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‘But isn't there someone, some particular boy…'
Elizabeth's voice trailed away and she sat regarding her expectantly. Catherine guessed to what she was referring. When news of her father's letter had first reached her, she had made Tony an excuse for wanting to remain in London. And indeed, he had not wanted her to come to Barbados.
Choosing her words carefully, she replied: ‘There is one—young man I'm rather friendly with.’ She ventured another glance at Jared, but his eyes were fixed on some point above her head. ‘His name's Tony Bainbridge. We've known one another for a couple of years.'
‘Ah.’ Elizabeth seemed relieved, and Catherine wondered about this. Was she worried in case their house-guest began taking too close an interest in her stepson? He was a most attractive—and eligible—man, after all, heir to this estate, however large or small it might be, and a successful portrait painter into the bargain. No doubt all the matrons on the island, with unmarried daughters on their hands, beat a path to his door in an effort to cultivate his attentions, so what was one unmarried female more or less? Certainly nothing for Elizabeth to concern herself about, unless she had some other motive for hoping he remained single…
At this point Catherine brought herself up short. She had absolutely no grounds for considering any such thing. Whatever his faults, she suspected that Jared Royal was an honourable man, and having an affair with his dead father's widow was hardly an honourable thing to do.
‘We must introduce you to Jared's fiancée,’ Elizabeth remarked, as if to confound Catherine's speculations, and nullify the intimacy of the look she exchanged with her stepson. ‘She's just a little older than you are, but I'm sure you'd find her good company. You could go swimming together, there's a pool out back, or the beach, and we have tennis courts—'
‘Perhaps you should let Miss Fulton get used to her new surroundings first,’ Jared interposed smoothly, and Catherine realised with a pang that he was actually making things easier for her; or so he thought! A pregnant woman might go easy on the swimming, and avoid tennis altogether.
‘Well, I love swimming,’ she murmured now, setting her empty teacup on its saucer and waving away Elizabeth's offer of more. ‘But I think perhaps Jared's right. I should settle in first.’ She looked sideways at him. ‘I'm looking forward to meeting your fiancée, though.'
And so she was. She was curious to meet the girl who had succeeded in netting such an unpredictable catch!
Elizabeth appeared to accept this. ‘As you wish. Laura—that's Jared's fiancée, by the way—Laura is coming to lunch tomorrow, so you'll meet her then. This evening there'll just be the three of us. Jared thought you might be—tired after your journey.'
Catherine wondered exactly what Jared had thought. What were his motives for bringing her out here? Had it only been a feeling of obligation to her late father which had prompted him to offer her the hospitality of his home? Or might he, like his stepmother, have other reasons?
Stifling a yawn, she realised she was tired. She had been up very early that morning, and the long flight had been singularly boring. The plane had not been full, and the seat beside hers had remained empty, but although she had been superbly comfortable, able to spread her belongings around without fear of disturbing anyone else, she had found it impossible to rest. The magazines offered by the stewardesses had failed to distract her thoughts from the anticipation of her arrival, and she had been impatient to reach her destination. But now she was here, she knew what she was up against, and within half an hour of her arrival she had placed herself in an entirely false position.
Elizabeth had apparently noticed her efforts to hide her weariness, for she gave a sympathetic smile before getting to her feet and ringing a bell on the wall by the door. A young maid appeared, and her mistress gave her instructions to show Miss Fulton to her room.
‘I'm sure you'll find everything you need, Catherine,’ she said, as her guest stood up and walked towards the door. ‘If not, Susie'—she indicated the maid—‘will attend to it. We have dinner at about eight o'clock. I should rest for a while, if I were you.'
‘Thank you.’ Catherine turned to look at both of them. Well, now Jared would have an opportunity of apprising his stepmother of the situation, or at least, what he thought was the situation. She half wished she had not been so impulsive. ‘I—thank you for inviting me here,’ she added. ‘I'm sure I'm going to—enjoy myself.'
Jared half turned to stare out of the window, and Catherine felt her hackles rise. He was so arrogant! Why should she regret anything she had said to him? It was left to his stepmother to assure her that she was very welcome, and then Susie led the way back to the hall.
A marble staircase led to a first floor gallery which circled the hall below. White panelled doors opened on to the gallery, but Susie turned left at the top of the stairs into a long panelled hallway giving access to that wing of the building. She flung open a heavy door halfway along the hall, and indicated that Catherine should precede her into the room.
She stepped into an apartment fragrant with the perfume from a bowl of roses set on the bedside table. White damask-covered walls were relieved by the long rose-coloured curtains at the open balcony doors, and echoed in the silken bedspread strewn with red roses on a white background. The cedarwood furniture was light and functional, adding its own distinctive aroma to the already heady scent of the room.
