The Judas Trap Page 9

  Sara tried to lift her chin out of his grasp, but she couldn’t do it, and her voice was shaky as she said: ‘You’re very sure of yourself.’ Her tongue appeared, to circle her lips. ‘What if the woman you chose refused to marry you? Women do bring up children alone, you know.’

  ‘I should make her,’ he said simply. ‘One way or the other,’ and she knew he would.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE ROOM which had been Adam Tregower’s study overlooked the Atlantic. Beyond the tangled wasteland of the garden, the craggy outline of the cliffs formed an uneven frame for the constantly-moving turmoil of the ocean, and with the advent of spring, probing fingers of vegetation were bringing their own colour to the barren landscape.

  Seated at the desk where Adam had attended to the business of his estate, Sara had spent some time just gazing at the view, trying to instill herself with feelings of inspiration, but they simply would not come. For several days now her book had lain in front of her, like some tender virgin waiting to be ravished, she thought wryly, using the metaphor with deliberate irony, but she had not written one word or edited one line of the manuscript. She was completely devoid of all ideas concerning her story, and any distraction, any sound in the house, magnified by her over-sensitised condition, sent her eyes darting enviously towards the closed door of her self-imposed prison. All her plans of completing the second draft within the first week had had to be abandoned, and all she could hope now was that Michael should not suspect her longing to be with him.

  Since their conversation in the library she had seen little of him. At dinner that same evening, she had broached the subject of finding somewhere to work, and as Mrs Penworthy had predicted, he had offered her the study. Since then she had only seen him at mealtimes, and latterly not always then. Occasionally he had been absent, and Mrs Penworthy had delivered his apologies, accompanying them with snatches of gossip Sara would rather not have heard.

  ‘I believe he’s gone over to the riding stables,’ she offered on one such occasion. ‘They say Mrs Morton, she runs the riding stables, you know, is an old friend of Mr Tregower’s! Used to know him years ago, so they say, before she married.’

  And at dinner the night before—’Mr Tregower said to tell you he’d be dining with the Gwithians this evening. Doctor Gwithian is our local GP and I heard that his twin daughters are just home from the university.’

  The information was well meant, Sara told herself, trying to be generous, but the fact remained that it did not help her concentration. It was all very well trying to dismiss what had happened between herself and Michael, but still she couldn’t prevent the twinges of resentment she experienced when she heard of his association with other women. It was ridiculous, particularly as she had no hold on him, nor wanted to have, she averred fiercely, but the feelings persisted. It hurt, too, that there had still been no word from Diane, not even a telephone call to find out if she was all right, and the schedules she had set herself became hollow things at best beside the unexpected uncertainty of her present position.

  So far, at least, hiding her condition had proved no obstacle. They were virtually living separate lives, just as she had demanded. What worried her most was her own reactions to this unsatisfactory situation. Instead of getting on with what she had planned to do, she spent her time daydreaming, wasting her break from routine in hopeless preoccupation. And after Mrs Penworthy had left for home in the evenings, the nights stretched ahead of her, lonely and unexciting.

  At lunch time she had the unexpected company of her host.

  He came into the dining room as Mrs Penworthy was ladling soup into Sara’s bowl, his hair damp, from a sea mist which was blowing inland, the scent of horses clinging about his leather jacket and tight-fitting jeans. His presence immediately electrified the previously dormant atmosphere in the room, stimulating her senses and sending the blood surging pleasurably along her veins. He was so virile, so masculine, so obviously full of life and energy, that unwittingly her gaze mirrored a little of the envy she was feeling.

  However, Michael’s lips twisted at her wide-eyed glance, and he put another interpretation on the wistful wrinkle of her nose. ‘Forgive me,’ he remarked mockingly, brushing back his hair with a careless hand. ‘I forgot to change. I keep forgetting I have a visitor in the house.’

  Sara crumbled the roll on her plate with nervous fingers. ‘I’m sure you hadn’t forgotten,’ she retorted, in a low voice, aware of Mrs Penworthy’s interested attention. ‘And—and your appearance is of no consequence to me.’

