Edge of Temptation Page 10

  With a feeling of weariness he moved towards the door, only to be halted again by his father's voice. 'Rafe…' 'Yes.' He stood by the door, his fingers on the knob. 'I heard something today. About you and some girl in the valley.'

  Rafe stiffened. 'What?' His father frowned. 'Is it true, then?' 'Is what true?' Rafe was abrupt, disturbed by his father's words, and unable to hide it.

  'They're saying that you've given her the mare. It's an expensive present from someone who doesn't have two halfpennies to scratch himself with.'

  Rafe smothered an oath. 'My God!' he muttered. 'Do the people in the valley have nothing else to do than make up stories of this kind?'

  'It's not true, then? Morgan said it was. He said the mare had been moved to Penwyn.'

  Rafe heaved an angry sigh. 'That's true,' he declared. 'I am stabling the mare of Penwyn for the winter, but that's all.'

  Lord Penwyth studied his son's dark features. 'You don't have to defend yourself to me, boy,' he said quietly. 'I just thought I should warn you, that's all. If it should get to Lucy's ears…'

  'It already has,' retorted Rafe, rapidly sobering as the implications of what his father had said shifted the numbing mist from his brain. 'But thank you, anyway.'

  'Is it Powys's niece?' enquired Lord Penwyth shrewdly, and his son stared at him.

  'How do you know about Powys's niece?' he demanded, but his father had obviously decided he had said enough.

  'Powys's niece?' he echoed absently now. 'Who is Powys's niece?'

  'You know, you old devil!' grated Rafe exasperatedly, and then left the room knowing the futility of arguing with his father in this mood.

  In his own room, he made no attempt to undress, however, flinging himself into the armchair by the window, staring out blankly at the wind-tossed garden his mother had cultivated. He was tired, deathly so, but he knew that his mind was too active to allow his body to rest. Was it true, then? Had his offer of the mare become a talking point in the valley? Or was it simply the servants at the Manor who had been talking among themselves?

  Gritting his teeth, he got to his feet again, and paced restlessly across the room. Never, at any time since his marriage, had he found himself in such a situation. His affairs with women had been few and far between, but inevitable, bearing in mind Lucy's coldness and his own natural appetites. On those occasions when he had needed a woman, it had not been difficult to find one, but not in the valley, never in the valley.

  And it was not like that now, he argued with himself. His association with Catherine Tempest had been governed by circumstance, and his offer of the mare had been an instinctive thing, born of his desire to compensate her for his own boorishness. And yet… and yet…

  The door that led into Lucy's bedroom mocked his uncertainty. Clenching his fists, he strode towards it, reaching for the handle with reluctant determination. But his fingers slid from their objective without ever achieving it. The idea of entering Lucy's room, of invading her bed, filled him with self-disgust. He was simply not capable of using her right now. He didn't want Lucy. Lucy would not satisfy this feeling of dissatisfaction inside him. She didn't have it in her to satisfy any man. She was a shell, that was all, a beautiful shell, without any soul. God, didn't he know that? Hadn't he learned it in those first frenzied weeks of their marriage, when he had fought not to believe it? When his mother's death had been enough for his father to bear, without the added burden of learning that his son had made a disastrous mistake? He wondered what would have happened if Tom had not been conceived. Would he eventually have got a divorce? Or would his own pride have demanded him not to admit his failure? After all, he had loved Lucy, or he thought he had. And in any case, Tom had been conceived, and after that…

  With a heavy sigh, he tugged his tie from around his neck, and shrugging out of his jacket and shirt, went into the adjoining bathroom. Warm water was soothing against his heated skin, and after cleaning his teeth, he went back into the bedroom.

  Stripping off his trousers, he threw them carelessly on to a chair and slid naked between the sheets. It was good to relax his body, good to feel the smoothness of clean linen against his flesh, but he tossed and turned for hours before oblivion came to claim him.

  He met Jeff for a drink a couple of nights later. He had hesitated before driving down to the pub, realising that sooner or later Jeff would realise the hollow sham that his marriage represented, but he could hardly avoid the fellow. They had been good friends for a number of years, and there was- no reason to suppose that Jeff suspected anything was wrong. Nevertheless, Rafe had some misgivings when he entered the bar, acknowledging the landlord's greeting with a casual gesture, to find Jeff waiting for him, propped lazily against the bar.