Susie crossed the fluffy white rugs which were strewn over the wood-blocked floor to open the adjoining bathroom door, but Catherine had already stepped on to the balcony, catching her breath at the view which confronted her. There in the distance was the sea, hazed in green and blue, shimmering through the heat of late afternoon. Between the house and the ocean stretched acres of pasture-land, grazed by groups of horses, their coats dark splashes against the greenness of the grass. Immediately below her windows were the gardens of the house. Formal lawns and flower beds, tennis courts half hidden behind hedges of laurel and rhododendron, and opening from the house itself, a mosaic-tiled patio area, bright with garden furniture, and reflected in the depths of an enormous kidney-shaped swimming pool. Its blue waters looked cool and inviting, and had Catherine not felt so utterly weary, she might well have taken advantage of that particular amenity before dinner.
‘Can I get you anything else, Miss Fulton?'
Susie was hovering right behind her, and Catherine came back into the bedroom, looking about her with smiling appreciation.
‘I don't think so, thank you. It's beautiful.'
The maid smiled her satisfaction at these words and gave a little bob. Then she noticed the cases set on an ottoman at the foot of the bed. ‘Would you like me to unpack for you?’ she suggested, but Catherine shook her head, assuring her that she could manage. ‘Well, the bell's just there, by the door,’ Susie added, her voice soft and slightly sing-song. ‘If you do need any help, just ring.'
When she was alone, Catherine breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back against the door to survey her domain. It was all far more luxurious than she had expected. Her father had talked very little about Jared's background, confining his remarks to the man's undoubted artistic ability, and the fight he had had with his father to leave Oxford and attend an art college. Her father had been lecturing at that time, before he gave it up to concentrate his energies towards a political career. But now she was left in no doubt as to her host's affluence, and she wondered if this was the main reason why her father had chosen such a guardian for her. Perhaps it was yet another attempt to persuade her of the foolishness of her own intentions.
The bathroom which adjoined the bedroom had porcelain tiles, patterned with the continuing rose design. Long mirrors gave back her reflection from a dozen different angles, and cut glass shelves supported a variety of oils and lotions intended to add their fragrance to the water.
Catherine decided to have a bath, shedding her clothes carelessly, too tired to fold them, or unpack her cases right now. Cool water melted the heat from her body and left her feeling infinitely refreshed. Wrapping herself in a white towelling bathrobe which she found hanging behind the bathroom door, she came back into the bedroom and stretched her length on the superbly comfortable springs of the bed, uncaring that her hair was damp and strewn carelessly across the pillows, or that her bare feet made little wet patches on the immaculate bedspread.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_c26af300-268a-5842-ab1f-c97a74ad440e)
SHE awoke to the sound of birds arguing in the trees that cast pools of shade around the patio area. At first it was difficult to feel any sense of identity with her surroundings, but then it all came flooding back to her—her father's death six weeks ago, the summons and subsequent flight to Barbados, and the strange welcome which had been awaiting her.
She blinked, realising she was no longer lying on the bed, but in it, silk sheets caressing her bare legs. Her hands groped for the bathrobe. She was still wearing it, but the cord had become unloosened and the lapels had parted.
That daylight was coming through the slats of the blinds which had been drawn confused her, and she reached automatically for her watch which she always left on a table beside her bed. As she did so, something registered. There had been roses beside the bed before she went to sleep. Now they were gone.
The hands of her watch mocked her. Six-fifteen! Had she slept for barely an hour? It was impossible. She felt completely rested. Unless…
She pushed back the covers and swung her feet to the floor, finding the rug soft to her toes. The balcony doors had been closed by whoever had drawn the blinds and taken away the roses, but a window had been left ajar. Catherine unfastened the doors now and thrust them open, wrapping her robe closer about her as she stepped outside.
Her suspicions had been correct. Even without the golden orb of the sun spreading its brilliance over a sky translucently washed in pinks and lemon and turquoise, the coolness of the air compared to the softness of the evening before would have convinced her. A faint mist still hovered low over the meadow, and the scent of the ocean came strongly before the awakening blossoms in the garden overlaid the air with their perfume. There was no sound to be heard in the house, and she felt assured that no one would observe her standing here at this early hour. The balcony, which was a continuation of the one which ran across the front of the house, was separated from the rooms on either side by a vine-hung trellis, but that would prove no screen to prying eyes.
Fastening the cord of the bathrobe more tightly, she stretched her arms luxuriously above her head. She must have slept for twelve hours, and now she felt thoroughly wide awake and restless. The pool looked as inviting now as it had done the evening before, but somehow she was loath to use it and possibly arouse the other members of the household. The ocean beckoned, and she wondered whether it was possible to reach it across the paddocks. Even from this distance, she could see the line of foam where it surged over the reef, and her skin tingled at the prospect of plunging into its depths.
