Authors: Sara Craven
After the response in her own immediate circle, it was too much to
hope that Rob's parents would greet the news with delight. As it
was, they were polite but cool, and the tight-lipped, defensive
expression on Rob's face told its own story. When they left Home
Farm, he drove to Newquay for dinner where they ate an
extravagant meal completed by the champagne he insisted on
ordering. They laughed a good deal, and drank a number of silly
toasts, but the evening was not a great success. There was too
much being, left unsaid, Morgana thought as they drove home, but
surely good and lasting relationships had developed from equally
unpromising beginnings.
And tonight she would not get away with a plea of tiredness, she
knew. She had agreed to become Rob's wife, and he would require
some surety of that promise. She rested submissively in his arms
while he kissed her, wondering dazedly what strange chemistry it
was that could turn her blood to rivers of flame under one man's
lightest touch, while the most passionately intimate kisses from
another could leave her cool to the point of indifference.
He murmured her name, his lips urgent against her throat, and let
her go with the utmost reluctance.
'Forget what I said earlier.' His voice was hoarse. 'I want to marry
you as soon as it can be arranged. I don't want to wait.'
She said gently, 'I can't decide anything in a hurry, Rob—you must
see that. We'll talk about it tomorrow.'
'When I've cooled down, you mean?' His tone held a note of anger.
'I'm sorry, Morgana, don't I switch off quickly enough for you? I
want to marry you, don't you understand that?'
'Of course I do, but I thought you saw my point of view too.' She
tried to smile. 'Rob, I'm barely used to being engaged yet.'
'Then I'll have to give you time,' he said heavily. He leaned
forward, brushing her mouth with his. 'All the time you want,
darling.'
Morgana let herself quietly into the house, feeling blank with
relief. It had not occurred to her that the engagement she had
regarded in the light of a sanctuary could suddenly become a trap.
The drawing room door was slightly ajar, and she could hear the
murmur of voices. Noiselessly she crossed the hall and peeped in.
Her mother was sitting there talking quietly to Major Lawson. It
was a cosy, companionable little scene and Morgana was loath to
interrupt it, so she decided she would go straight upstairs without
saying goodnight.
As she reached the foot of the stairs, she heard a creak above her
and, looking up, she saw Lyall walking slowly down towards her.
She swallowed, and her heart began that slow confused pounding
as she fought for self-control. She hadn't expected to see him. He
had taken Elaine home after lunch and she had understood he was
not expected back until late.
He said coolly, 'Had an enjoyable evening?' His eyes ran over her,
missing nothing. 'You look curiously untouched,' he added
insolently. 'He can't be a very demanding lover.'
'Unlike you, he doesn't confuse love with lust,' she said between
her teeth. 'Rob isn't an animal.'
'Then he should think twice before tying himself up with a little
wildcat like you,' he said too pleasantly. 'I still have your
teethmarks in my shoulder.'
'I don't believe you!' she exclaimed, flushing indignantly.
Lyall moved as if to unbutton his shirt. 'Shall I prove it to you?'
'No!' She glanced round in agitation, remembering just how many
other people and potential eavesdroppers there were in the house.
'Oh, leave me alone!'
'I'm not touching you,' he said, but he might as well have been, she
thought miserably, her teeth tearing at the soft inside of her lip. Oh
God, how long would it be before the memories and sensations of
the previous night ceased to torment her?
He asked, 'Have you fixed the date yet?'
'Not yet, but I imagine it will be sooner rather than later.' She
clamped her chosen defence securely around her.
'Really?' He raised his eyebrows. 'I thought he was a believer in
long engagements.'
'You have no reason to suppose that.'
'No? I'd have called a year a long engagement these days—even
for someone with his vile lusts as firmly under control as you seem
to think.'
'Why on earth should we wait a year?'
'A little matter of a contract,' he said smoothly, his eyes intent on
her face.
Morgana was taken aback, but she concealed it. 'You can hardly
hold me to that under the circumstances,' she protested.
'Everything's changed.'
'I'll hold you to it under any circumstances, and you'd better
believe that, lady,' he said softly. His smile widened. He was
enjoying his triumph, she thought furiously.
She shrugged. 'I don't expect Rob will mind a working wife,' she
said. 'It's quite usual these days.'
'I wouldn't be too sure of that,' he said drily. 'Anyway, the question
doesn't arise. You remain single during the run of your contract.'
'You can't make me,' she said angrily. 'You haven't the slightest
right. As long as I do my job properly . . .'
'Ah, but I couldn't count on that.' His tone was derisive. 'You might
get a bad case of honeymoon fever and become totally
inefficient—for my purposes at least,' he added.
'You can't stop me getting married.' Her eyes fixed burningly on
his face.
'Don't push me, Morgana,' he said. 'Unless you want me to show
your milk-and-water fiancé my dishonourable scars and tell him
exactly how I acquired them.'
'He wouldn't believe you.' She had begun to tremble.
'I think he would—eventually,' he said. 'Especially if I gave him a
sneak preview of what you look like without your clothes. That
little mole on your hip, for example. He might not be too pleased
to know that I'd seen it first.'
'Swine!' she choked.
