The Devil at Archangel (12 page)

to that coffee. Join me when you're ready, if you want.'

She stared after him with frustrated fury. He always gave her the

feeling she had made a fool of herself in some way. Why did she

allow herself to rise to his baiting quite so easily? she wondered

miserably. But in her heart she knew the answer. She had never met

anyone quite like him before, and even in that first brief meeting he

had disturbed her to the core of her being. The fortune-teller's

warning had been fully justified, she thought, biting her lip. She did

indeed have to beware of this man—the devil who was tormenting

her in subtle ways she had never even guessed at.

She went slowly over to the chest of drawers and paused. Even with

his permission, she felt an odd reluctance to rummage through his

things to find the comb he had offered. There was an implied

intimacy in such an action that she felt she should avoid at all costs.

She glanced perfunctorily in the mirror and tried to reduce the worst

of the tangles with her fingers. She looked—different, she thought.

The sun and wind had; put more colour than usual in her face, and her

eyes looked strangely bright. She glanced rather doubtfully down at

herself. The jeans fitted her closely, and the rather skimpy top clung

to her slight curves as if it loved them. She tugged at it tentatively,

wondering if there was some way of making it less revealing, then

stopped, vexed with herself. She was over-reacting. There was no

need for all this concern. Hadn't he said himself that he had no

designs on her?

She turned away and walked out through the beaded curtain into the

living room. Devlin was at the far end, busying himself with a coffee

pot and mugs, and he glanced round as Christina entered. She

hesitated, the aroma of the coffee suddenly beguiling in her nostrils.

That breakfast she had enjoyed suddenly seemed to have been a long

time ago and when he held a brimming mug out to her, it was churlish

to refuse.. So she accepted it with a murmured word of thanks and sat

down on the edge of the studio couch. For a few moments she was

tense in case he came to sit beside her, but he seemed content to prowl

about the room, sipping at his coffee.

It gave her the opportunity to study the room more closely. It had a

casual comfort that she had not encountered up at the house and

which had an appeal all its own.

But it was essentially a masculine apartment. There was a rack of

guns on one wall, and a clutter of serviceable-looking fishing

equipment against another. There were no signs of female occupation

even on a temporary basis.

She cleared her throat of a slight huskiness. 'Have you lived here

long?'

'For the past four years—since my parents died. This was their

place—their retreat if you like. They built the landing stage for their

own boat.'

Christina glanced at him, startled. She had forgotten for a moment

that he must be the son of Mrs Brandon's sister Madeleine who had

died with her husband in some kind accident at sea. She wondered if

it was painful for him to be reminded of the fact, but his enigmatic

expression gave her no clue.

'And you live here alone?' Now what had possessed her to ask him

that? she wondered despairingly as he sent her an amused glance.

'What an improper question,' he said lightly. 'You surely don't

expect me to answer it.' 1

Her face flaming, Christina bent her head over her coffee mug.

'Besides,' he went on, his tone hardening slightly, 'I'm quite sure that

my aunt—or someone—has already dropped you a hint about my

wicked lusts and other depravities. I assumed that's why you took to

your heels when you saw me this morning. On the other hand, it may

have occurred to you that running away can be a very provocative

thing to do.'

'I certainly didn't mean to be provocative.' She tucked an errant strand

of hair back behind her ear with fingers that trembled slightly;

'Perhaps it was simply that I didn't want to talk to you—or anyone

else. I was enjoying being alone.'

'That's a strange admission from a professional companion.' He stood

looking down at her. 'Or have you decided to forget about that

particular piece of fiction?'

'It happens to be fact,' she said tautly. 'I'm sorry that you can't accept it

as such. But even if I do have a liking for solitude at times, it won't

affect your aunt. I shan't neglect the duties she's paying me for.'

'That's a Christina statement,' he said lazily. 'And I don't doubt the

sincerity behind it—or its truth. My aunt wouldn't allow you to

neglect her. But you stick to your guns, little one. Keep telling

yourself that you've been brought here to be a companion. Only don't

try telling me.'

'Why won't you believe me?' she stared up at him.

'Because I know my aunt—have known her for thirty- four years,' he

said. 'She's a single-minded lady, and companionship never figured

very highly on her list of requirements before—not for herself

anyway.'

She set down her mug and gripped her hands together, tighdy in her

lap.

'There has obviously been some rift between you both,' she said. 'I

don't know what it is—and it's none of my business anyway. But she

is my employer and has teen kind to me, and I owe her some loyalty.

Maybe you're right and she doesn't need a companion. But she

pretended she did so that I wouldn't feel it was charity she was

offering. She knew I needed a job and she gave me one for the" sake

of an old friendship, and I...'

She broke off, aware that he was staring at her as if she had gone

quiedy mad.

'I'm beginning to wonder if we're talking about the same person.' He

was frowning and his eyes were intent. 'What are you talking

about—an old friendship?'

Christina swallowed. 'I've never had a proper job before,' she said. 'I

used to live with my godmother—Miss Grantham. I called her Aunt

Grace, but really we weren't related. She—she died some weeks ago,

but when she knew she was ill she wrote to Mrs Brandon and—I

think—asked her to— look after me. Hence the offer of a job, and

that's why I'm here,' she added in a rush.

He seemed almost not to have heard her. 'You were Grace Grantham's

goddaughter?'

