Winds of Enchantment (12 page)

Nick turned down his mouth in a mocking smile. She tilted her chin at him and turned with willowy grace into Peter’s arms. After their waltz, she glided demurely with other men. At midnight she took a drink with Doctor and Mrs. Piers. As the music began for the final dance she felt the empty glass taken from her fingers and a hand upon her wrist compelling her out on to the floor. A steely arm closed round her.

“It’s usual to ask,” Pat murmured.

“But more satisfactory to take. I’m driving you home, too.”

“I came in my own car.”

“I’ve sent John away.”

“You’re being very masterful, Nick.”

“You’re being the Honey Brading of the old days. Congratulations on winning your battle.”

“Thank you, Nick. Did your head heal up all right?” Her glance lifted to his temple and she saw the white edge of a scar. “You’re a trifle battle-worn yourself, aren’t you?”

“Is it beginning to show?” he drawled. “The worn look?”

She studied him, then smilingly shook her head. “You’ll always look the same, tough, teak-brown, master of your own destiny.”

“It’s good to be that way. You don’t get hurt—
o
r hurt other people. Tired, honey?”

“No. Why?”

“I seem to be carrying both of us. Don’t stiffen. I can take it.”

She laughed vexedly. “I have been dancing rather a lot—for a beginner,” she acknowledged. “Sorry you got the left-overs of the vitality I came with.”

“I’m not,” his grin was wicked. “It’s pleasant to have you leaning on me and not resenting my shoulder for once.”

She immediately drew her head away, and heard him laugh deep in his throat. Still the old enigmatic Nick—unchanging, as she had said, in looks and outlook.

Half an hour later she sank into the front seat of his car, grateful for the cool night air.

“You’re a member of the Kanos society now,” he said, as they started to move down the road. “Did you know that your name is on the list for the Governor’s Ball?”

“Mrs. Reynolds said so—but they want something in return.”

“Most kindness is like that, but you might as well have the fun—however you get it.”

“Mr. Reynolds wants me to persuade you into the rubber pool.”

“Go ahead, then.”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t presume. The rubber’s yours
...”

“Ours. Did he explain that the pool means the end of Farland-Brading?”

“Only the name. He seemed to think that you agreed with the merger in principle.”

Nick speeded, and said no more till he had pulled in outside the villa. He moved and she laid a hand on his sleeve. “Don’t come in, Nick—not tonight.”

“I want to ask you something.”

“Ask it here.”

He turned and met her eyes. “Have you thought any more about going home?”

“No—no, I haven’t.”

“If I asked you to go, would you?”

She glanced down at her twisting fingers. “It would depend on your tone and manner. Where Africa’s concerned you’re wiser than I am. But I feel so much better and I still haven’t had a fever. I—don’t want to go home, Nick.”

She heard him take a long breath. “Well, there’s Reynolds’ answer. Farland-Brading stays—for a while, at any rate.”

“Goodnight, Nick.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“If you like. I ride most mornings.”

“I’ll be up for you at about nine. And don’t date up with the dashing army officer for the evening—that’s mine, too.”

They dined alone at Winterton Terrace. Coffee was served in the lounge near the door that opened on to the veranda and, so as not to attract the pests, the light was out. Nick had pulled round the divan, and he sat beside her, long legs thrust out in front of him, the fingers of one hand inserted into the top of the black cummerbund about his waist. For a long time they smoked in silence. Then Nick flicked his cigarette stub across the veranda and into the bushes below.

“Well, Patricia,” he drawled, “are they worth a penny—or more?”

“I was thinking about—Steve,” she admitted.

He scarcely moved, yet a tension had sprung between them. “Why?”

“I treated him badly. What must he be thinking of me?”

“Does it matter? He had his chance and mishandled it.”

“I made him unhappy,” she said.

“He’s probably got over that by now.” Nick’s tone took an edge. “You’re not in love with him again, are you?”

“I haven’t considered it that way yet.”

