The Judas Trap Read online

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he snapped, grasping her elbows and subjecting her to an angry appraisal. ‘I thought you said you came here to work! For God’s sake, I thought you must have gone down to the cove and been swept out on the tide!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Sara swayed a little as he set her free, and his anger quickly turned to reluctant concern.

  ‘What is it? Are you all right? Did I hurt you or something?’

  ‘No.’ Sara endeavoured to appear calm. ‘I—er—I twisted my ankle, that’s all. It’s nothing, just a sprain.’

  ‘Is it?’

  Michael sounded less than convinced, and with a muttered oath he swung her up into his arms, as he had done the night before, and began to carry her towards the house.

  Sara made a paltry attempt to prevent him, but in truth she was glad of his strength. Even so, the warmth of his breath fanning her forehead was disturbing, and she wondered if walking the rest of the way to the house would have been any more exhausting. She was supremely conscious of him, of the width of his shoulder beneath her hand, of the hardness of his chest, and the firm easy strides he took, that brought them to the porch in only a few seconds. Their breath mingled in the cold air, his mildly scented with the tobacco he smoked, and hers short and laboured, evidence of the weakness that persisted in making itself felt.

  He didn’t put her down in the hall, as she had expected. Instead, he carried her into the library and set her on her feet in front of the roaring fire, allowing her body to slide the length of his with disruptive consequences.

  ‘You’re frozen,’ he accused, and his voice was husky. ‘Why the devil didn’t you tell me, if you wanted to go out? You could have come to Falmouth. We could have had lunch together.’

  Sara drew an unsteady breath. ‘I—I wanted to walk,’ she declared, loosening her hood and allowing her hair to spill out like a pale cloud. ‘And—and there’s no need for you to be concerned about me. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.’

  ‘The hell you are!’ As she determinedly concentrated on unfastening the leather buttons of her jacket, Michael paced across the room, combing impatient fingers through his hair. ‘Don’t you know the moors are dangerous? There are pools out there, and marshland, and bogs—that can suck you down in seconds!’

  ‘Oh, really…’ Sara lifted her head and gazed at him. ‘You’re only trying to frighten me! I doubt very much whether there’s a marsh within twenty miles of here!’

  Michael met her gaze aggressively, but she was not convinced by the insolent lift of his eyebrows. Shaking her head, she bent to warm her hands at the blaze, and his resentment exploded into action.

  ‘What do you know about it?’ he demanded, crossing the room and glaring down at her. ‘Were you brought up on these moors? Did you learn every rock and gully of these cliffs before you were ten years old?’

  Reluctantly, Sara straightened. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes, I did, damn you, and I know what’s out there better than you do!’

  ‘All right.’ Sara made a gesture of resignation. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve said that once, and I’ll say it again. How was I to know I was expected to remain in the house? I must say—if—if you hadn’t been here, I should have had to fend for myself, so—’

  ‘So—nothing!’ he muttered, breathing heavily, and then, almost compulsively it seemed, his hands reached for her. They slid over her shoulders and around the back of her neck, beneath the silken curtain of her hair, compelling her towards him. His hands were cold but insistent, the lapels of his brown corded jacket parting as he moved to expose the dark shadow of hair, visible beneath the fine cream silk of his shirt. He had pulled down the brown knitted tie during the altercation which had just taken place, and it was suspended before her eyes like some hypnotic pendulum, riveting her gaze and inducing the same lethargy she had felt the night before. It was doubly disturbing when she remembered she had seen him without the confining influence of his clothes, and she had to fight the longing to succumb to his attraction.

  ‘No!’ she choked, and with a superhuman effort she twisted out of his embrace, putting the width of the hearthrug between them, gazing at him with darkly tormented eyes. ‘You—you promised!’

  Judging by the pallor he was exhibiting now beneath his tan, Michael was no less disturbed than she was, but his lips tightened when he met her accusing stare. ‘Yes, of course,’ he got out stiffly, running unsteady fingers round the inside of his collar. ‘It’s I who should apologise, as you say. I’m afraid I—but never mind.’ He expelled a harsh breath, before adding with politeness: ‘I’ll get you a drink. Something to warm you up. Or would you prefer tea?’

