. There, it was done. Perhaps now she'd see sense.

Alicia simply didn't believe it. She gave her brother a narrow-eyed look. ‘I think you're lying,' she said flatly. She turned, trying to spot Jared, but before she could, Rupert suddenly stepped right in front of her.

‘Hello darling,' he murmured, reaching across to kiss her cheek, and Alicia accepted it as the kind of polite social etiquette that meant nothing. She barely registered the touch of his lips. Instead, her eyes gazed past his shoulder . . . Where was Jared? To the others in the room, however, that murmured endearment and kiss seemed to blaze a huge sign across the room. Members of the cast, who'd begun to assume that Alicia and Jared were an item, suddenly found themselves hastily revising their ideas.

Emily glanced across to see whether Jared had noticed, and realised, from his frozen stance, that he had.

Neville beamed. ‘Rupert. So good to see you again. Alicia, I've been hearing from the others that Rupert's the star of the show.'

It was no good. With Rupert standing squarely in front of her, she couldn't see Jared anywhere. ‘Hum? What? Oh yes, he makes a wonderful killer.'

What a joy she was. Rupert laughed. He leaned forward. ‘I hope that was meant as a compliment.' He placed a hand on her arm as
he
smiled.

Rupert, she'd noticed, seemed to need praise and reassurance far more than any other member of the cast. She reached out and squeezed his arm. ‘You'll be fine.'

Noticing Jared Cowan weaving his way towards them, Rupert recognised that determined look on his face at once. He turned quickly to Alicia. ‘I'm going back to Warrington Manor next weekend. My father's giving a party. I was wondering if you'd like to come?'

Neville knew all about the Warrington March Ball. It was the social event of the year in the county. He beamed. ‘My dear cha . . . Rupert. How wonderful of you to ask. Of course Alicia would be delighted to come. Won't you, Alicia?' He too, had sensed a presence bearing down on them, and didn't need to look around to know who it was.

Alicia's eyes suddenly met those of Jared. He'd seemed to come from out of nowhere. Her eyes searched his. It was impossible to think he had accepted money from her brother . . .

And then she wondered. Perhaps he had taken it, just to thumb his nose at them at all. He'd been so open and honest about his desire to earn money . . . Perhaps that had been his way of warning her . . . No. She was being ridiculous. Of course Jared, her Jared, wouldn't . . .

‘Alicia?'
Neville said sharply. ‘Rupert's waiting for an answer. To his invitation,' he added, staccato-voiced now. She was going to blow it, if she wasn't careful. Invitations to the Warrington Ball were like gold dust.

Alicia dragged her eyes back to Rupert. After all, looking at his smooth blond handsomeness was far easier than looking at Jared and wondering . . . ‘Oh. Yes, of course. Thank you, I'd love to come to your party.'

‘Splendid,' Rupert beamed. ‘I'll pick you up Friday then. We'll drive down and come back Sunday afternoon.'

Alicia was surprised to find she'd just agreed to a whole weekend at Warrington Hall. Then she saw Jared turn away, a strange look in his eye, and felt her heart sink. She reached for another glass of sherry. And tried valiantly to tell herself that her heart was not breaking.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Davina tapped on Gareth's door. She was wearing a long white cotton dress she'd picked up in a little second-hand shop just off St Aldates. As she entered, Gareth looked up from his desk. His eyes took in the vision in white walking towards him, and he felt his pulse flutter. Her sense of style was just one of
the
many things that made her unique.

‘Davina,' he said simply, and walked to a small drinks cabinet, bringing out, unasked, a bottle of elderflower champagne. ‘I got this a few weeks ago. Want some?'

‘Love some,' Davina murmured as he reached for a pair of tall, fluted glasses that he'd kept in the fridge. She accepted the cold glass and bubbling golden liquid, her spirit expanding. When he linked arms around hers, so that their faces were close together, she felt a deep sense of well being. She'd never met a more romantic man than Gareth Lacey.

‘Hmm,' she murmured. ‘The taste is . . . ethereal.'

‘I know. It's like drinking bottled sunshine.'

