Witching Hour (6 page)

Miss Meakins has accommodation in the West Wing, but we

moved Major Lawson over to the other side because of his typing.'

He said nothing in response, and after a minute she added

defensively, 'There's nothing wrong with the rooms in the wings.

We always show the guests everything that's available.'

She walked on quickly down the corridor, and Lyall followed.

He said, 'Just a moment. Haven't you forgotten something?'

She stopped and turned quickly. He was standing by a door,

touching the handle, his brows raised interrogatively.

She said reluctantly, 'Oh—that's my room.' She half expected him

to leave it, and follow her, but he remained where he was.

'I suppose you want to see it.' She made no effort to disguise her

resentment.

'I want to see everything. I thought I'd made that clear.'

Yes, you did, she thought, as she walked back. And you're also

reminding me that this isn't really my room any more. That it

belongs to you, like everything else here, and that I'm only

occupying it on sufferance. As if I could forget that, even for a

moment! I just—hoped that you wouldn't insist.

Her hand was shaking as she turned the handle and pushed open

the door, fumbling for the light switch. Every step he'd taken in

this house was an invasion of privacy, but this was the worst of all.

She had always slept in this room, from being a small child. Her

whole life was laid out here for anyone to see. At a casual glance,

Lyall could find out anything he wanted to know—could see the

books, from childhood fairy tales to modern novels, which

crammed the bulging bookcase—the worn teddy bear still

occupying a place of honour on the narrow window seat—even the

scent she used, standing on her dressing table, and her nightdress

folded on the small single bed with its virginal white candlewick

coverlet.

As it was, his glance was far from casual. He walked into the

centre of the room and stood there, his hands buried deep into the

pockets of the black leather coat he hadn't bothered to remove.

And he took everything in, while Morgana waited in the doorway,

feeling as humiliated as if she'd been forced to strip naked in front

of him.

It was deliberate, she knew that. Next time and every time that she

entered this room, he intended her to remember his presence there,

his scrutiny covering all her most personal possessions, lingering

on the narrowness of the bed, while a half-smile played about his

mouth which she had not the slightest difficulty in interpreting.

She thought, .Damn you!' and was aghast to see his smile widen,

and realise she had spoken her thought aloud.

He said softly, 'It's nice to know, darling, that one's efforts are

appreciated.'

She said, 'When you've finished your—inventory, I'll be in the

corridor.'

He joined her there almost immediately. 'I have to admire your

choice of sanctuary,' he observed rather mockingly. 'I imagine that

in daylight, the view from the window is quite spectacular.'

'Yes—you can see the sea from all the first floor windows on this

side.' Her voice sounded stilted.

'And I presume that the eyes I can feel watching me along this

gallery are those of our mutual ancestors?'

'Yes,' she agreed resignedly.

'Are they not included in the guided tour?'

She shrugged. 'As you pointed out, they are our mutual ancestors.

You probably know as much as I do.'

He said softly, 'And you know that isn't the truth. So suppose you

tell me about them.'

There was a note in his voice which sent little prickles of

apprehension running along her skin, like a storm warning. There

was a brief, crackling silence, then she said, 'Very well. The man

on your left is Josiah Pentreath. He built most of this house at the

height of the tin-mining industry, but it's always been reckoned he

built the stables out of his profits from smuggling. He had two

sons, Mark and Giles—they're over there. Giles didn't just follow

in his father's footsteps, he overtook him. This has always been a

bad coast for wrecks, and Giles is popularly supposed to have done

his share in encouraging them. He's one of the Pentreath black

sheep. Mark, on the other hand, was converted to Methodism by

John Wesley.' She paused, then said, 'Mark and Giles—and Martin

too—• have always been Pentreath names.'

She didn't have to add, 'But Lyall isn't.'

He said, 'I was named for my mother's family. You can hardly

blame my father for dispensing with family tradition under the

circumstances.'

Her voice lacked expression. 'I suppose not. Anyway, those rather

downtrodden-looking ladies you see are their respective wives.'

He said almost sharply, 'She doesn't look downtrodden at all.'

'Which one are you looking at?' Morgana peered. 'Oh, I didn't

mean that one. She's my grandmother.'

'Not one of the mutual ancestors,' he said slowly. 'She was very

beautiful, wasn't she? May I ask why she's got up like a medieval

princess?'

'There was some sort of Arthurian pageant going on, and she was

playing the part of Morgan le Fay.' She was reluctant to complete

the story, but she didn't want him to probe either, so she went on

doggedly, 'That was where Grandfather saw her, and he fell in love

with her at first sight. After they were married, he insisted on

having her portrait painted in her pageant costume. They had no

daughters, only one son—my father, and he made him promise

that if he had a daughter he would call her Morgana.'

'And here you are.'

'Yes,' she said tightly, 'here I am. Grandfather was still alive when

I was born, and he was so delighted to have the little girl he'd

wanted at last.'

'Having no idea, of course, that you'd be an only child. Quite one

of life's little ironies.'

'You could put it like that.' She bit her lip hard. 'Do you want

another instalment of family history, or shall we look at the rest of

the bedrooms? There are the attics as well.'

'I think the attics will have to be saved, along with the stables for

my next visit,' he said, glancing at his watch. 'I must go. Purely as

a matter of interest, you understand, which room was I to have

been given?'

'We'd put you in the East Wing,' she mumbled.

