Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the publishing industry, having written over one hundred and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful, passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Rooted in Dishonour
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

BELOW the verandah, the ground sloped away gently towards the shoreline. Clumps of sand-rimed grass marked the boundaries of the beach and the bleached whiteness of the fine coral sand was in sharp contrast to the luxuriant greenery that grew so darkly down to the water’s edge in places. Palms spread their leaves abundantly, and when the noonday heat became unbearable provided welcome oases of shade, while the whispering fronds of the swamp oaks made their own shadows over the lagoon. Beyond the beach, the waters that curled more passively in the cove had been beaten into submission by the ragged ramparts of the reef just visible above the greeny-blue waters, whose spectacular display was heard in distant thunder from the house.

It was early morning, and the air was still cool with the dampness of the rain which had fallen before dawn. But already the warmth of the day was sending tiny spirals of mist rising from the trees into the arc of blue-gold brilliance, and soon the sun would rise above the mountains that swelled the hinterland of the island and its heat would banish the turtles and the sand-crabs to moister hiding places.

The woman came down the slope from the house, impatient at finding its occupant absent, and scanned the heaving waters of the lagoon. Almost immediately, she saw the dark head she was seeking only a few yards out from the beach, and as she watched, the body of a man rose from the waves to walk the shallow waters to the shore. He was some distance from her, it was true, but near enough for her to see that he was naked, the water streaming smoothly from his bronzed limbs. Long limbs, with powerful muscles, topped by the head and shoulders of a man who had not spent his days idling in this lotus-eating paradise, but who worked as hard as anyone to make the plantation pay. He was deeply tanned, and the darkness of his hair had often made her wonder whether there might be some distant ancestry there from even hotter climes, but perhaps that Flemish strain he possessed was responsible. Whatever, the sun made no impression on the black hairs that spread arrowlike down to his flat stomach.

She averted her eyes abruptly and turned away, knowing he had seen her, and presently he strode up the beach towards her, a towel looped carelessly about his hips. He came round her stiff figure to face her, and his peculiarly green eyes mocked her taut embarrassment.

‘You should not come on me unannounced, Sister Barbara,’ he remarked, without contrition. ‘And don’t tell me you’ve never seen me swimming before, because I should not believe you.’

‘I am not your sister!’ she declared crossly, and he moved his shoulders in an indifferent gesture, as she went on: ‘I asked you to come to the house yesterday evening. You didn’t come.’

He mounted the rise towards the building and she had perforce to walk with him. ‘I was—engaged last evening,’ he said at last, and saw the way her lips tightened to his words.

‘You were visiting that Pecarès woman!’ she accused, and his dark brows ascended.

‘You have been having me followed?’ he enquired softly, and her pale cheeks flamed.

‘Of course not,’ she denied, but his expression confirmed that he did not believe her.

They reached the house, a bungalow really, its verandah supported on poles and shaded by a palm-thatched roof. Inside, the accommodation was adequate, but spartan—a living room, with armchairs and bookshelves, a kitchen-cum-dining room, with surprisingly modern equipment, and his bedroom, with its single divan and wardrobe. There were the usual offices, but as Barbara seldom visited the place, she had never used them.

Open-slatted steps led up to the verandah where two basketwork chairs and a glass-topped table created a second living area, and just now the table was set with a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice, a slice of melon, some rolls and butter, and a jug of aromatically-flavoured coffee. Provided by Tomas, Barbara guessed, identifying the black servant who lived in a hut out back of the bungalow. He owed his life to his master since he had saved him from a mob of drink-crazed youths in Martinique eight years ago, and since then he had lived on the island and looked after the man he looked on as his saviour. Barbara had found the whole story rather distasteful, and Tomas’s ubiquitous presence about the place irritated her immensely.

‘Raoul …’ she began now, pausing on the verandah, but the man behind her made a negative movement of his hand.

‘At least permit me to put on some clothes,’ he remarked lazily, and she was forced to sit on one of the verandah chairs and tap her fingers impatiently until he reappeared.

Tomas came and asked her if she would like some breakfast, but she refused, speaking offhandedly, caring little for the black man’s feelings. This was typical of Raoul, she thought resentfully, ignoring her summons to the big house, and then making her wait his convenience after she had made the journey over here.

