Authors: Sara Craven
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