‘Or flavoured raindrops.'

‘You always have to have the last word?'

‘One-upmanship was invented just for me.'

‘And you're so good at it.'

Davina inclined her head gracefully. ‘Thank you.'

Gareth smiled. He loved tussling with her. Not to see who won—that was irrelevant. Sometimes he did, sometimes she did. No, it was just the tussling in itself that sharpened his reflexes and gave him a reminder of how alive he was beginning to feel.

‘Just let me file this stuff away,' he murmured, putting down his glass and reaching across the desk for some student essays. He walked to a filing cabinet, unlocked
it,
and began to riffle his way through it. Idly, Davina sat on the edge of his desk, and swung one foot lazily to and fro. As she sipped her elderflower wine, she glanced down, her eyes falling on to his desk diary. And her heart jumped.

Monday of next week was circled in red, and in his sloping, almost copper-plate handwriting, was the message,

‘Exam Papers deadline. Must post by today.'

She glanced at his back thoughtfully. He was wearing a plain cotton white shirt, and it clung to his back in places, where he'd been sitting pressed against the back of his chair. She could see the smooth planes of his flesh underneath. His head was bent, a lock of dark hair fell enticingly across his forehead, as he searched his files for the names of the two young men who'd just left, and Davina found herself instinctively longing to brush the strands back so that she could the secrets hidden in his eyes. Just why had this man, of all men, become so antagonistic towards David?

It was a question, unbelievably, that she'd never asked herself before. And since coming to St Bede's, she was beginning to find it more and more difficult to reconcile the man she'd found, to the man of her imagination.

Stalking a man was one of the most intimate things she'd ever done. She was getting under his skin. Drilling a way into his mind. Ferreting
in
his psyche. And, after just a little more than a month, she knew Gareth Lacey better than any lover she'd ever had. And what she knew didn't seem to make sense. He found the files, shut the cabinet, carefully locked it again, and turned back to her.

The grey eyes again. She knew, as long as she lived, she'd never forget those unique grey eyes of his.

‘You look miles away.'

‘I was,' she admitted. Just what had made him hate David?

‘I'm free for lunch,' Gareth said, walking towards her, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his jeans. ‘Do you want to eat out?'

Davina smiled. ‘I'd love to.'

‘Where shall we go?'

‘Surprise me,' she demanded challengingly.

He gave her a long level look, then nodded. ‘OK.' He got his jacket and checked for his wallet. ‘I'll be right back.'

She watched him go, her eyes still thoughtful, her mind on David. She heard an impatient drumming sound, and realised that she'd been unconsciously drumming her fingers restlessly against the side of his desk for some time now. It was a sure sign of inner agitation. She forced herself to relax. To close her eyes. To think.

From David's letters it was clear that his Tutor, Gareth Lacey, had only slowly become hostile towards him. Had
gradually
become
sarcastic
and bitter towards him. Had, over the course of her brother's last two terms in Oxford, shown signs of personal antipathy. So what did that indicate?

Had David produced such brilliant work that the great Gareth Lacey had found himself threatened? She sighed. Much as she adored her brother, she knew him to be no academic genius. Whereas Gareth Lacey was.

It was no good. She just couldn't think why Gareth had turned vindictive. But he had driven David to suicide. The door opened, and Gareth returned.

‘You're empty handed,' she said, with deliberate self-irony. It made two of them.

‘It's in the car. I thought we'd go for a picnic.'

‘Oh? Where?'

He smiled mysteriously. ‘You'll see.'

She followed him out to the car park, sliding into the Jaguar XJS, her white gown flowing neatly around her ankles. He drove them out of Oxford, through Kidlington and up the main road that led towards Banbury. For a while she was uncomfortable, thinking that he was taking her to King Canute College. That, somehow, he'd found out what she was doing. That this was all a cleverly laid trap. It made her heart beat faster, with a combination of both fear and excitement.