She crossed her legs and admired the scarlet ovals of her toes. She decided she liked the colour after all, although when the store assistant in Soufrière had showed it to her, she had been unimpressed. It went well with the background material of the floral cotton skirt she was wearing, and complemented the dark chestnut colour of her hair. She would try it on her nails, she thought. Papa would like it. And then the reasons for this hasty visit reasserted themselves, and her firm lips narrowed unbecomingly.

‘Did Tomas not invite you to share my breakfast?’

She glanced round as Raoul joined her, a disreputable pair of denim jeans his only apparel. Their age did nothing to disguise his undoubted masculinity, and she had to force herself to look at the bronze medallion suspended from the leather cord around his neck.

‘Do you call those things clothes?” she enquired shortly, anything to hide her uninvited attraction towards him, and he shrugged as he subsided into the chair at the opposite side of the table and raised a foot to rest across his knee.

‘I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss my attire,’ he retorted dryly, and as she strove for words to express herself, he swallowed half the orange juice in the glass.

‘Papa is coming home!’ she declared at last, and he wiped his mouth carelessly on the back of his hand.

‘That’s good news,’ he said laconically. ‘When? Today?’

‘No!’ She was impatient.

‘Then why the sweat?’

She winced. ‘Must you use those coarse metaphors?’

‘Was it a metaphor? I rather thought you were in a sweat down there on the beach.’ His lips curled mockingly. ‘Or was that due to my state of undress?’

Barbara regarded him coldly. ‘You transcribe everything to physical terms, don’t you? It doesn’t occur to you that there might be finer emotions——’

She broke off abruptly, aware that she had lost his attention and resenting it. It was true. He did disrupt her emotions, and she suffered agonies of jealousy knowing that he would rather spend his nights with Louise Pecarès than with her. Not that he suspected. He must never suspect. Not unless …

Again her thoughts made a swift recoil from the intimate meanderings of her mind. One day perhaps, when she was mistress of the island … But that was some way off. Her father was still a comparatively young man, and in spite of the heart attack that had forced him to remain in England longer than he had expected, he was a long way from dying. So far in fact that he was actually planning to marry again …

Her hands trembled in her lap as she recalled the cable she had received the previous afternoon. She had hardly been able to read it for the burning surge of rage which had clutched at her throat. Her father was cabling her that during his enforced stay at the hospital in London he had met a girl, a nurse, someone younger than Barbara herself, with whom he had become emotionally involved! It was unthinkable, unbelievable, disgusting! He had been a widower for almost twenty years. He could not be thinking of marrying a girl thirty years his junior.

She became aware that Raoul was watching her now as he buttered a roll and tore a piece from it to put into his mouth. Passing her tongue over her dry lips, she said without preamble: ‘Papa is thinking of getting married again.’

At last she had all his attention, and the curious green eyes revealed a reluctant curiosity. ‘Getting married?’ he echoed slowly. ‘To whom?’

‘A girl,’ said Barbara shortly, and then seeing his faint mockery added swiftly: ‘A young girl. Younger than me. His nurse!’

‘My God!’ Raoul’s ejaculation was half impatient, half admiring. ‘Well, well! Clever old Willie!’

‘Is that all you can say?’ Barbara glared at him angrily. ‘Clever old Willie, indeed! He must be in his dotage, and you know it! What girl of twenty-four would want to marry him for any other reason than the obvious one?’

‘Which is?’ His eyes narrowed.

‘Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know,’ she stormed. ‘His money, of course.’

Raoul lifted the coffee pot and poured some of the darkly coloured liquid into his cup. ‘You consider your father has nothing else to offer a woman?’ he drawled, and she gave him a contemptuous stare.

‘What else can it be? A—person like that!’

He looked up. ‘You’ve met her?’

‘Of course not.’ Barbara regarded him sourly. ‘How could I?’

He shrugged annoyingly. ‘You speak with such confidence. How do you know she isn’t madly in love with your father?’

Barbara shook her head. ‘He’s barely known her a month!’

‘What does time matter? There might have been a—mutual attraction.’