'I've been called worse names,' Lyall said coolly. 'I like to win,
Morgana—I thought I'd made that clear. And remember this too—
while you work for me, you don't marry Rob. I have other plans
for you, just in case they'd escaped your mind.'
'You're vile,' she said shakily.
'And you're becoming repetitious,' he retorted. 'Goodnight, Morgan
le Fay, sleep well.'
Morgana affixed the silver star to the top of the Christmas tree,
then dismounted gingerly from the step-ladder to take a critical
look at her handiwork.
Normally, as Christmas approached, she threw herself heart and
soul into the preparations for it, but this year she had to admit she
had never felt less festive in her life.
The fact that for the past six weeks the house had been full of
workmen hadn't helped matters, she thought as she put the
stepladder away. The central heating had been installed, and a full
rewiring programme completed, while at the same time work had
gone forward on the conversion of the attics.
'The power of money,' Mrs Pentreath had remarked helplessly one
day, surveying the organised chaos around her. 'When you think of
the difficulty we used to have in getting even the
smallest
job done
...'
Morgana did think of it, often, as she watched money being spent
without stinting around her. She wanted to feel resentful, she
wanted to hate Lyall for demonstrating so effectively the gulf
between them, but she couldn't. The truth was that in spite of the
dust, the inconvenience and the general upheaval, Polzion House
was slowly acquiring a comfort it had never aspired to before in its
long history.
And if she had been able to conjure up some kind of resentment, it
would surely have been allayed by the sight of her mother happily
poring over wallpaper books and fabric samples.
The new flat at the top of the house would be ready for them to
move into by Christmas, they had been promised, and for Morgana
this move couldn't come fast enough.
Once the flat was finished, at least she would have some privacy,
an escape route to solitude.
Over the past weeks it seemed as if she had never been alone. It
was not just the house being full of workmen either. Rob either
telephoned or came around every day, in spite of her attempts to
dissuade him. She supposed ruefully that if she'd really been in
love with him, she would have welcomed his visits and calls, and
expected them, but as things were, they were just an added
irritation to all the others she had to bear.
Miss Meakins had finally taken her departure, declaring tearfully
that she could not stand being moved from room to room in the
path of the workmen any longer. Morgana wished she could have
felt regretful, but not having to listen to Miss Meakins' daily
catalogue of complaints could only be a relief.
She had half expected Major Lawson to take his departure too, but
he showed no signs of objecting to the constant upheavals which
were part of everyday life at Polzion House, and Morgana had a
shrewd idea why he was staying put. She'd noticed that his quiet
after-dinner chats with her mother were becoming more protracted,
and that they had slipped quite naturally into being on Christian
name terms. She had also noticed that whether her mother realised
it or not, she was starting to depend more and more on the Major's
advice, and quote it triumphantly when she wanted to prove a
point. She was undoubtedly beginning to look much happier, and
although Morgana told herself this was probably due to having the
financial burdens of past years so completely removed from her
shoulders, she was sure that there were more personal reasons for
the new optimism in Mrs Pentreath's smile and the shine in her
eyes. And she was also sure that Elizabeth wasn't even aware that
they existed, and would be very shocked and distressed if anyone
was even to hint that the days of her widowhood were numbered,
although Morgana knew that any such suggestion would be
premature in the extreme. Her mother, thanks to Major Lawson's
undemanding company, was happier and more relaxed than
Morgana could remember her being for years, and there could be
no harm in their relationship even if it never progressed beyond the
present pleasant companionableness.
As for her own relationships—Morgana bit her lip painfully—the
last few weeks had been almost more than she could bear. Since
their last confrontation when he had smilingly told her he intended
to hold her to the letter of her contract, Lyall's attitude to her had
undergone a radical change. His treatment of her now was
businesslike and almost aloof, exactly as she'd always demanded it
should be, she thought with irony.
He came and went at Polzion, sometimes being away for several
days at a time, and then, just as she was beginning to relax,
suddenly reappearing. He was not always alone. Often he was
accompanied by other people from the van Guisen-Lyall
Corporation, and the dining room became a miniature boardroom.
There was never a dull moment, and Morgana knew she had never
been more unhappy in her life.
He worked her ferociously, in spite of her lack of secretarial
expertise. He demanded high standards and he accepted no
excuses. But Morgana could not complain that he was singling her
out for special treatment. The secretaries who sometimes came
down from the London office to take the minutes at important
meetings complained that he was just the same, if not worse, when
he was in London. Sometimes at night, Morgana was so tired she
was glad just to fall into bed, there to close her eyes and try to stop
thinking. Not that she was always successful.
She wished she could hate him, especially in the early days when
she was struggling to master the dictating machine he'd had
installed in the office, and he bent impatiently over her to make
some minor adjustment, his sleeve brushing her shoulder. A silent
scream had risen in her throat as she'd forced herself not to flinch
away from his touch. Paul Crosbie had been in the room and it had
been important not to reveal in his presence any word or gesture
which could betray that she and Lyall had ever had more than a
working relationship.
In a way, although she had cursed it, the dictating machine had
been a lifesaver. It meant that she and Lyall did not have to be