Edge of Temptation Page 4

  'Miss Tempest!' It was Lucy's protest that rang out then. 'I must repeat, whatever loyalty you may feel towards your uncle, this is not your affair, and coming here in an abortive attempt to appeal to my husband's good nature—presuming on a relationship you may once have thought you had—'

  Catherine gulped. 'What do you mean?'

  'I mean this—childish aberration you nurtured for my husband…'

  'Shut up, Lucy!'

  'He told me about it,' Lucy continued, ignoring Rafe's furious command, and his fingers digging into her shoulder. 'I suppose you thought it gave you an advantage. Your uncle thought so, obviously. But being insolent is not going to solve anything!'

  'I warn you, Lucy—'

  But Catherine had heard enough. She could feel the hot colour surging into her cheeks, and knew that if she didn't get out of here soon she would be tempted to slap Lucy's taunting little face. So he had remembered, she thought bitterly, but it gave her no satisfaction. What had he said? What could he have intimated for his wife to get such an impression? It was galling and humiliating, doubly so, because she had never dreamed he suspected her infantile infatuation.

  Brushing a hand across her eyes, she hurried blindly towards the door. She had to get out of here. It had been a waste of time coming. The decision was already made, and Rafe Glyndower had only been humouring her. She hated him for that. Hated him, for making a fool of her, for humiliating her in front of his wife. She would never forgive him. Never!

  She had the impression that there was somebody in the hall as she stumbled awkwardly across it, someone standing on the stairs who watched her uneven progress with wide, curious eyes. But she didn't stop to look. She wrenched open the heavy door without waiting for anyone's assistance, and ran down the steps to the Renault, uncaring of the rain.

  Fortunately, she had not locked it, but her cold fingers fumbled with the handle, and she had just managed to jerk it open when other fingers closed around her arm. Hard fingers, they were, but long and sensitive, powerful in their determination not to let her go.

  'Catherine, wait!'

  The voice was familiar, much too familiar, and she struggled urgently to free herself, her long honey-coloured hair falling forward in a curtain, hiding the heated contours of her face.

  'Let go of my arm, Mr Glyndower,' she said, with what she hoped was convincing coolness, but she knew from his angry oath that he had no intention of complying.

  'I want to talk to you,' he told her harshly, and she lifted trembling fingers to loop back her hair.

  'There's nothing more to be said, Mr Glyndower,' she exclaimed unevenly. 'And—and I'm getting wet.'

  'So am I,' he retorted, and then, with an impatient glance back towards the house, he bundled her into the car and got in beside her, forcing her to scramble over into the passenger seat.

  The Renault was a small car, hardly big enough to accommodate a man of his size, and with the rain drumming on the roof outside and running in a concealing shroud down the windows, Catherine felt a suffocating sense of constriction. Their combined breathing clouded the windows, concealing them behind its enveloping mist, and she shifted as far away from him as the narrow confines of the car would allow.

  'Now…' Rafe rested his elbow upon the steering wheel and pushed back his hair with a weary hand. 'Let's get one thing straight, shall we? No decision has been made, whatever my wife may have said—'

  'I don't believe you!'

  'Why not?'

  Catherine bent her head. 'Why should your wife lie, Mr Glyndower?'

  Rafe sighed. 'She wasn't lying—'

  'There you are, then!' Catherine was indignant.

  '—she was—anticipating.'

  'In other words, she knows what your decision is going to be!' declared Catherine, sniffing as drops of rain trickled down her nose from the dampness of her hair. 'You're splitting hairs, Mr Glyndower.'

  'I'm speaking the truth,' he retorted, turning his head to gaze impatiently at the clouded windows. 'For God's sake, I don't know why I'm telling you this. Like Lucy says, this has nothing to do with you, Catherine.'

  'I think it does, Mr Glyndower.'

  'And for God's sake, stop calling me Mr Glyndower.'

  Her breath caught in her throat. 'What would you have me call you, Mr Glyndower? Rafe? I don't think your wife would like that.'

  He turned to look at her then, and she flinched beneath the cold contempt in his eyes. He had the longest lashes of any man she had ever known, but they did little to conceal his antagonism at that moment, and she shrank back in her seat, half afraid he was about to strike her.