  ‘No?’ Michael took the chair opposite her, deliberately ignoring the place the housekeeper had hurriedly set for him at the end of the table. ‘Mrs Penworthy,’ he addressed himself to that lady, ‘did you hear that? Our guest doesn’t care how I present myself. Do you think she’d feel the same if I appeared stark naked?’

  Mrs Penworthy tutted and gave an embarrassed laugh, while Sara sat in mortified silence, wishing the floor could open up and swallow her. He was obviously in a tormenting mood, and she should have known better than to cross swords with him in the first place.

  However, as soon as Mrs Penworthy left the room she found herself saying tersely: ‘Why must you try to shock people? I haven’t seen you in days, and when you do appear you seem to find enjoyment in—in making a fool of me.’

  ‘I should have thought it was myself I was making a fool of,’ he retorted shortly, helping himself to butter. ‘What do you expect me to do? Apologise for living? I can’t do that. I’m here—and you’re going to have to live with that!’

  ‘I’m not objecting to your presence, am I?’ Sara held up her head. ‘Only to the manner of its manifestation.’

  Michael scowled. ‘Such long words,’ he sneered. ‘What you mean is—don’t come to my table smelling of the stables!’

  Sara sighed. ‘I—I like the smell of horses, as a matter of fact. That has nothing to do with this argument.’

  ‘So why don’t you come riding with me?’

  Sara hesitated. ‘Because—because I’m here to work. I told you.’

  ‘To hell with your work!’ Michael spooned soup into his mouth. ‘I’m sick of hearing about it! You object to my joining you and making some small effort to lighten the mood in here, and all you can talk about is your work!’

  Sara moved her shoulders in an offhand gesture. ‘I didn’t ask you to join me,’ she began, but the look in his eyes made her draw back into her chair.

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ he conceded harshly. ‘And believe me, I thought twice before doing so.’

  ‘Then—’

  ‘Let me finish.’ His black brows were drawn together angrily. ‘I’ve tried staying away. Or, perhaps you haven’t noticed. I’ve accepted every invitation I’ve been offered in the hope that you might show some reaction.’ His lips curled. ‘But no, nothing is said. You continue to go on with your life, as if I never existed.’ He leant towards her. ‘When I came in here today, I could tell from your expression that I’m the last person you wanted to see. So why do I do it? Why do I keep hammering my head against a brick wall? Because I know you, Sara. I’ve held your naked body in my arms, and felt your instant response. You’re not as prim and proper as you appear, and that’s why I keep trying to shock that virgin little soul of yours out of its apathy!’

  Mrs Penworthy’s reappearance with a leg of lamb, and a tray of vegetables, terminated his outburst, and Sara had time to regain her composure before the housekeeper departed again. They had neither of them done justice to the soup, and Mrs Penworthy’s expression revealed her disapproval at this state of affairs.

  ‘Was there something wrong with the broth?’ she enquired, clattering the dishes together in evident annoyance, but Michael’s candour easily disarmed her.

  ‘It was delicious,’ he assured her smilingly, and if Sara had not known better she would never have believed that only moments before he had been exhibiting an entirely different side of his character. He could be so charming, if he chose, and Mr
s Penworthy was not proof against his undoubted expertise. ‘But, as you know, I’ve been riding with Mrs Morton, and I have to confess, she offered me a drink afterwards.’

  And what else? wondered Sara broodingly, hardly listening to the housekeeper’s mock reproval. Mrs Morton, she thought dourly. The woman Michael had known since before he went to Brazil.

  Michael carved the meat, and with Mrs Penworthy’s departure Sara’s nerves tightened. She didn’t know how to deal with him in this mood, and she could tell by his expression that he had not forgotten what he had been saying earlier. Watching him slice the leg of lamb, her eyes were drawn to his hands, firm around the carving knife and fork he was using. Strong hands they were, capable hands; not the hands of an accountant, as Tony’s had been, but hard and brown and muscular, yet with long sensitive fingers. She knew his fingers were sensitive, they had been sensitive when they touched her, and a wave of heat came out all over her body at the realisation of what she was thinking. Almost convulsively she dragged her eyes away, looking down at her own hands, sweating in her lap, and tried to compose herself. But when she looked up again she found he was watching her, and she had the unnerving impression that he knew exactly what she had been thinking.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, holding her eyes with his, deliberately allowing the thick black lashes to narrow his lids still further. ‘You know you’re not indifferent to me, and I wish you’d stop pretending that you are.’