  Sara moistened her dry lips. It had been a dangerous moment, and she knew she would have to avoid such moments in future if she wanted to convince him she meant what she said. When his hands had touched her, when his fingers had caressed the lobes of her ears, she had known an almost overwhelming urge to press herself against him, and if he had kissed her…

  ‘I—tea would be very nice,’ she said now, her voice low and controlled. ‘Perhaps—perhaps I could have it in my room. I’d like to—to rest my ankle for a while.’

  ‘Rest here,’ suggested Michael bleakly. ‘That chair behind you is very comfortable, and there’s a foot-stool you can use.’

  Sara hesitated. ‘I—won’t I be in your way?’

  Michael’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘No,’ he declared tersely, ‘you won’t be in my way.’

  ‘Very well.’ Sara delayed only another moment before sliding her jacket off her shoulders and looking round nervously for somewhere to put it.

  ‘Give that to me.’

  Michael took the sheepskin from her, and then strode towards the door and disappeared into the hall. Sara looked after him, and then, with a doubtful shrug, she subsided into the soft velvet armchair beside the fire. It was warmer here, she told herself, in defence of her submission, but it had a hollow ring. Nevertheless, if she was to stay here, a state of neutrality must be encouraged between them, and not the kind of armed provocation which could so easily lead to open conflict.

  Mrs Penworthy brought the tea on a trolley. She wheeled it into the library and set it close to Sara’s chair, her inquisitive gaze taking in the girl’s boots, removed now and lying carelessly on the hearth, her toes curled on the fireside fender.

  ‘Mr Tregower tells me you’ve twisted your ankle,’ she remarked, and Sara made an offhand gesture.

  ‘Just slightly,’ she assured her quickly. ‘It’s not serious. I probably put my foot down a rabbit hole.’

  ‘You’ve been walking then, have you, miss? On the moor? Yes, it’s quite brisk out there at this time of the year.’

  Sara nodded, not quite knowing how to reply, and Mrs Penworthy went on: ‘Mr Tregower’s mother, she used to like walking on the moor, she did. But then that’s natural, isn’t it? Them being travelling folk, and all.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Penworthy, that will do!’

  Michael’s voice behind her was cold as ice, and Sara had scarcely time to formulate what the housekeeper had been saying before she had made some mumbled apology and left the room.

  Michael himself lowered the footstool he had been carrying on to the hearthrug at her feet, then seated himself opposite. It was a round footstool, with cabriole legs, and although its tapestry cover was worn, Sara guessed it was probably quite valuable.

  ‘It belonged to Adam’s mother,’ Michael remarked, aware of her interest. ‘She used it a lot, I believe. She was never a robust woman.’

  ‘No?’ Sara hoped her response was not too faint. ‘Er—what was wrong with her?’

  Michael shrugged, resting his dark head back against the wine velvet upholstery of his chair. ‘I believe she suffered from anaemia initially, and later, after having Adam, she developed leukaemia. She died just after I was born.’

  ‘Just—after—’ Sara hoped her response was not too revealing. ‘But you had different mothers.’
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  ‘As Mrs Penworthy was just relating,’ observed Michael dryly. ‘Shall we have some tea?’

  ‘What? Oh—oh, yes.’ Sara turned awkwardly to the trolley. ‘Er—milk and sugar?’

  ‘Please.’ He sat up, spreading his legs and allowing his hands to hang between. ‘How’s the ankle?’

  ‘It’s not painful.’ Sara handed him his cup, trying not to let it rattle in the saucer. ‘I don’t think I’ve really sprained it. Just twisted it, as I said.’

  ‘Good.’ He raised his cup to his lips and took a mouthful of the hot beverage. ‘I’d hate you to suffer some serious injury while you’re here.’

  His tone was mocking, but she refused to rise to the bait. Instead she gave her attention to the dish of scones Mrs Penworthy had also provided, finding her appetite was healthier now than it had been at lunch time. Was that because of her walk, or because of nerves? Either way, she enjoyed the crisp shells with their soft warm centres, spreading them liberally with jam and cream when Michael refused to join her.

  ‘Is your room to your liking?’

  It was Michael who broke the silence that had fallen between them, and she wiped her sticky fingers on her napkin before replying.