  'My wife is not my keeper,' he enunciated harshly.

  'Whatever you may have heard to the contrary.'

  Catherine flushed then. 'I—I didn't say she was.'

  'No.' He conceded her protest. 'But I'm not a fool. I know what people think, but they're wrong. Do you understand?'

  Catherine shrugged. 'It's nothing to do with me.'

  'No, it's not. But it may help to remember that when the decision is finally taken.'

  Catherine licked her dry lips. 'You—you are going to allow mining in the valley, aren't you?'

  'Oh, God!' He rested both elbows on the steering wheel then, cradling his head in his hands and hunching his shoulders. 'I don't see what else I can do,' he muttered heavily. 'The estate's almost bankrupt as it is.'

  Catherine caught her lower lip between her teeth. 'Can't you—can't you borrow money? From—from a bank or somewhere?'

  He looked at her pityingly. 'On what collateral? A crumbling manor house and a few uneconomic acres of land?'

  Catherine hesitated. 'But I thought—that is—isn't Mrs Glyndower's father—I mean—'

  Rafe's mouth thinned. 'You mean isn't Hammond Redvers a wealthy man?' Catherine inclined her head a trifle awkwardly, and he nodded. 'Yes, Redvers has capital. And he'd invest it in Penwyth if he had the chance.'

  'He would?' Catherine was confused and showed it.

  'Oh, yes.' Rafe shifted his long legs uncomfortably. 'Would you like to know what he has in mind?' He raised dark eyebrows, and gaining her silent assent, explained: 'He would like to sell the valley to one of those leisure consortiums. You know what I mean? Some kind of holiday complex, with swimming pools and sporting facilities, pony trekking, a marina—you name it, he's thought of it.'

  Catherine was horrified. 'A—holiday camp?'

  'Well, I understand that designation doesn't appeal these days. Complex, is the word they use. But generally speaking, they mean the same.'

  'With cabins, and things?'

  'Accommodation would be provided,' Rafe agreed dryly, watching her growing concern.

  'That—won't happen,' she exclaimed. 'Will it?'

  'Not as long as I have any say in the matter,' Rafe declared shortly. 'So now do you understand my position?'

  Catherine made a negative gesture. 'Surely—surely, as this valley means so much to you…'

  'No.' Rafe shook his head. 'Hammond Redvers didn't get where he is today by philanthropising.'

  'But he's your father-in-law!'

  'Yes. Well, he thinks I'm not realistic, and I think he's a financial leech. We don't exactly see eye-to-eye in these matters.' He shook his head. 'Although why I should admit that to you, I can't imagine.'

  Catherine met his gaze reluctantly. 'Thank you, anyway,' she murmured, half afraid of the penetration of those clear blue eyes, so unusual in someone so dark. 'I—I do see your dilemma. I just wish there was some way…'

  'So do I,' he retorted, with a return of abrasiveness, and thrusting open the door behind him, he levered himself out of the car. 'Thank you for listening to me. Goodbye, Catherine.'

  'Goodbye—Rafe,' she answered, although her tentative use of his name was drowned in the brisk slamming of the door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The bar of the Bay Horse was half empty at this hour of a Friday evening, and Catherine led the way to a table in the corner, near the crackling log f
ire. Seating herself on the banquette, she accepted Robert's offer of a Scotch and soda, and warmed her hands at the blaze as he went to get their drinks. It was an attractive room, and her eyes strayed over the hunting trophies and horse brasses that decorated the walls. There had been a hostelry on these premises almost as long as there had been a manor at Penwyth, and she couldn't help thinking that Josh Evans would not complain at the increase in trade a development in the valley might bring.

  Robert came back, carrying two glasses, and she transferred her attention to him. A little over medium height and stocky, with a fair complexion and drooping moustache, he was an amusing companion, and she forced a smile to her lips as he seated himself on the banquette beside her.

  'Cheers,' he said, swallowing a mouthful of his lager, and she took a mouthful of her own drink as he added: 'Nice place.' He waved his glass expansively. 'Can we get a meal here?'

  'We can. A bar meal, at least,' she conceded. 'But we won't. Aunt Margaret would never forgive me if I didn't bring you over for supper.'