Lyall lifted a sardonic brow. 'I understood all guests were allowed

a choice.'

Morgana shrugged again. 'The same rule would have applied.' She

took a deep breath, forcing the words to her lips. 'After all, they're

all your rooms—now.'

'Yes, they are, aren't they?' he said silkily. 'It's just as well I

decided to stay in Truro instead. I don't think you'd have like my

choice, Morgan le Fay.'

For a moment she looked at him uncomprehendingly, then as

realisation dawned, an angry flush invaded her cheeks.

'That wouldn't matter,' she said untruthfully. 'As I shall have to

move out eventually anyway, it may as well be sooner than later.'

He laughed, his eyes going over her in one swift, sensuous

appraisal. 'Who said anything about moving out?'

Her flush deepened. 'How dare you?' she stormed.

'Oh, I dare,' he said. 'When you get to know me better, you'll be

amazed how much I dare.'

'I haven't the slightest wish to know you better. I only wish I'd

never had to meet you at all.'

'I gathered that when I heard you casting your spell on the moor,'

he said mockingly. 'Also when I overheard you bemoaning the fact

that you had to share a roof with me. I enjoy a challenge, and it

occurred to me that it might be amusing to persuade you to share

far more than just my roof.'

'You're out of your mind,' she said bitingly. 'Or perhaps your

unexpected inheritance has gone to your head. It's the house and its

contents which belong to you, I don't.'

He said very gently, 'But you will, Morgan le Fay. You will.

Because in spite of your little spells and maledictions, I'm here,

and I intend to stay.'

He took one quick stride forward and pulled her into his arms, his

mouth stifling her instinctive cry of protest on her lips. There was

no mercy in his kiss, nothing exploratory or tentative, just an

immediate hungry demand, which, against her will, against all her

instincts aroused an eventual, shaming response. And at once he

let her go, as if her capitulation had been all he'd been waiting for.

Morgana shrank back against the wall, her hand going up to cover

her bruised mouth, too furious to speak, too shocked to know what

to say. And the worst of it was that Lyall was smiling at her.

'You bastard!' she choked eventually.

'From what you tell me, I come from a long line of them,' he said

coolly. 'But I'm glad to know that you're not the downtrodden sort.

I'll see you tomorrow, Morgana.'

'I'll see you in hell!' she raged.

His mouth twisted. 'Hell's only the flip side of Paradise.

Sometimes it's hard to differentiate between the two, as you may

find, my little witch.'

She whirled past him, into her room, and slammed the door. She

leaned back against the panels, her breathing quick and shallow,

her small breasts rising and falling as if she'd been running.

She didn't know whether to scream, or burst into tears, and was

sorely tempted to do both, because it was just as she'd feared. Lyall

might at this moment be on his way to Truro, but this room was

filled with him. She could close her eyes, and blot out his image,

but that couldn't destroy the taste of him, the scent, the feel of his

body against her own.

For as long as she stayed in this house, she knew she would never

be alone again, and the knowledge made her tremble.

MORGANA was still lying on her bed staring sightlessly up at the

ceiling almost an hour later when there was a knock at the door,

and her mother popped an apologetic head into the room.

'Darling, are you all right? It's almost time for dinner. Are you

coming down?'

Morgana forced a smile. 'I don't think so. I—I'm not really very

hungry, and Rob is picking me up later. We'll probably go to the

Polzion Arms and I can grab a sandwich there.'

'You're probably more than wise.' said Mrs Pentreath with a little

sigh. 'Elsa's behaving very oddly, and she won't even discuss

whether there's going to be a pudding. I suppose if all else fails we

can open some tinned fruit.' She paused. 'Well, what did you think

of him? Really, he seemed very pleasant.'

'That's hardly the word I would use.' Morgana swung herself to the

floor and walked across to the dressing table.

'Well, darling, it's hardly any wonder. You were extremely rude to

him. I was very dubious about allowing you to show him round,

but Miss Meakins was being extremely difficult—most inquisitive,

and so carping about all sorts of little things which she's
never

mentioned before, and all done for effect, I'm convinced. So I was

really grateful to Mr Pentreath when he made a tactful exit.' She

hesitated. 'Did he give you any kind of hint—about his intentions, I

mean?'

Morgana, brushing her hair, had an insane desire to burst into

hysterical laughter.

She said gently, 'No, love. At least, not in the way that you mean. I

don't know what his plans are.'

Mrs Pentreath sighed again. 'He's coming back tomorrow, so I've

ho doubt he'll tell us then. I've invited him to lunch, and told Elsa

to get a couple of ducks out of the freezer.'

'I don't think you'll soften his heart with our brand of gastronomic

delights.' Morgana said drily. 'He has an expense account air about

him.'

'Well, I must say I liked him much better than I expected to.' Mrs

Pentreath's voice was slightly defensive. 'He isn't a bit like his late

father—or what I remember of him at least. He must take after his

mother's side of the family. I wonder who Giles did marry?'

'Does it matter?' Morgana wearily replaced her brush on the

dressing table. 'It would have been far better for us if he'd

remained a bachelor.'

'I wonder if Lyall himself is married?' mused her mother. 'Did he

mention a wife, or a fiancée?'

On the contrary, Morgana thought bleakly, but that doesn't mean

with his kind that neither of those ladies exists.

Aloud she said, 'We didn't really talk about personal things. He

wanted to see the house, and learn something about the family