‘You would say that, of course.’ Her lips curled. ‘But don’t forget, all our positions here could change if Papa chooses to marry again—and produces a son!’

‘Ah, I see.’ His eyes narrowed sardonically. ‘The old “do on to others before they can do it on to you” syndrome!’

‘If you must be crude, yes.’ Barbara leant towards him eagerly. ‘Raoul, what are we going to do?’

‘What are we going to do?’ He finished his coffee and lay back in his chair indolently. ‘Don’t involve me in your schemes. If Willie chooses to saddle himself with some bloodsucking leech of a woman, what is it to do with me? I’ll just go on doing my job——’

‘So long as she lets you.’

‘Don’t be melodramatic, Barbara. Willie’s not likely to fire me, and you know it. No one else would do the job so efficiently—or so honestly. He knows he can trust me. And besides, half the Africans wouldn’t work for anybody else.’

‘You’re so confident, aren’t you?’ she sneered. ‘So conceited! It doesn’t occur to you that Papa might conceivably consider selling the island if—if this woman decides she doesn’t want to live here! You know he had that offer last year from that American company. Several million dollars can’t be overlooked.’

Raoul’s mouth thinned as he contemplated her agitated face. Obviously he had not considered that eventuality, and she was pleased that she had found the lever she needed.

‘Why should your father choose to sell now when he’s always despised those consortiums, buying up the out-islands and turning them into tourist paradises?’

‘I’ve told you. This woman he’s planning to marry is English. What will she care about the island? And if she is marrying Papa for his money, how can she spend it here? The shops in Ste Germaine don’t sell the kind of things she will want to buy.’

Raoul thrust back his chair and got abruptly to his feet, thrusting his thumbs broodingly into the back of his pants. He stood at the verandah rail, staring towards the shadowed line of the reef, watching the sun as it climbed above the mountains turning the surf to gold. This was his island, he thought fiercely, as much his as Willard Petrie’s. How dared the other man put in jeopardy the one thing he had ever really cared about?

He was aware of Barbara watching him, aware of her eyes upon him. He knew her motives were less pure than his own. All he wanted was freedom—to oversee the plantation, to care for the black people who worked for him, to live here, in his house, within sight and sound of the ocean. Perhaps his ambitions were narrow, perhaps the production from the cane fields was not enough to warrant his dedication; but he had seen enough of that other world when Willard sent him to school and subsequently university in England. He wanted no part of that rat-race society, and he had assumed when Willard retired …

Fool, he thought to himself now, fool! He should have known better than to trust a man like Willard. Hadn’t he had sufficient proof of his untrustworthiness in the past?

Barbara rose to her feet, too, and came to stand beside him at the rail. She put her hand on his arm, her fingers curling confidingly round the firm flesh, but his arm remained still and unyielding.

‘Raoul,’ she said softly, ‘don’t get upset. It need never happen. You know what Papa is like. You know how quickly he tires of people. All we need to do is show him that this—this woman is not suitable, would never fit in here …’

Raoul looked down at her. ‘If what you say is true, she may never need to,’ he pointed out dispassionately.

Barbara moved a little closer so that her rounded bare arms brushed his chest. ‘They’re not married yet.’

He made no reaction to her nearness, but said flatly: ‘When do they arrive?’

‘At the beginning of next week. They leave London on Monday morning and fly direct to St Lucia. They’re planning to stay there overnight, and come on here on Tuesday morning.’

‘Tuesday morning.’ He nodded. ‘And how is your father? Does he say he’s well?’

Barbara released him impatiently. ‘He says he’s never felt better. Can you believe it? A man of his age! And only four weeks since he had his attack!’

Raoul turned back to face the house, resting his hips on the rail. ‘Love conquers all, as they say!’ he quoted harshly.

Barbara snorted frustratedly. ‘Well? What do you think?’

He shook his head. ‘I think it’s getting late. I think it’s time I left for the mill.’

‘Damn you, Raoul!’

‘All right.’ He straightened, not pretending he didn’t understand her agitation. ‘I can’t say I’m happy about it. But I don’t see what we can do.’

Barbara seethed, ‘There must be something!’