  Robert laughed goodnaturedly. It was an amiable sound, and Catherine thought how good it was to hear it. Robert was unfailingly cheerful, and right now he was exactly what she needed.

  'Aunt Margaret,' he said, swallowing more of his lager.

  'And Uncle Mervyn, is that right? You see—' He held up a knowing finger. 'I don't forget these things.'

  Catherine's smile was less tense. 'It's good to see you, Robert. But you should have warned me you were coming.

  I promised to have supper at the farm last week, and I didn't make it. I daren't let them down again.'

  'That's okay,' Robert shrugged. 'I like meeting your family. It makes me feel that I'm getting somewhere—'

  'Now, Robert…'

  'Oh, don't worry.' He pulled a wry face. 'I'm not going to bring that up again. I just—well, I like being with you, and I don't mind where it is.'

  Catherine looked down into her glass. 'You should find yourself a woman who wants to settle down,' she said quietly. 'Not a career woman like me. You know you want a home and family. You're not getting any younger—neither of us are. You should be looking around.'

  Robert ignored her and looked round the bar. 'This looks a pretty old place,' he commented. 'Stone floors no less. No wonder the beer's cold!'

  'You're right. The cellars are ancient. As a matter of fact, I was just thinking those very thoughts.'

  'Really?' Robert grinned. 'You see! We even think alike.'

  'Oh, Robert!'

  Catherine applied herself to her drink again, and Robert looked about him. 'Tell me who everyone is,' he ordered. 'Come on. The bartender, for example. Is he the publican?'

  'No, that's Morris Evans, the publican's son. Josh has the licence.'

  'You mean he owns the place?'

  'No, again.' Catherine's lips tightened. 'All the property in the valley is part of the Penwyth Estate.'

  'Is that right?' Robert's fair brows ascended. 'That would be the estate which has granted drilling rights on your uncle's land?'

  'Yes.' Catherine's fingers tightened round her glass. She preferred not to think about that.

  Sensing this, Robert went on: 'So, who else is here? That fat old boy in the corner, for instance, with the pipe. Who's he?'

  Patiently, Catherine catalogued the various occupations of the people in the bar, realising that Robert was doing his best to cheer her up. He was a nice person, and she had been delighted when he walked into the boutique, right on closing time. She hadn't seen him for over two months, not since the last time she was in London, and it was surprising how much she had missed his humorous face.

  A sudden influx of customers caused him to glance round again, and in an undertone, he said: 'Farmers! These days they don't look any different from accountants.'

  'They may be accountants, for all I know,' declared Catherine tersely, after giving the men a cursory look. 'They're Norcroft's men—geologists or geophysicists or something. They're the ones conducting the explorations at Penwyn. I believe they're staying here at the inn. They're engineers of some kind, but I don't know them.'

  'I see.' Robert considered the newcomers thoughtfully. 'And—is there any news?'

  'Not yet.'

  'How long has it been?'

  'Since they arrived?' Catherine shrugged her slim shoulders. 'I don't know. A month, six weeks—something like that.'

  It was exactly six weeks, two days, and eight hours since she had had that interview with Rafe Glyndower, but she wasn't going to tell Robert that.

  'Interesting.' Robert nodded now, and then, in an attempt to justify this statement, he added: 'I mean, if it was anywhere else than on your uncle's land, it would be interesting, wouldn't it? If they do find lead, it will be tremendously important. After all, everyone thought lead mining was virtually defunct in Britain.'

  Catherine knew he was right. Such a find was potentially exciting, but not if one was personally involved. She could only see the effect it was having on her family, and that negated its importance so far as she was concerned. Not that the men's appearance had interfered too much with the running of Penwyn, yet at any rate. Their present explorations were confined to the top field, and apart from the inconvenience, and an occasional tremor from their boring equipment, they could almost forget they were there. Indeed, it was always possible that their search would prove fruitless, in which case Rafe Glyndower had given an undertaking that her uncle should have first option should the land have to be sold.

  It was the only light at the end of the tunnel, but she knew her uncle had little faith in it. From the moment the first drillings were heard, he had withdrawn into a shell of his own making, and no amount of sympathy or cajolement could bring him out of it. He was not eating, he had lost weight; and her aunt said he was sleeping badly. And all because his shepherd had found the head of a Roman axe among some rocks in the top pasture, and he had been honest enough to hand it over to the Glyndowers.