  'Glad you could make it.' Jeff was as amiable as ever. 'What'll you have? A beer—or a Scotch and soda?'

  'Scotch is fine,' Rafe replied evenly, and helped himself to some nuts off the bar as Josh Evans hurried to serve them.

  'So…'Jeff initiated the conversation, 'you're the local lord of the manor around here. I'm surprised you come down here to drink with the peasants.'

  His grin robbed his remark of any sting, but Rafe grimaced at him. 'Leave it alone, will you, Jeff?' he ordered quietly. 'How are things at Penwyn? Making any progress?'

  'Some. I've got to go back to the lab next week to carry on with the tests, but I should tell you, they're pretty positive.'

  'That there is lead?'

  Jeff nodded. 'It looks like it. Whether there's enough to warrant a full-scale mining operation is another matter.' 'What do you mean?'

  'You can guess. Lead is nearly always combined with other elements, and the amount of rock we would have to move to get at it might determine whether it's worthwhile or not. I mean, there are no roads around here—not worth speaking of, anyway. We'd have to have some means of transporting the ore. Rail, maybe, although I doubt it.'

  Rafe scowled into the glass josh had set before him. 'I see.'

  'And your feeling—is what?'

  Rafe shrugged. 'You know that, too. I don't want it, but I can't refuse it.'

  'There are worse things. Coal, for instance.' 'Don't play devil's advocate with me, Jeff. I do know the score.' 'Okay.'

  Jeff shrugged and Rafe half turned towards the door. As he did so, however, he suddenly sucked in his breath, and Jeff turned to see what had caused his reaction. Rafe, his jaw muscles stiffening, was forcing a polite smile to his lips, and Jeff looked curiously at the girl who had come to stand by the bar. Above average height, and slim without being excessively so, she was one of the most attractive young women he had ever seen.

  Rafe, for his part, was steeling his emotions. It was almost two weeks since he had seen Catherine Tempest, but he was appalled to discover that he recalled every tiny detail of her warm, disruptive beauty. She saw him in almost the same moment, and although he sensed her desire to avoid his gaze, after she had asked Josh if he had seen her cousin, she was forced to turn politely to Rafe and his guest.

  It was then he became aware of Jeff's interest, of the curious look on his face, and the speculative light in his eyes, a detail which was not extinguished when Rafe was obliged to introduce them.

  'I was just looking for Owen,' she said, after shaking hands with Jeff. 'If you'll excuse me, my aunt's looking for him,' and she left again, as abruptly as she had appeared.

  'Well, well…' Jeff expelled his breath on a whistle as the door closed behind her. 'Some girl, hmm?'

  Rafe nodded, reluctant to take part in any discussion of that kind, but Jeff was persistent.

  'So you know her,' he murmured reflectively. Then, more insinuatively: 'How well, I wonder?'

  'What the hell do you mean?' Rafe knew he was overreacting, but seeing Catherine again had unnerved him. Jeff's amused stare was a little too knowing, and he resented the feeling of being baited.

  'Nothing,' Jeff said now, shrugging his shoulders. 'Want another drink?'

  'It's my turn,' retorted Rafe shortly, summo
ning the barman, and by the time their drinks were served the awkward moment had passed.

  Their conversation moved into less personal channels, as Jeff outlined his career up until that point. There were people they both knew that they could talk about. Jeff had kept in touch with many more of their contemporaries than Rafe had done, and it was interesting hearing how his fellow-undergraduates had fared.

  It was only towards the end of the evening that the conversation shifted in another direction, and as before, it was Jeff who instigated it.

  'That girl,' he said idly, fingering his glass, 'the one who came in earlier. Who is she really? She doesn't look like one of the village girls, somehow.'

  'She's not.' Realising he could not avoid an answer, Rafe explained. 'Her uncle is the tenant at Penwyn.' 'Our Penwyn?' 'Yes.'

  'Dear God!' Jeff uttered a short laugh. 'Of course—I've seen her. I saw her a few days ago, actually. She rides, doesn't she? When she isn't falling off.'