Raoul shrugged. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll think about it.’

She looked at him anxiously. ‘You will?’

‘I’ve said so, haven’t I?’

She licked her lips again. ‘Will you come to dinner tonight?’

Raoul’s mouth turned down. ‘I think not.’

‘Why not?’ Barbara was furiously disappointed. For once she had been sure he would agree.

‘I don’t think your father would approve,’ he drawled mockingly. ‘Dining with the hired help! No, I don’t think he’d like that at all.’

Barbara’s lips trembled with anger. ‘That’s just an excuse, and you know it.’

The green eyes were bland. ‘Don’t push it, Sister Barbara. You run along now while I go and earn some more bread for the rich lady’s table.’

Her fists clenched, but she left him descending the steps with a recklessness that was almost her undoing. She righted herself and stalked off into the trees that formed a more than adequate barrier between Raoul’s dwelling and the imposing grounds of the big house, her skirt a flame of brightness among the green foliage.

The sun was gaining in heat as Raoul left the bungalow and climbed behind the wheel of the dusty Landrover that provided his only means of transport. The island, known by the imaginative name of Sans Souci, boasted few cars, the majority of its inhabitants contenting themselves with mule-drawn carts or bicycles, or simply walking. But it was some fourteen miles in length and a good five miles wide at its greatest extremities, and Raoul needed the Landrover to supervise the plantation. Pushing his blue cotton hat to the back of his head, he swung the vehicle round and headed up the rough road towards the town.

The harbour of Ste Germaine was the only part of the coastline accessible by sea. Some two hundred years previously a French privateer conveniently blasted a hole in the reef, making the island accessible to bigger craft than the canoes originally used by the Carib Indians, and its strategic position made it for a time a bone of contention between the English and the French. That the Caribs murdered both indiscriminately made little difference to the eventual scheme of things. The Caribs themselves were finally wiped out, and the small town that bordered the harbour still revealed its Anglo-French influence, and its native market managed to attract a few visitors from the yachts and chartered vessels cruising in the area. But in spite of its colourwashed houses, its shops and stores overflowing with native crafts, and the profusive beauty of flowering shrubs and creepers, Ste Germaine had no hotels, and Willard Petrie had kept it that way. Owner, governor, politician—he managed to maintain Sans Souci in the way it had existed for over two hundred years, and his family could trace their roots back to those first early settlers. Not that one enquired too deeply into anyone’s antecedents in the area, and Petrie himself forbade any discussion of a certain quadroon serving maid who had lived in the big house during the early years of the nineteenth century.

The Petrie plantation stretched from one end of the island to the other. It was primarily given over to the growing of sugar cane, and each of the adult male workers was given half an acre of land on which to grow their own crops, and although Raoul knew that much of this land was unused or bartered over, it pleased Petrie to think that he was a good and generous employer. Living conditions were less easy to monitor, but at least there was a decent hospital in Ste Germaine, and a school for the younger inhabitants. Apart from the Petries and Raoul himself, there was only one other white family on the island—Jacques Marin ran the hospital, and his wife, Susie, was his assistant. They had two children—a boy, Claude, who was fourteen, and away at school in Martinique, and a girl, Annette, who was only six, and was taught by an American girl, Diane Fawcett. The rest of the population was a mixture of off-whites and coloureds, with a fair smattering of Chinese and Indians in the town, except Isabel Signy who ran the school, and whom no one would dare to categorise.

The Petrie sugar mill stood on the outskirts of the town. Raoul parked the Landrover near the warehouses which would soon house the cut sugar cane before its injection into the milling process, and walked into the small office where his second-in-command, André Pecarès, was solidly working his way through a pile of invoices. He looked up with a smile as Raoul entered, but Raoul returned his greeting only absently before flinging himself into the worn leather armchair behind his desk.

André finished entering the invoice he was working on, and then got up to cross to where a pot of coffee was simmering over a gas burner. He was a man in his early thirties, only about five years older than Raoul himself, but unlike his employer his skin revealed a darker cast. Yet for all that, he could pass for white, and Raoul had often speculated about which of Petrie’s ancestors had been responsible for that particular branch of his family.

