Winter at Cray (9 page)

‘
But you
’
ll be mighty glad to see the back of me, hmm
?’

‘
I did
not
say that,
’
Louise protested, the more indignant because it was the truth.
‘
You
’
re very good at putting words into other people
’
s mouths, Mr. Darrell. Is that part of the art of being a reporter?
’

‘
Actually I
’
m a journalist,
’
he corrected her with a grin,
‘
and that
’
s a pretty snide remark, Miss K. You
’
ve an even worse opinion of me than I feared. I shall really have to do something to set you straight on that.
’
He glanced out at the sullen but snowless sky.
‘
Weather permitting, of course.
’

Having him stand so close behind her made her uneasy and she would have turned and moved away, but he stood near enough behind her in the curve of the bay window to make passing him impossible without first getting uncomfortably close. Since she was not prepared to chance that, she stayed where she was, her back straight, her chin set at an angle that was both stubborn and defensive.

‘
I don
’
t think I
’
m interested enough to want to be put straight, as you call it,
’
she told him, and he laughed.

‘
A mere scribbler is well below your social standing, of course,
’
he taunted, still smiling as if it worried him not all.
‘
I
’
m sorry, Miss Kincaid, I should have known better.
’

He could not know, Louise thought, that Essie had told her about his own position and he was evidently set on playing the humble role of struggling writer as long as it served his purpose.
‘
You
’
re putting words into my mouth again,
’
she accused, and again he laughed as if he found her indignation amusing.

‘
Usually the right ones, you have to admit,
’
he insisted, and she could guess that the inevitable
dim
ple was in evidence again, although she refused to look at him.

She was silent for a moment, staring out at the snow and the bleak grey sky, conscious of him standing so close that she could hear his every breath in the stillness of the room.
‘
I wish you wouldn
’
t try to be so clever at my expense,
’
she told him at last.
‘
I made the arrangements to have you here, you and Essie, because my great-grandmother wanted it. If it had been left to me I
’
d have refused to allow anyone in your profession even to land on the island.
’

‘
But why, for heaven
’
s sake?
’
He sounded exasperated as well as puzzled and his hands turned her to face him, so that she was forced to meet the steady gaze of his eyes briefly before hastily lowering her own.
‘
Why, Louise?
’

‘
Let go of me
!’
She shook herself free of his hold, annoyed to find her hands trembling and the prickle of tears in her eyes.
‘
I—I have my own reasons,
’
she told him,
‘
and I don
’
t have to explain them to you.
’

‘
That
’
s right, you don
’
t,
’
he retorted,
‘
but it
’
s the least you can do since you insist on treating me like some kind of monster. I think I
’
m entitled to know why.
’

‘
I—I just don
’
t like reporters—journalists,
’
she corrected herself hastily before he could do it for her.

‘
So you
’
ve said before,
’
he told her,
‘
but I want to know why.
’

‘
And
I
don
’
t have to tell you why
!’
She had raised her voice and she swallowed hastily, hoping no one had overheard and was likely to come into the room, especially Stephen. His dislike of his room-mate was, if anything, deeper than her own and he would probably make a scene which she would regret more than anyone.

‘
You
’
re the most stubborn, unreasoning female I
’
ve ever had the misfortune to meet,
’
he informed her, exasperation at last dismissing the smile from his face.
‘
You
’
re supposed to be like your great-grandmama was at your age, but I
’
m damned sure she was never as prickly and pig-headed as you are or Robert Kincaid would have tipped her into the nearest deep snow and left her there.
’

‘
Don
’
t swear at me!
’
She clenched her hands tightly, her eyes blazing at him, and to her chagrin, he laughed at her again.

‘
I didn
’
t swear at you, Miss Prissy, but by heaven I will if you don
’
t get down off that high horse of yours and act like a human being for once.
’

The drawing back of her hand was instinctive as was the swing of it towards that annoying smile, but before she knew what was happening, strong fingers closed round her wrist and held it tight while a dark devil of mockery looked down at her, obviously amused by her attempt.

‘
Let me go!
’
She tried to free her wrist with her free hand, but the gripping fingers resisted her efforts easily.

‘
And let you slap my face?
’
he mocked.
‘
No, thank you. You simmer down and I
’
ll let go, but not before.
’

‘
You
’
re hurting me!
’

‘
Quite likely,
’
he agreed amiably, his smile mocking her efforts.