  ‘It’s—very nice,’ she conceded carefully.

  ‘Rather—unexpected.’

  ‘Unexpected?’ He frowned.

  ‘It’s so—feminine.’ She flushed. ‘I suppose it must have been Mrs Tregower’s room.’

  ‘Which Mrs Tregower do you mean?’

  He was not being very helpful, lying back in his chair again, surveying her through those thick curling lashes. Relaxed, as he was now, his eyes were almost hazel, but she knew when anger sparked their depths, they could turn to molten gold.

  ‘Why, your—your—Adam’s mother,’ she offered uncomfortably. ‘I know Diane wouldn’t have chosen anything so—so—unsophisticated.’

  ‘No?’

  Sara sighed. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Besides, she—she would share your brother’s room, wouldn’t she?’ She paused. ‘It—it wasn’t Diane’s room, was it?’ There was another pregnant silence, until at last Michael conceded the truth of her statement. ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘it wasn’t Diane’s room. But then it wasn’t Adam’s mother’s room either.’

  ‘Oh!’ Sara’s colour mounted. ‘Then—then whose?’ There was a glint of amber between the dark lashes. ‘Can’t you guess?’

  Sara put her hands over the arms of the chair, gripping them tightly. ‘Your—mother’s?’ she ventured slowly, and at the inclination of his head: ‘But how could that be? You said—’

  Michael’s expression was unrevealing. ‘What? That I was born before old Adelaide died?’ His lips twisted. ‘You know how these things happen. You should!’

  ‘Of course I know.’ Sara’s face burned. ‘I only meant—that is—it’s unusual, isn’t it? Your—your mother living in the house while—while Mr Tregower’s wife was alive.’

  ‘I didn’t say she was.’

  Michael was annoyingly obtuse, and she stared frustratedly at him. ‘But you—’

  ‘I agreed that the room you are using used to be my mother’s room. It did. But after Adelaide was dead.’

  Sara was puzzled. ‘But if his wife was—dead—’

  ‘Why didn’t he marry her, you mean?’ Michael’s tone was dry. ‘Instead of keeping her as his mistress?’

  Sara drew an uneven breath. ‘It—it’s really nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Michael’s expression was mocking. ‘So why were you listening so avidly to old Mother Penworthy’s gossip?’

  ‘I wasn’t.’ Sara was indignant. ‘I—she was talking to me. I didn’t encourage her. Besides,’ she faced him defiantly, ‘you shouldn’t have been eavesdropping.’

  For an awful moment she thought she had gone too far. He levered himself up from his lounging position and stared at her unsmilingly. The amber eyes were brilliant now, no longer sleepily dormant, and the lines beside his mouth were sharply etched in his tanned skin. Then, when the knuckles of her fingers were showing white and her heart was hammering in her ears, a faint smile of admiration touched his lips.

  ‘Touché,’ he commented, holding her eyes with his. ‘Whoever would have thought such pale beauty could hide such latent fire?’

  Sara’s fingers went limp and she sank back against the upholstery. These emotional confrontations were sapping her energies, and with inert fingers she reached for her teacup, finding a minute amount of revitalisation from the sweetened liquid. But the strain of the last few minutes had imprinted itself on her face, and Michael viewed with some concern the darkening circles around her eyes.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, watching her intently. ‘You look—drained suddenly. What did I say? I don’t terrify you, do I?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Sara’s response was breathy, and not at all convincing, and he frowned.

  ‘What is it with you? Sometimes you seem—oh, I don’t know so fragile! Like crystal. And with as many facets.’

  Sara replaced her cup on the trolley. ‘I’m sorry—’

  ‘And stop apologising to me, every time I make a careless comment.’ He rose abruptly to his feet, turning to the mantel and resting his balled fists upon it. ‘Either you’re extremely naïve, or extremely clever. I can’t honestly determine which.’

  ‘Can’t you?’

  It was all Sara could get out, but it seemed to galvanise his argument. ‘No,’ he declared harshly. ‘Oh, I don’t know if you are sexually innocent, but anyway innocence is more than a physical thing; it’s a state of mind. And God help me, I’ve never met anyone like you before!’