‘Something is wrong?’ André asked now, bringing a mug of coffee to Raoul’s desk, and thanking him, Raoul raised the mug to his lips.

Then he set it down again and looked squarely at the other man. ‘Barbara came to see me this morning,’ he stated flatly, and André’s dark eyes took on a dawning comprehension.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘she is not happy about your association with Yvette——’

‘No!’ Raoul was impatient. ‘Do you think I give a damn what she thinks? If I choose to spend my time with your sister, do you think she can stop me?’

André looked discomfited. ‘I merely thought …’

‘I know.’ Raoul’s mouth ground into a thin line. Then he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have jumped on you like that. But it’s not to do with Yvette. Willard’s coming home.’

André nodded. ‘I see. He is recovered?’

‘Apparently.’ Raoul gave a rueful grimace. ‘Some might say—too well.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s bringing some girl back with him. His nurse, no less. According to Barbara, they’re planning to get married.’

‘No!’ André was shocked. ‘But Mr Petrie—he must be—he must be——’

‘Fifty-six, I know.’ Raoul regarded his assistant dourly. ‘And this girl, whoever she is, is apparently twenty-four.’

André gasped. ‘But——’ He broke off awkwardly, but Raoul could guess what he had been about to say.

‘I know. Why would a girl of twenty-four want to marry a man of fifty-six?’ he drawled. ‘Barbara’s theory is that she doesn’t. That she’s only interested in his money. And if so, will she be happy to live here on Sans Souci without any of the accoutrements of the high life?’

‘You mean—they might live elsewhere?’ ventured André slowly. ‘But surely, Raoul, that is all to the good. We do not need Petrie to run the island. You have done it well enough while he has been ill, and you know as well as I do that Petrie’s contribution in recent years has been negligible!’

‘Hey!’ Raoul’s lips twitched. ‘That’s anarchy you’re talking, old friend.’

André’s dark cheeks deepened with colour. ‘I don’t care. It’s true!’ he exclaimed. ‘And Petrie knows this as well as I do.’

Raoul half smiled. ‘Well—maybe. But whether or not either of us runs the island is not the point here. Barbara’s anxiety runs in an entirely different direction. She’s afraid Willard might be persuaded to sell.’

‘To sell?’ André looked appalled. ‘But—last year——’

‘Last year he wasn’t thinking of getting married. Who’s to say what his fiancée might persuade him to do?’

André returned to his desk to flop dispiritedly against it. ‘You don’t think he might, do you?’

‘I don’t know.’ Raoul swallowed another mouthful of his coffee. ‘I just don’t know.’

‘But—getting married! At his age!’ André returned to the initial issue. ‘Who is she? What’s her name?’

‘You know as much as I do. She nursed him in the hospital in London. That’s all I can tell you.’

André sighed. ‘What is it you say about old fools? There are none like them?’

‘Something like that,’ agreed Raoul dryly, emptying the mug. ‘Well …’ He pulled a ledger towards him. ‘Did you check those supplies from Kamal Chemicals?’

‘Yes.’ André bit his lip. ‘I—I suppose it’s up to us to show Petrie that he would be a fool to sell this place.’

Raoul’s lips twisted. ‘Now let’s not get fanciful, André. You know as well as I do that growing sugar cane is a precarious business right now. The world sugar markets are changing. Prices fluctuate, and no one can pretend that Sans Souci is making a fine profit. Labour’s too expensive. And already the younger people are looking towards Trinidad and Martinique for employment. The fact that there’s unemployment there the same as throughout the rest of the western world makes little difference. It’s the glamour they’re seeking, and sooner or later we won’t have the men to harvest the crop.’

‘You talk like a reactionary,’ protested André in dismay. ‘Do you want Petrie to sell?’

Raoul didn’t even acknowledge his question, merely looking at him in a way that made André squirm uncomfortably. ‘I suggest we deal with something a little less nebulous,’ he remarked curtly, and André subsided behind his desk once more.