She knew struggling was useless, for he was as stubborn as she was and far stronger.
‘
If Stephen comes in,
’
she threatened as a last resort,
‘
he
’
ll—he
’
ll
hit
you.
’

‘I’m
sure he would,
’
he agreed,
‘
but I happen to know he
’
s seeking audience with his great-grand
-
mama, I suspect with the intention of having me firmly put in my place by the head of the family.
’
He laughed softly as if the prospect amused rather than alarmed him.
‘
I also suspect,
’
he added, not without satisfaction,
‘
that the darling matriarch will reverse the procedure and tell him where he gets off.
’

‘
It
’
s not fair,
’
Louise declared crossly.
‘
Until you came here, Great-gran would never have taken anyone
’
s side against Stephen, and now—
’
She glared at him helplessly.
‘
Just because you happen to look like her Robert, she dotes on you and—and almost ignores poor Stephen. It isn
’
t fair!
’

‘
Not fair at all,
’
he agreed rather surprisingly,
‘
but it
’
s none of my doing, I assure you. This is the face I was bo
rn
with, and no matter how much
you
dislike it, I
’
m quite fond of it and so is your great
-
gran. And I didn
’
t acquire it specially to influence your great-gran in my favour, honestly.
’

He released her wrist, apparently considering it was now safe to do so, and she rubbed vigorously at the marks his fingers had left, curious despite her anger.
‘
Who
are
you
?’
she asked, and he laughed. The same deep, rather seductive sound she found so disturbing to her composure.

‘
Jonathan James Darrell of London, aged twenty
-
seven years and three months.
’
He quoted the facts with mock solemnity as if he was being interrogated.
‘
Height six feet one inch, hair black, eyes—
’
He bent his head bringing his face close to hers so that she could see his eyes.
‘
Brown
?’

The gleam of mischief was too close for comfort and she turned her head away quickly.
‘
I think you
’
re being deliberately obtuse,
’
she accused, and he sighed.
‘
And far too evasive to be honest.
’

‘
All you need to know about me, Miss Kincaid,
’
he told her,
‘
is that I
’
m a journalist who came here to interview a rather remarkable old lady for her hundredth birthday. I
’
m stranded here, with my photographer,
‘
pro tern, and you can either put us out in the snow or put up with us; it
’
s your privilege to choose which you do.
’
There was silence for a moment, then he laughed shortly, shaking his head.
‘
Seriously, I
’
m sorry you
’
ve been lumbered with us, but there
’
s not much any of us can do about it, is there? And you
’
re certainly no sorrier than I am, believe me.
’

Louise frowned, on the defensive.
‘
Because you don
’
t like Berren
?’

He shook his head, something other than mockery or amusement showing in his eyes for the first time. Something that she thought could have been anger.
‘
Because I know when I
’
m not welcome,
’
he retorted,
‘
and it
’
s a sensation nobody enjoys, Miss Kincaid, even a hard-skinned journalist.
’
He turned before she could answer, leaving her standing, staring after his tall, straight figure as he strode from the room.

It was a little after ten o
’
clock the following night and Louise had been upstairs to make sure Robert was asleep and at the same time look in on little Poppy Kincaid, and she had just left Colin and Diamond
’
s room on her way downstairs again.

From the stairs she could see from the tall, narrow window the expanse of snow outside and the darker strip of the path up from the pier. It was on the path that she thought she caught a sign of movement and bit her lip on the unexpectedness of it.

William
’
s efforts the day before had made some impression on the thick snow and he had tried again since, so that the path was partially cleared, although treacherously slippery underfoot. Anyone walking or attempting to walk up the steep incline would find it difficult going indeed.

There was no light outside, save that which shone, diffused and pink, through the sitting-room curtains and a patch of yellow from the landing light which outlined her against the stairs window and spotlighted a figure outside.

She found it hard to believe for a moment that anyone would have been foolhardy enough to venture out at this time of night and in such conditions, but whoever it was must have seen her moving against the background of the light, for a second later he looked up briefly and one hand was raised in a gesture that was at once plea and salutation.

She put a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide and unbelieving, rooted to the spot by some sensation that held her numb and breathless, then the man fell to his knees, as she stared out at him, and seemed to struggle briefly before he lay still.

‘
Jon, Jon!
’
She scarcely realised the voice was her own as she ran down the rest of the stairs on legs that threatened at any moment to collapse under her and throw her headlong. Nor did she stop to reason why it was Jonathan Darrell she called so urgently as she ran, except that his was the first name that came into her head.