Half of her wished he did know. It would make the fight more fair. Whilst she had no
compunction
about destroying this man as he deserved, the thought of doing it sneakily, from ambush, had never truly sat easily on her. She was by nature a fighter. A face-to-face combatant. But half-way up the Oxford-to-Banbury road, he indicated right, taking her down into a beautiful valley of the river Cherwell.

‘Where are we?' she asked, as they crossed a bridge, and a big grey house appeared on a rise to their right.

‘Rousham House,' Gareth told her.

Davina saw the road sign that told them they were approaching the village of Lower Heyford. They'd just driven up and over a humped railway bridge when he suddenly indicated left, into an almost concealed entrance, that lead to a boat yard. Davina gasped in delight, suddenly finding herself facing a line of gaily painted, canal narrow boats. She got out of the car, her heart lifting at the sight of the river craft. Their own traditional artwork was reflected in the panels of painted flowers, castles, rivers and birds that bedecked their hulls.

‘Wait here a moment,' Gareth told her, and she walked to the canal edge, reading some of the names of the moored blue and yellow boats. ‘King Alfred', ‘Dylan Thomas' and, more comically, ‘Toe Rag'. Their roofs were lined with tubs of gaily flowering polyanthus, pansies, jonquils and narcissus.

Gareth
came back, retrieved a picnic basket from the boot of the Jag, and led her to the far end of the jetty. There, a pretty little barge, painted pale blue, cream and green, bobbed gently in the water. She read the name painted on the bow: ‘Halcyone'. ‘The kingfisher,' she mused out loud.

Gareth nodded. ‘Wasn't she the maid who turned herself into a kingfisher, to escape being seduced by Zeus?' he murmured. ‘The ancient Greeks certainly had a fascinating mythology.' He produced the key and opened the small doors that led down into the dark, narrow interior.

‘She's ours until four o'clock,' he said, watching her as she walked quickly through the tiny rooms, drawing back the curtains as she went, letting the daylight flood in. He cast off and started the engine, expertly manoeuvring the boat out into the canal.

She emerged on to the deck, watching him steer the boat. ‘Looks simple, doesn't it?' Gareth told her. ‘But if you want to go left, you have to turn the rudder right, and vice versa. And you have to do it a good way in advance.'

The engine was so quiet she could hardly hear it. ‘How fast are we going?' she asked curiously. It seemed they were barely at walking pace.

Gareth sighed blissfully. ‘There's a four-mile-an-hour speed limit on the canal,' he said, and laughed.

Davina,
who was used to living her life at a much faster pace, laughed too. ‘It's bliss,' she agreed, watching two donkeys in a field lift their heads to watch them drift by, with only the vaguest of idle curiosity on their funny, ugly faces. A church tower came and went. They rounded a bend and found weeping willows, gardens full of daffodils, a pair of marauding ducks, and a white draw-bridge awaiting them.

‘Someone's going to have to get off and raise it,' Gareth said dryly. ‘It's too low for us to get under.'

‘Hum,' Davina murmured, giving him a jaundiced look. ‘And since you're steering, it's going to have to be me, right?' she hazarded.

Gareth grinned. ‘I thought you were never going to volunteer.' He steered the boat to the towpath's edge, and she walked carefully along the very narrow rim of the boat, leaping off on to the grass when there was still nearly a foot of water between it and the boat. Gareth watched the graceful flying leap with his heart in his mouth. The long white dress lifted in the breeze as she flew through the air, revealing long, slim legs. She landed lightly, and sprinted easily along the towpath, crossing the bridge and eyeing it carefully. A long grey chain hung from one of the two metal arms, and she shrugged and pulled on it. The bridge lifted easily. When ‘Halcyon' was through, she carefully lowered the bridge behind her again
and
got back aboard.

She could get used to this sort of life. For a while.

The sun, which had been shining brightly all day, was at its zenith now, and Davina climbed lithely on to the roof. There she walked fearlessly across the top of it, before sitting down, kicking off her shoes, and leaning back on her hands, her face turned up to the sun. In her long white dress she looked like some pagan priestess, Gareth thought. And wished he could write a poem to her. Then his lips twisted at the inanity of the thought. No. Davina was a poem. A poet. She needed no such homage from him.