  Sara moved her shoulders in a helpless gesture. There was little she could say in the face of his frustration, particularly as his words were a little too close for comfort. But the last thing she wanted was to make him suspicious of her, and swinging her feet off the foot-stool, she said:

  ‘I think I really will go to my room now, if you don’t mind. I’d like a shower before—before dinner, and I have one or two personal things to attend to—’

  ‘Wait!’ He swung round to face her, his eyes searching and appealing at the same time. ‘You might as well hear the rest of the story from me as glean it in snatches from her…’ His meaning was clear, but he paused before going on: ‘You’ve heard of the travelling people, haven’t you? You knew what Mrs Penworthy meant?’

  Sara shook her head. ‘Honestly, this isn’t at all necessary—’ she began, but he interrupted her.

  ‘Let me be the judge of that.’ His mouth was grim. ‘You might as well know who attempted to seduce you.’

  Sara allowed a faint sigh to escape her lips. ‘So—your mother was a gipsy.’

  ‘Yes, she was.’

  ‘That’s right.’ He paused. ‘She died on the moor. Of exposure, they said. She was running away from my father at the time.’

  His statement was delivered in an almost expressionless voice, but Sara sensed how angry it made him. It gave birth to a dozen other questions, but she also knew she had no right to ask them. The facile words of sympathy hovered on her lips, but were never spoken. He had not told her because he wanted her sympathy, but she wondered if he was aware of the revealing tightening of his fingers around her wrist.

  ‘So you see why I was so furious when I found you’d disappeared this afternoon,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Even though our relationship is so different. My mother wouldn’t marry my father, you see.’

  Sara’s lips parted involuntarily. ‘Oh, but—I mean—you’re wrong! Why, your mother lived in this house. You said so.’

  ‘Not voluntarily, believe me. But when her own father found she was pregnant, he turned her out. My father found her lodgings in the village until after I was born. She was helpless, you see. She had no relatives to help her, no money. He kept her, and me, until Adelaide died. Then he brought us back to Ravens Mill.’

  ‘I see.’ Sara caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘And—and after she
died?’

  Michael’s mouth thinned. ‘I was sent to boarding schools until I was old enough to go to university. Then, as I told you, he despatched me to Coimbra.’

  ‘And—and Adam?’

  As if he became aware of the deadly grip he had on her wrist, his fingers slackened, and she drew her arm away, rubbing the circulation back into her veins.

  ‘Adam?’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Adam and I had been very close. Unlike the fictional hostilities that usually exist between half-brothers, we had a good relationship. He felt it as strongly as I did when I was sent away.’

  ‘He—he was older,’ she ventured, and Michael nodded.

  ‘Yes, five years older. But in some ways I always felt years older than him. I guess it’s my—Romany ancestry. I’m quite a mixture, am I not? One quarter Portuguese, one quarter Cornish and half Romany. Quite a handful for any child!’

  Sara felt the colour returning to her cheeks at his words. It was as if he had read her thoughts. She pressed her lips together and forced such disruptive speculations aside.

  ‘May I go to my room now?’ she asked, only to find his tawny eyes raking her with evident exasperation.

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’ he demanded. ‘Doesn’t it bother you? You might have felt differently, if there’d been any risk of you becoming pregnant.’

  ‘It—it wouldn’t have been very likely,’ she suggested jerkily. ‘I mean—’

  ‘There’s always that possibility.’

  ‘Then—then it’s fortunate—’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ But his eyes were broading. ‘Particularly as I would never abandon any child of mine.’

  ‘As—as your father did, you mean?’ Sara’s mouth was dry. ‘But surely—he paid for your education.’

  ‘And do you consider that’s enough? To pay for a child’s upbringing? What about its feelings? Its emotions? Its need to feel wanted in this harsh, primitive world we’ve created?’

  Sara bent her head. ‘What are you saying? That I would have no choice in the matter? That—that you would bring up this—this hypothetical child, without any assistance from me?’

  ‘No.’ His hand grasped her chin and jerked it upwards, forcing her to look at him. ‘I’m saying that if you were pregnant, there would be no question. I would marry you. No child of mine is ever going to be a bastard. Do I make myself clear?’