“Then I shouldn’t if I were you. He couldn’t stand Africa, and you say you don’t want to go home. You’re growing up, Patricia. Getting as perverse as all females.”

“How that must irritate your one-track mind,” she said, with a touch of mischief. “Seriously, Nick, I feel I ought to write to Steve.”

“Where’s your pride?” he said curtly. “If he still cares, he’ll be the first to write. Wait till he does.”

“I suppose you’re right!” She paused. “It’s funny, but I miss his letters and the sketches he used to send. Nick,” her eyes shone round at him in the darkness, “I keep thinking of those early days, when I first came to Kanos. Am I—Bill’s daughter again?”

“Yes,” he said deliberately, “I think you are.”

For many minutes the only sounds were the hum of moths and the passing of a car or two. When she spoke again the subject was polo.

Pat disliked Black Adam from the wicked glint in his eye to the barbarously curbed tail. He was huge, well over sixteen hands, and handsome as a black shiny coat and rippling muscles could make him, but even Nick admitted that his head was too large for him ever to make a first-rate polo pony.

“Then why try making him one?” she demanded, exasperated.

“There’s a bet on it,” he said lazily. Then after a few minutes: “Worried in case I take a tumble?”

“Well, as I remarked the other day, Nick, you are beginning to look a bit battle-scarred.”

He laughed, his lighter clicked, flared, and aromatic cigar smoke drifted to her nostrils. The African night cloaked them in its .dusky, scented, throbbing mystery, and Pat sat very still as Nick sought her hand, turned it in his and regarded its smallness with a quirk of amusement. Then, quite coolly, he lifted her fingers and ran his warm lips along the tips of them. She tensed as he held her hand pressed tight to his jaw. “Wanting to claw me?” he murmured.

“No—”

“I wonder.” He lowered her hand to her lap. “We’re mighty candy-cousin for once, aren’t we? It can’t possibly last, eh?”

“No,” she agreed. “It can’t last. We’ll find something to wrangle about very shortly.”

And they did, when Nick played polo that Saturday and tried again to put the black gelding at the posts. Apart from the goal, the horse responded to polo training. He had his idiosyncrasies, and one of them was to
circle the ball so that Nick had to undercut him, but he could play a hard and fast chukka and finish nearly as fresh as he started. In practising ‘turning on a sixpence’ he always reared, and the sight thrown up against the sky of Nick’s head tight against the great beast’s neck sent such a shudder of horror down Pat’s spine that she at once left the polo field and went home alone.

Later, when Nick telephoned, she learned that he had strained a shoulder.

“Serves you right,” she cried into the mouthpiece. “Next time he’ll break your neck!” and brought down the receiver as though it were a whip on the black’s flanks.

Nick was her escort to the Governor’s Ball. Pat’s silken green gown rustled as she made her curtsey, and Bill’s diamond-bow brooch sparkled in her hair. She laughed a little at the pomp and glitter, and wished Bill were here to look piratical and proud of her.

The gardens were jewelled with lanterns and a few couples danced outside on the dry cropped grass, but many sought the white garden benches. Trailing with Nick along the paths, Pat felt serene and close to happiness. When her fingers swung into his hand and were grasped, she laughed, but did not withdraw them. On the edge of darkness he persuaded her to a seat, and they sat watching the lights of the house through the trees, while the music drifted and mingled with the distant thunder of waves from the shore. Pat gave a
little
shiver of delight.

“Cold?” he asked.

“No. Happy.”

He turned sideways on the bench, facing her, his arm along the back of the seat. “You’re growing rather beautiful, child,” he said.

“You haven’t looked at my nose,” she laughed.

“It’s the cutest in Kanos.” His hand slipped up the back of her neck and caught a fistful of her corn-gold hair. “Don’t ever cut this,” he ordered.

Again she laughed, a breathless, scoffing sound. “I’m surprised at you, Nick—tangling yourself up with the moonlight and a woman’s hair. Let go. That hurts.”