  'What do you mean?' Rafe was abrupt suddenly, and Jeff sighed.

  'Don't look like that! I'm only kidding. She did fall off, though. Quite near to where we were working, actually. I don't think she hurt herself, though. She picked herself up pretty quickly, and rode off.'

  'She was riding near the drilling site?'

  'Yes.'

  'She had no right to be up there!'

  'Oh, come on…'Jeff was indignant. 'She's old enough to look after herself.'

  'The horse she was riding was mine.'

  'Oh, I see.' Jeff snorted. 'You're more concerned about the bloody horse than the girl.'

  'I didn't say so.' Rafe wished he hadn't said that.

  'It sounded like it.' Jeff frowned. 'So how long you known her?'

  'Oh—years.' Rafe tried to sound offhand. 'When I was a boy, I used to spend a lot of time at Penwyn.'

  'With her?'

  'And her cousin.'

  'Oh, yes,' Jeff nodded. 'She's very attractive.' He paused. 'Do you think she'd recognise me again?'

  Rafe stiffened. 'I suppose so.'

  'Good.' Jeff lay back in his chair. 'I'd like that.'

  Rafe regarded him dourly. 'Hell, Jeff—'

  'What?' Jeff raised his eyebrows. 'Go on, tell me what you want to say.' He shook his head. 'I'm not a fool, you know, Rafe.'

  Rafe rose to his feet. 'She's a—friend, that's all. I wouldn't like to see her—hurt.'

  'And that's all?'

  'What more could there be?'

  Jeff got slowly to his feet. 'Quite a lot, I should say,' he remarked dryly. 'Judging by the aggro in your voice. Shall we have another?'

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It had rained solidly for several days, and Catherine had had little opportunity for exercising Juniper. The fields around Penwyn were waterlogged, and the Llanbara had flooded the lower meadow. It was cold, too, with a raw wind blowing off the mountains, and even the mining team had retired to a laboratory in Cardiff to assess the results of their findings.

  Eventually, however, Catherine had known she must ride, in spite of the weather. The stables needed cleaning out, too, and she knew better than to expect either her uncle or Owen to help her. In any case, she told herself, she needed the exercise, despite the bruises she still possessed from the fall she had had, but the long dark evenings were no encouragement to go out once she got home from the boutique. It was all too tempting to curl up by the fire with a book, or her accounts, and put all thoughts of Rafe Glyndower and his mare out of her mind.

  After Lucy Glyndower's visit to the shop, she had thought of returning the mare to its owner, but reason had prevailed, and she was glad now she had not let the other woman intimidate her. Probably Lucy had expected her to act impulsively, but Catherine wanted to avoid any more involvement with Rafe Glyndower. If she had acted in the heat of the moment, she would have said something to him that night she encountered him at the Bay Horse, but in any case, he had not been alone, and seeing him there had unnerved her enough as it was. Besides, did it really matter why he had offered her the mare, or whose mare it was? Before the rain blanketed the valley in a fine mist, she had enjoyed the freedom that riding gave her, and she had no right to object if Lucy chose to acquaint her with the real facts of the matter. Nevertheless, it had hurt to feel she was being used, and these days of rain had acted like an abrasive on feelings already raw and sensitive.

  She was drenched by the time she got back to Penwyn, but after attending to the mare, she refused her aunt's offer of a meal.

  'I think I'd better get home and take a bath,' she replied, in answer to her aunt's invitation. 'I'm soaked to the skin, and I need a change of clothes.'

  'Gillian could lend you something to wear,' pointed out Aunt Margaret reasonably. 'And the water's hot. Why do you always rush away back to that cottage these days? You used not to.'

  Catherine sighed, lifting her hands to squeeze the moisture out of her hair. 'Oh, Aunt Margaret,' she said, 'you know why. Owen doesn't want me here, and I never seem to see Uncle Mervyn. They blame me for what's happened, I'm sure of it. They don't seem to understand that there are always two sides to every argument.'

  Her aunt frowned. 'I know, I know. But I like to see you, and I know Gillian does. Couldn't you put up with Owen for our sakes? I've made a rabbit pie. You're welcome to share it.'