Turning back into the bedroom, she opened her suitcases and stared thoughtfully at their contents. The clothes she had discarded so untidily the night before had disappeared, and she guessed that whoever had drawn the covers over her and attended to the shutters, had taken them away for laundering. It was a curious sensation thinking she had been so soundly asleep that not even a servant's hands had awakened her.
She rummaged through the contents of one of the cases and brought out a pair of purple denim jeans and a spotted cotton smock with wide, elbow-length sleeves and a tie belt. The strap of a white bikini emerged from the disorder, and on impulse, she pulled the bikini out as well.
In her bathroom, she took a quick shower, taking care not to wet her hair, and then dressed, first in the bikini, and then in the jeans and smock. A brush brought a silky sheen to her thick straight hair, and she looped it back behind her ears but otherwise left it loose.
Her room door made no sound as she opened it, and she made her way along the hall and across the gallery to the stairs. Marble did not creak under her sandal-clad feet, but when she reached the hall the heavy doors were securely closed. Frowning, she turned through the archway leading to the room where she had taken tea with Elizabeth Royal, and finding that door went inside. French doors were easier to unfasten, and with impatient fingers she slid back the bolts and stepped outside.
She was at the side of the building where green leaves gave on to a trellised rose arbour, but she followed the line of the house around to the back and came upon the patio. The air was like wine, slightly sharp and invigorating, and she moved her shoulders in a gesture of complete indulgence of the senses.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a tall figure, moving beyond the bushes near the tennis courts. It was Jared, and hardly stopping to consider what she intended to do, Catherine ran around the swimming pool, pushed her way between laurel bushes and emerged on to a crazily-paved path. Jared was some way ahead now, astride a motor-cycle, she saw in surprise, but obviously waiting until he was out of sound of the house before starting the engine.
‘Hey!’ she called, running down the path after him. ‘Jared! Wait!'
Her voice came clearly on the still morning air, and he halted at once and swung round to stare at her. Not very amicably, she saw, as she came closer. Like her, he was wearing jeans, but nothing else, his skin smooth, and only lightly covered with hair.
‘Hello,’ she said determinedly. ‘Where are you going?'
Jared swung his leg over the motor-bike, stood it on its rest, and faced her squarely. ‘I might ask you the same question.'
Catherine refused to be put off. ‘I'm sorry I didn't make dinner last evening. I must have been more tired than I thought. But it was such a beautiful morning, I couldn't bear to stay in my room a moment longer.'
Jared acknowledged this small speech with a faint inclination of his head. ‘You must be hungry,' he said. ‘Lily's probably about by this time. If you go into the parlour and ring the bell, she'll get you anything you want.'
Catherine pursed her lips. ‘I'm not hungry! At least, not especially so. I don't feel like eating at this moment. I feel like swimming!'
Jared shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Feel free to use the pool any time you like.'
Catherine controlled her temper with difficulty. ‘But I don't want to use the pool either,’ she said, through her teeth. ‘I want to swim in the sea. It's warm, isn't it? I've never swum in the Caribbean before.'
Jared cast a lazy glance towards the ocean. ‘That's the Atlantic, actually,’ he drawled, and she glowered at him.
‘You know what I mean!'
Jared regarded her without emotion. ‘Ought you to—well, swim at all in your—condition?'
Catherine expelled her breath on a sigh. ‘Of course. Lots of women swim until they're seven or eight months. And—and I'm still measuring my pregnancy in weeks, not months!'
Jared's expression darkened. ‘Then I suggest you have Sylvester—he's the chauffeur—take you down to the beach later on this morning.'
Catherine looked up at him frustratedly. ‘You still haven't told me where you're going.'
‘No, I haven't.'
‘I want to come, too.'
‘What?’ For once she seemed to have succeeded in getting under his skin. ‘Miss Fulton, I don't know what kind of society you've been mixing in in England, but out here a girl waits to be invited before encumbering some man with her company!'
‘Really?’ Catherine managed to sound bored. ‘Well, you invited me out to Barbados, Mr Royal, and I think it's up to you to entertain me! Hmm?'
Jared looked furious, and just in case he suddenly decided to fling himself on to the motor-bike and ride off, Catherine swung her leg across the machine and perched herself precariously on the back.
‘Get off that bike!’ Jared glared at her, but she just put on her sweetest smile. ‘You're not about to tell me that pregnant women do that until they're seven or eight months!'
‘No,’ Catherine conceded, flicking a butterfly with exotic crimson and black colouring away from her face, ‘but it won't do me any harm—providing you take it easy.'
Jared moved his head slowly from side to side. ‘Do you want me to drag you off?'
‘Oh, would you do that?’ she exclaimed disbelievingly. ‘To an expectant mother?'