  Yet for all that, she could not entirely blame Rafe Glyndower for what had happened, even though her attitude had enraged her cousin Owen. Rafe was as helpless as they were, at the mercy of his own needs and necessities, and there was no easy solution to any of their problems.

  Supper at Penwyn was not a comfortable occasion, even though her aunt attempted to make it so. Uncle Mervyn was out attending to a cow that was calving, and apart from appearing for a brief moment halfway through the meal, he left his wife to entertain their guests.

  'Do you have a dairy herd, too, Mrs Powys?' asked Robert politely, helping himself to another slice of savoury flan, and Catherine saw the way Owen glowered at him.

  'Oh, no.' Aunt Margaret shook her head. 'Just a few cows for our own use, that's all.'

  'This is a sheep farm,' Owen told him shortly. 'Or at least, it was.'

  'Owen!'

  His mother gave him a warning look, but it was too good an opportunity to miss, and turning on Catherine, he added: 'We're all indebted to my dear cousin here for removing the uncertainty.'

  'It's not Catherine's fault.' It was Gillian, his wife, who defended her. 'She only told you what Mr Glyndower had told her.'

  Owen snorted. 'That bastard! I wouldn't believe a word he said. If he's so desperate for cash, how come that son of his goes to public school? And what about the servants they employ—'

  'Would you have him dismiss old Percy Laurence?' demanded Catherine, stung by his indifference to anyone's well being but his own. 'And what about the butler? Morgan, isn't it?' She appealed to her aunt for confirmation. 'Neither of them would get any other employment, you know that.'

  'They still have to be paid,' insisted Owen moodily, pushing his pie round his plate. 'And I know Linda Jones works there, too.'

  'Penwyth is a big place,' retorted Catherine. 'Someone has to work there.'

  'Then why doesn't that wife of his get herself off her backside and do something?'

  'Really, Owen! At the supper table!' His mother looked apologetically at
Robert. 'I'm sorry, Mr Brooke. My son isn't usually so objectionable.'

  'Oh, really…' Robert was seldom embarrassed, and his smile was reassuring. 'Don't apologise, Mrs Powys. I come from a large family, so I'm used to family squabbles. Besides, I'm enjoying myself. You're an excellent cook, if I may say so. This flan is delicious!'

  Aunt Margaret flushed with pleasure, and Catherine felt a surge of warmth towards him. Robert could always be relied upon to smooth over any difficulties, and Owen was forced to apply himself to his supper, aware that any further comment on his part could only be construed as boorishness.

  When supper was over, Catherine offered to wash up, and she and Gillian shared the dishes while her aunt showed Robert the family photograph album.

  'Don't take any notice of Owen,' his wife urged her awkwardly. 'You know what he's like. He always expected to take over here.'

  'I know that.' Catherine cast a sympathetic glance in the younger girl's direction.

  'It's different for you,' went on Gillian. 'You don't live here. I know you like coming here, but you have your own life outside the valley.' She paused. 'Are you going to marry Robert?'

  'Heavens, no!' Catherine was vehement, and Gillian looked at her strangely.

  ' 'No?'

  'No.'

  'Why not? I saw the way he was looking at you during supper. Hasn't he asked you?'

  Catherine was amused, and her gurgling laughter rang around the stone-flagged kitchen. 'Oh, Gillian,' she exclaimed, 'I don't want to marry anyone. Not yet, at least,' she added, sobering as an image of Rafe Glyndower's dark features swam unexpectedly before her eyes.

  Gillian was affronted. 'I expect you do things differently in London,' she mumbled, clattering two plates together, and Catherine sighed.

  'I expect we do,' she conceded. Then, encouragingly: 'You're looking well. Being pregnant evidently agrees with you.'

  Gillian nodded, obviously still brooding over what Catherine had said, and presently she pursued: 'Do you sleep with him?'

  Catherine didn't pretend not to understand. 'With Robert?' She shook her head. 'No.'

  Gillian frowned. 'But he's staying with you tonight, isn't he? I heard Owen's mother asking where he was staying, and he said at your cottage.'