  Catherine hesitated, but to refuse would have been unkind, and with some misgivings she agreed to stay. However, soaping herself in the steamy atmosphere of the ground floor bathroom, she wondered if she had done the right thing. Owen could be so unpleasant, and she felt too vulnerable to withstand his censure.

  A tap at the door brought her head round with a start. 'Yes?' she called, then, realising she had not bolted the door, added: 'Don't come in, Owen. I'm in the bath.'

  'It's not Owen, it's me,' declared Gillian, putting her head round the door. 'I've brought you some clothes. Will these do?'

  Catherine relaxed, nodding as the other girl exhibited a pair of jeans and a dark blue sweater.

  'The jeans are mine, only I can't wear them at the moment,' remarked Gillian humorously, indicating the swelling mound of her stomach, 'but the sweater's Owen's. None of my jumpers are good enough to lend anyone, and I'm sure he won't mind.'

  'Won't he?' Catherine was not so sure. 'Well—thanks, anyway, Gill. They're fine.'

  'Don't you wear a bra?' Gillian asked inquisitively, picking up the wet garments to take away for drying, and Catherine admitted that she didn't, always.

  'It depends what I'm wearing,' she replied, reaching for the towel, but Gillian didn't take the hint.

  Instead, she hovered near the door, kneading the wet clothes between her hands until Catherine's impatient gaze made her ask what she was obviously longing to know: 'Have—er—have you seen any more of—of Mr Glyndower?'

  Catherine subsided abruptly into the water. 'What do you mean?'

  Gillian shrugged a little nervously. 'You know—the squire!'

  'I know who you mean,' declared Catherine evenly. 'I just don't know what you mean.'

  'Oh, come on…' Gillian made a sound of disbelief. 'We know you've been seeing him. His car was parked outside your shop for fully an hour last week!'

  Catherine gasped. 'Where did you hear that?'

  'Isn't it true?'

  'No. That is—yes, I mean he—was there. But it wasn't last week.' Catherine was annoyed at the way she was handling this, and stopped a moment to control her babbling tongue. 'It—was a couple of weeks ago, actually. When—when he came to ask me to look after the mare. That's the only occasion he's ever been to the shop.'

  Gillian looked sceptical. 'Is it?'

  'Yes.' Catherine was firm. 'Now, if you don't mind, I'll get dressed.'

  It was incredibly difficult going into the dining room after that conversation. She had little doubt that Gillian had discussed the matter with Owen, and she dreaded the kind of pointed questions he might ask. What if he asked if Rafe had ever been to the cottage? How could she answer him? How could she
defend herself without revealing. Thomas's part in all this?. And somehow she sensed even Lucy Glyndower did not know about that.

  In the event, Owen said little. Whether her aunt had warned him beforehand, Catherine couldn't be sure, but his comments were confined to the state of the Weather, and the possibility of snow before Christmas.

  Talking of Christmas made Catherine realise it would be her first Christmas at Pendower. If she stayed. She guessed her mother would invite her home for the festivities, but somehow she had no desire to spend Christmas in London. On the other hand, she could not spend the day alone at the cottage, which left only Penwyn as an alternative. Unless she invited Robert down for a couple of days. She could do that, and she had no doubts that he would come. But was it fair to him to keep him dangling like this? Knowing their relationship could never develop beyond its present limitations?

  When the meal was over, Owen surprised her still further by inviting her to join Gillian and himself for a drink at the Bay Horse. 'We can go down in your car,' he suggested, and Catherine was only too willing to agree. The bar of the Bay Horse would be crowded at this hour of the evening, and there would be less opportunity for awkward questions.

  She borrowed her aunt's hacking jacket to put on over the sweater and jeans, and obediently climbed into the back of the Renault when Owen asked if he could drive. Gillian was obviously more comfortable in the front, and she sighed enviously when Owen pulled away.

  'This is better than that old banger of ours,' she exclaimed, touching the moulded dashboard. 'Isn't it, Owen? Why can't your father get a new car?'

  This was a moot point, but to Catherine's relief her cousin did not make the obvious retort. 'We'll get a new car sooner or later,' he responded, more intent on seeing how quickly the Renault would accelerate than on his wife's conversation. 'Hey, this is great, isn't it? How fast will it go? Seventy? Eighty?'