Jared looked angrier than ever, but he made no attempt to shift her, and Catherine realised she was enjoying this. It was stimulating and exciting, provoking him like this, but perhaps not entirely fair. Feeling a need to justify herself, she said appealingly:
‘Please, Jared! Don't be mean. Let me come with you.'
‘You can't.'
‘Why not?'
‘Because I'm going to the beach—'
‘I knew you were!’ she exclaimed triumphantly.
‘—across the fields!'
Catherine frowned. ‘I don't understand.'
‘Look, it's five miles round by road. It's less than half that distance across the paddock.'
‘I see.’ Catherine drew her lower lip between her teeth. The idea of riding across the bumpy turf on the motor-bike sounded like fun, but it was something she could not undertake without exploding the myth of her phoney pregnancy.
‘So—will you get off the bike?'
Jared looked grim, but she wouldn't give in that easily. ‘Couldn't we—couldn't you take the road for once?’ she suggested hopefully.
‘No, I—’ Jared broke off to regard her dourly for a moment. Then he gave a heavy sigh. ‘All right, Miss Fulton, you win. I'll take you to the beach—but in the convertible.'
‘Oh, no!’ Catherine had been looking forward to riding on a motor-bike again. She had had one once, when she was sixteen.
‘Oh, yes. Come on.’ He was impatient now, holding out a hand to assist her to dismount, which she took with ill grace. ‘Don't be surprised if you haven't woken up the whole household.'
But she hadn't, and when they drove away from the garages, only old Sylvester saw them leave. It was marvellous, feeling the cool air in their faces, and Catherine found she was actually looking forward to this hour alone with her reluctant escort.
Jared parked the car on a headland overlooking a wild and beautiful stretch of beach, the sand bleached white by the sun, where the surf came thundering in from the reef. But when she would have got out of the car, he stopped her, saying: ‘You can't swim here. This is Flintlock. I come surfing here.'
‘Is this where you were heading this morning?'
He nodded, and would have started the engine again, only she stopped him, her slim fingers curving round his wrist. ‘Don't,’ she said, withdrawing her hand when he turned to look at her. ‘I've done some surfing. Not a lot, but some—in Cornwall. That's the southernmost corner of England.'
‘I know where Cornwall is,’ he said dryly.
‘Oh! Oh, well, then. Why can't we try it now? I'm willing.'
Jared's eyes dropped pointedly to her stomach. ‘Are you?'
‘Yes, of course.’ She sighed, colouring in spite of herself. ‘I've told you, it's months and months away. I don't intend doing anything reckless. But I don't want to spoil your—your pleasure.'
‘Haven't you done that already?’ he countered, and she glared at him.
‘Well? Have I?'
His eyes probed hers for a long disturbing moment, and then he thrust open his door and climbed out. ‘I'll let you know,’ he replied enigmatically.
There were steps down to the beach, and Jared went ahead, glancing round from time to time to assure himself that she was all right. Catherine couldn't help feeling touched by this involuntary display of concern on her behalf, although she guessed he would have done the same for anybody.
Halfway down, they came in sight of a low beach house, set in the lee of the cliffs and not visible from above. It stood on supports, a couple of feet above the sand, and as they came down the last of the steps Jared said: ‘This is mine. I work here sometimes. And it's useful as a retreat!’ this last with a meaning glance in her direction.
Catherine tossed back her hair, and walked across the sand, kicking off her sandals and carrying them. She climbed the shallow steps to the shaded verandah and looked in through the sand-dusted windows.
Jared seemed to hesitate, and then he said: ‘The door isn't locked. You can go in, if you want to.'
Catherine looked round at him, could read no hidden menace in his expression, and turned the handle of the door. Inside, there was a faint smell of oil paints and canvas, and looking round the room she could see why. There was a stove in one corner, for heating on cooler days, she presumed, a couple of squashy leather chairs which were worn in places, a low table, cupboards for storing things, and a cooker, sink and refrigerator. But in every available space there were stacks of canvases, strewn haphazardly around the walls, and propped against an easel which leaned drunkenly against one of the chairs.
She stood just inside the door looking about her, and Jared came to support himself against the jamb, regarding her without evident hostility for once. ‘Well?’ he said, making it a question. ‘Are you appalled at the mess?'
Catherine half turned towards him. ‘Why should I be? I expect you work very well here.'
He frowned. ‘Why do you say that?'
‘I don't know.’ She shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘It's the disorder, I suppose. I read something once, I don't remember where—in one of those trendy journals, I think—and it said something about order being without inspiration. That creating anything—artistic, in disciplined surroundings, is like mining for diamonds in a velvet-lined box.'
Jared straightened, his lips twisting-mockingly. ‘How very apt! And how perceptive of you to remember it.'