'Yes,' she answered, bewildered. 'Why, do you—did you know her?'

'I've heard my mother speak of her,' he said curtly.

Light dawned on Christina. 'Yes, they were all at school together,

weren't they—your aunt, your mother and Aunt Grace?' She bit her

lip. 'But I never knew of your aunt's existence until she came to

England to find me. You must believe that.'

His mouth curled sardonically. 'Oh, I believe you, for what it's worth.

But it doesn't alter a thing. The best thing you Ccfn do, Christina, is

get back to England—and that's a friendly warning.'

'I don't need any warnings from you, friendly or otherwise,' she burst

out. 'And I can't go back to England yet. I have no money ...'

'God, what a mess,' he said quietly. He turned away and walked

across the room to the open door and stood looking around.

'Then it's my mess,' she said with a kind of dignity. 'I— I know things

won't be—easy, but I owe it to Mrs Brandon to—try at least to fall in

with her wishes.'

He turned on her and she shrank from the blaze of fury in his eyes.

'Then if that's what you feel—stay, and take what's coming to you.

Perhaps Tante made the right choice after all. Just don't come crying

to me when things get rough.'

She got clumsily to her feet, wincing a little as she put too much

weight on her injured ankle. Her voice shook. 'You're the last person

in the world I'd turn to—ever, Mr Brandon. I'm sorry to have put you

to so much inconvenience in the past. I'll keep my distance from now

on—and that's a promise.'

Trying not to limp, she walked past him to the door. But she was

halted before she could reach the refuge of die sunshine. His hand

closed with startling suddenness on her arm and she was jerked round

to face him.

His voice was quite dispassionate. 'That being the case, here's

something to remember me by,'

His arms pulled her closer, pinning her against him in a lingering

intimacy that set every nerve-ending in her body quivering. She tried

to struggle, but she was helpless against his strength. And then his

mouth took hers.

None of the tentative kisses that had come her way in the past had

prepared her for this—ravishing of her mouth. His approach was

utterly sensual, dark, deep and dangerous. And because he was angry

with her, there was an element of brutality as well. A strange tidal

race of sensation seemed to be sweeping through her body,

destroying the instinctive defences which her total inexperience

should have provided. Somewhere inside herself was a stranger

whose existence she had never guessed at, with needs she had been

unaware of. A stranger whose lips parted under his willingly —too

willingly, and whose arms stole up over his bare shoulders to lock

round his neck, her hands tangling in his tawny hair.

When her swimming senses subsided and coherent thought returned,

she found she was leaning against him, her face buried against the

warm brown skin of his chest, hair-roughened and slightly salty under

her mouth. His hand was stroking the nape of her neck, and his lips

and tongue were exploring her ear.

'Christy,' he muttered, his voice husky but with a note of laughter just

below the surface. 'Honey girl. Bite me now.'

His words restored her sanity. With a little cry, she tore herself free,

her face burning with shame.

'You—you devil!' she choked passionately, and oblivious of her

injured ankle, turned and fled.

She was hobbling quite badly by the time she reached the garden

stairs to her balcony. Her feet were sore too. She had not been able to

find the sandals she had left on the beach after hurting her ankle. The

carpet felt soft and comforting under her bare soles as she padded

across the room and lowered herself on to her bed, closing her eyes.

She still couldn't believe it had happened. Where was herself-respect

that she could permit a man she hardly knew and heartily disliked to

kiss her like that? She pressed her hand to her mouth as if to wipe

away the memory of his possession. She had few doubts as to why he

had done it. It was simply another way of demonstrating that he

despised her. And she had fully justified his contempt by falling into

his arms like that. That was what hurt so much: the knowledge that

while she had been in his arms, nothing else mattered—as if time had

been suspended.

And if she had not come to her senses in time—what then? Might she

still have been with him now—in his arms,: in his bed—blind and

deaf to everything but the cravings he had aroused in her?

Beside the bed, the phone rang sharply. For a moment she hesitated.

If she answered it and there was nothing again but that eerie breathing

silence then that would be the last straw.

It rang again, and that decided her. She picked up the receiver.

'Hello?'

'Christina?' It was Mrs Brandon's voice, abrupt with displeasure. 'This

is the third time I have rung for you. Where have you been?'

'I've been for a walk.' Christina sat up, pushing her dishevelled hair

back from her face. 'I—I'm sorry. Did you want me?'

'Come to my sitting room at once, please.' The other receiver was

replaced with something of a slam.

Christina slid off the bed, looking down at herself in consternation.

She could not present herself to Mrs Brandon in this condition. That

would be adding insult to apparent injury. It occurred to her, with a

wry twist of her lips, that her holiday in the sun had been of

remarkably brief duration.

She changed quickly into a vivid yellow skirt, and added a sleeveless

black silky top with a scooped neck. She gave her hair a swift, hard

brushing, then went along the corridor, trying not to limp too

obviously.

Mrs Brandon was sitting very upright on her small sofa, her

embroidery in her hands. She glanced up rather coldly as Christina

tapped and entered, then she saw the bandaged ankle and her

attention was arrested.

'You have injured yourself,
mon enfant.'

'I was on the beach and I twisted my ankle.'

'I see.' Mrs Brandon's gaze went back to the bandage. 'You have had

training in first aid, perhaps?'

'No.' Christina could hear the awkwardness in her own voice. 'I—I