  Sara tore her gaze away. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she exclaimed jerkily, reaching for the dish of vegetables. ‘Do you think we could just finish the meal without any more argument? I—I have a lot to do this afternoon.’

  ‘Do you?’

  His tone was ominous, but Sara did not risk looking at him again. When he reseated himself, setting the dish of meat between them, she helped herself silently, concentrating on her plate to the exclusion of all else. She didn’t know if he was eating anything. She didn’t want to know. She only wanted to finish the meal and get out of the room, before he chose to prove to her exactly what a liar she was.

  She almost jumped out of her skin when his chair was thrown back and he got to his feet and stalked out of the room. It was totally unexpected. She had not expected him to give up the battle so easily, and contrarily, now that he was gone, she felt ridiculously abandoned.

  All interest in the food had disappeared, but she was loath to leave the table and permit Mrs Penworthy to make her own judgments. The housekeeper was too fond of gossip to allow that to happen, although what she could say to allay her speculation, she had no idea.

  However, when the housekeeper did appear, she made no comment about the neglect of her meal. She gathered the unused plates without comment, and then, just as Sara was deciding that Michael’s earlier statement had been sufficient explanation, she said:

  ‘I’ll be leaving after I’ve finished these dishes, Miss Fortune. It’s my evening off, and I’ve spoken to Mr Tregower, and he says it will be all right if I leave a cold buffet for you to serve in the kitchen.’

  ‘Oh!’ Sara’s lips parted hesitantly. ‘Oh, yes, of course, Mrs Penworthy. Thank you.’

  The housekeeper nodded. ‘Can I get you anything else now? Apart from coffee, that is? Cheese and biscuits perhaps?’

  Sara flushed, aware of her scarcely-touched plate. ‘I—don’t think so, thank you. I’m afraid I wasn’t hungry either.’

  Mrs Penworthy shrugged, and picked up the tray. ‘It seems to me you spend too much time locked up in that study, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ she declared. ‘Proper peaky, you look. You need some fresh air, if you ask me.’

  Sara stiffened. ‘But I didn’t ask you, did I, Mrs Penworthy,’ she stated. And then, impulsively: ‘Did—did Mr Tregower ask you to tell this?’

  ‘Mr Tregower?’ The housekeeper frowned. ‘Now why would he do a thing like that, miss?’

  Sara got to her feet, realising how foolish she had been to suggest such a thing. ‘I—why—oh, no reason, Mrs Penworthy. No reason at all.’

  Of course she instantly regretted the carelessness of her words. They had been ill-considered, to say the least, and Mrs Penworthy had every reason to be regarding her in that speculative way. But it was too late now, and as the housekeeper turned away Sara could tell from her expression that she was intrigued. No doubt the peculiarities of their relationship would make an interesting topic of conversation in the Penworthy home that evening.

  Annoyed with herself, and too restless to wait for her coffee, Sara left the dining room, hesitating in the hall when she saw that the library door was open. That door was usually closed, and she invariably spent her evenings in the small drawing room where Michael had carried her that first afternoon at Ravens Mill. Since Mrs Penworthy learned that she was to stay in the house, she had opened up several of the rooms, and the library, which Sara always associated with Michael anyway, was seldom used.

  Giving in to another impulse, she moved to the doorway, drawing back instinctively when she saw Michael standing by the windows, staring out at the untended garden. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his jacket, and his expression, even in profile, was dark and brooding.

  Unwilling to be found spying on him, Sara would have made a hasty retreat to the drawing room, when he rounded on his heel and saw her turning stealthily away. For a moment their eyes locked, and although Sara’s lids dropped defensively, it was too late to pretend she hadn’t seen him.

  ‘Did you want something, Miss Fortune?’ he asked, strolling towards her, mocking her name which everyone eventually made fun of. ‘Did you enjoy your lunch? I imagine you found it much more to your taste after I left the room.’