He, too, laughed softly. “Just to let you know this is Nick, not one of those romantic young officers.”

She shook back the hair he had released. “Do you imagine I’m angling for a—kiss?” She gestured to indicate another bench partly hidden by shrubs about a hundred yards away. A pale blur of masculine white merged with billowing pink.

“Would you like me to oblige?” he murmured mockingly.

“You’d want to kiss any woman you might have here, on this seat,” she, retorted. “Even you wouldn’t waste such a setting.”

“Then here goes!” She saw the green glint of his eyes as he suddenly leant close—and kissed the tilt of her nose.

“Candy for little cousin?” she asked, very aware that she had jerked back from him, expecting and fearing, the touch of his lips on hers.

“
You shied like a filly then,” he said drily. “Can’t imagine what you’d do if I copied the guy on that bench over there.”

“
You took me by surprise. Shall we go back now, Nick? I—I want to dance some more.”

“In a minute.” He lifted her hand and looked into the palm. “I thought so. The inevitable dark man.”

“There are dozens of dark men,” she said lightly. “Here comes one right now!”

Peter was coming towards them over the grass. “Pat,” he called, “wouldn’t you sooner be dancing?”

“You bet!” She jumped eagerly to her feet and went hurrying to meet Peter, calling back over her shoulder, “I’ll see you later, Nick. You’re driving me home, aren’t you?”

“Sure, honey,” his tone was quizzical. “I’m driving you home.”

CHAPTER TEN

THERE was to be a polo match between the Kanos club and the Army, and the ground fluttered with bunting and the flag went up on the stand. The army band rolled out its marches as the audience collected, the women in gay flowered dresses and carrying lacy parasols, the men in white suits and uniforms.

Pat came alone. She had turned down offers of escort in the natural belief that Nick would follow his habit of picking her up at about four, but she had heard no word from him all day. During the past week he had not mentioned the match except to remark: “I don’t know what all the fuss is about. You stay away, honey, and be nice and fresh for the polo dinner in the evening.
”

Her answer was that if he thought she was going to miss the last exciting match of the season, then he was very much mistaken. She knew he was riding Black Adam, and suspected a tussle like the one he had had the other week. But what was the use of advising Nick not to ride the black devil—Nick took little heed of her opinion.

Just inside the fence she caught up with one of the club team who had recently had a bad spill. “Hullo,” he growled, limping along on two sticks. “Come to watch the spit-and-polish take a beating?”

“I hope so. Who’s playing Number Three?”

“Howell. He’s too light, but he teams well. Nick’s a good captain; swears hell out of you at practice but says little in a match. Howell’s a bit nervous, but Nick’ll carry him till he’s got his stride. Here is Nick. What’s he doing this side of the field?”

Nick cantered up and swung to the ground. His kit and polo cap were impeccably white, his riding boots gleamed red. His arms, bare to just above the elbow, were brown and strongly muscled.

“I thought you were going to take my advice and give this one a miss.” He scanned her impuden
tly
. “You’re looking keyed-up.”

“It’s in the atmosphere,” she said. “Nick, be careful on that brute.”

“I will.” His tone was cool, and he glanced across her head to her companion. “Look after her, will you, Whit, and give her tea just after five.”

“Tea?” Pat was astonished. ‘You know I never take tea at polo.”

He bent upon her a lazy glance. “Tea will settle those keyed-up nerves. Have tea at five and rest in the pavilion.”

Pat flamed into temper. “What’s the matter with you, Nick? Have you got a touch of the sun?”

“Can’t stop now,” he rejoined. “Don’t forget, Whit.” He leapt back into the saddle and was away.

Pat turned to Whittaker. “What’s he up to?” she demanded. “Has he gone mad?”

“I’ll be able to answer that after the match,” Whittaker said drily.

He invited her to sit at his table on the terrace of the pavilion, and she was conscious of an unusual tension among the crowd in the stand which seemed to ease with the cheering that greeted a detachment of uniformed horsemen parading the ground.