  Sara refused to rise to his baiting. ‘I was just about to go to the study,’ she said, conscious of the sheer animal magnetism about him. The rough silk shirt he wore beneath his corded jacket was open at the neck, and the darkness of the skin it exposed was accentuated by the glimpse of dark hair on his chest. With his hands in his pockets, the buttons of his shirt were stretched to their limits, and she tried not to look at the muscular flesh visible between. ‘I—I’m sorry if I disturbed you.’

  ‘You always disturb me, Sara,’ he replied, his narrowed eyes dark and sensual. ‘But you know that, don’t you? That’s why you continually wear these—boyish clothes!’

  Sara cast a fleeting glance down at herself. The white shirt was certainly not boyish. Its full sleeves were very feminine, she thought, and although she had teamed it with matching pants and waistcoat, they too were made of velvet, hardly the material for a boy’s wardrobe.

  Looking up at him again, she was aware of the quickened rise and fall of her breasts, which were anything but masculine, swollen by his provocation, and revealingly taut.

  ‘They’re the only clothes I’ve got, I’m afraid,’ she said now, sheltering behind indignation. ‘As I persistently keep saying, I’m here to work—’

  ‘Work!’ He made it sound like a dirty word, stretching out a hand and flicking the lace-edged collar of her shirt, so that she flinched away from his tormenting fingers. ‘And what work have you done?’ he enquired, turning back into the library, so that she was obliged to follow him to hear what he was saying. Besides, she was aware that Mrs Penworthy could be standing just inside the dining room, listening to their conversation, and with this in mind, she allowed the door to swing behind her. But not close completely. ‘Tell me,’ he looked at her over his shoulder, ‘have you telephoned Diane yet? Have you reassured her that everything is under control?’

  ‘No!’ Sara was really indignant now. ‘If she wants to know anything, she can ring me. I’d have expected her to do so before now.’

  ‘Would you?’ Michael’s mouth curled as he turned fully to face her. ‘Well—yes, perhaps you would. Innocent that you are!’

  Sara tried to contain the revealing wave of colour his words aroused, but it was a losing battle, and her fists clenched in angry impotence. ‘You don’t know how innocent I a
m,’ she snapped, forgetting for the moment that she was not supposed to get agitated.

  ‘No, I don’t, do I?’ Michael’s mouth hardened. ‘And you consistently remind me of the fact.’

  ‘I?’ Sara gasped. ‘This is the first time I’ve mentioned it!’

  ‘You don’t have to mention it,’ he grated harshly. ‘Just looking at you is a continual reminder.’

  ‘Then don’t look at me!’ she exclaimed, though her knees quivered at the grimness of his expression.

  ‘How can I help looking at you?’ he retorted, his eyes dropping the length of her body with insolent emphasis. ‘You fascinate me, do you know that? I keep remembering how you looked without those damn clothes, and in spite of all my good intentions I want to see you that way again.’

  ‘No—’

  ‘Yes.’ He made no move towards her, but the twelve inches or so of space between them fairly crackled with electricity. ‘I can’t help it. You’re beautiful—and I want you. I need you, Sara. Don’t you care that you’re tearing me to pieces?’

  Sara gulped. ‘You—you shouldn’t say things like that—’

  ‘Why not? They’re the truth.’ He moved his broad shoulders in a dismissing gesture. ‘I wouldn’t lie to you.’

  Sara pressed her palms together. ‘I—I think—I think you just like—teasing me—’

  ‘Teasing you?’ A look of wry amusement twisted his features. ‘Oh, Sara! You’re so—inexperienced, aren’t you? Do you really think I’m enjoying this?’ Sara shifted her weight from one foot to the other. ‘I think I’d better go back to my writing,’ she murmured uneasily, but even as she formulated the words he stepped past her, pressing the door firmly closed and leaning back against it.

  Her expression must have given her away, because his mouth assumed an impatient slant. ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he said, straightening. ‘I’m not going to satisfy my baser instincts. But Mrs Penworthy is no more expert than you are at playing peeping Tom!’