But while his brain ticked off the hundredweight sacks of lime stored in the warehouse, Raoul’s subconscious mind explored every avenue of what Willard’s actions might mean to all of them. Damn Barbara, he thought savagely. Damn her for putting the doubt into his mind, damn her for putting her finger on his own insecurity. And what in hell did she expect he could do? Threaten to withdraw his labour? Willard would find someone else. André, perhaps. Or Samuel, the massive black foreman who could do the work of half a dozen men. Or did she expect him to seduce the girl, to return her to her fiancé soiled by his hands, and in so doing destroy her and himself as well?

He wrenched open his drawer and pulled out a pack of cheroots. Putting one of the long narrow cylinders between his lips, he struck a match and inhaled deeply. The aromatic tobacco was fortifying, reaching down into his lungs, relieving the corded muscles of his solar plexis and relaxing the tautness of his thighs. Perhaps they were all being unnecessarily pessimistic. It might never come to a confrontation. He was letting Barbara’s jealousy influence his thinking. She would be jealous of anyone who threatened her position. She had been mistress of the big house for so long. She would not welcome any usurpation of her authority.

CHAPTER TWO

THE pilot had said it was raining in Castries, and the plane made its descent through banks of low-hanging clouds to emerge above a beach so white Beth could hardly believe it was real. For the latter half of the afternoon they had been flying over a turquoise ocean inset with a curling chain of islands that seemed so small from the air it was hardly possible to believe that anyone actually lived on them. But suddenly they were poised above St Lucia, and in spite of the clouds its colour and beauty were undeniable. The beach was lapped by foam-flecked surf, and away to the left was the tarmacked runway of the international airport, Vigie.

‘That’s Vigie Beach,’ said Willard, leaning past her to point out the luxurious hotels which faced the ocean. ‘And over there—those are the twin peaks of Gros Piton and Petit Piton, the islands’ landmarks.’

‘Piton,’ repeated Beth, frowning. ‘That means peak, doesn’t it? I’m afraid my French is not what it was.’

Willard’s arm lingered about her shoulders. ‘Big peak and little peak,’ he conceded, smiling into her eyes, and she drew her gaze away from him to look out of the window again.

It had been a long flight, but she was not tired. She thought Willard was beginning to look a little drained, but that was not surprising in the circumstances. This was the most energetic day he had had since leaving the hospital, and the excitement of returning home was beginning to take its toll of him.

Fortunately, her concern for Willard had successfully banished her own anxieties about accompanying him, but she was glad they were spending the night at an hotel in Castries before going on to Sans Souci. Sans Souci; the name intrigued her, and in spite of her inhibitions she could not deny the surge of anticipation that filled her at the thought of spending the rest of her life in that part of the world which had fascinated her for so long. She looked down at Willard’s hand resting possessively on her shoulder and drew her breath in on a sigh. She would make him happy, she told herself determinedly, and ignored the speculative gaze of the first class steward who had been staring at her so admiringly throughout the flight. If he thought there was something odd about the relationship between a man obviously well into middle age and a girl of her obvious youth, it was just too bad.

The airport formalities were soon over with and a chauffeur-driven limousine took them the few short miles to the island’s capital. They drove past the surf-kissed beach and the sun came out long enough to make Beth catch her breath at the beauty of a sea that paled from deepest green to translucent opal. It was all so alien and exotic, and she stared wide-eyed at the green hills behind the town, thick with alemada vine and coconut palms.

Willard, as usual, seemed quite content to lie back and enjoy her excitement in it all. It was enough to know that she was with him, and the admiring glances she attracted satisfied his belief that he was escorting the most beautiful woman around. At first, Beth had not liked this aspect of their relationship, but as she got to know him better, she had realised it stemmed from an innate sense of insecurity. For herself, she found his undemanding company reassuring, and it was such a relief to be free of the fumbling advances of the men of her own age she had dated in the past. Her looks had not made her conceited, but she had long accepted the fact that blondes of her size and build could not help but encourage every available male in sight to try their luck, and she was sick of fending off unwelcome passes. She had even begun to wonder if she was frigid when Willard came on the scene, but his charm and easiness of manner had soon disarmed her, leaving her aware that for the first time in her life she felt pampered and cared for, and more importantly, respected.

Of course, the hospital authorities had not approved. Nurses, particularly staff nurses who should know better, were not encouraged to get involved with their patients, and their initial association had taken place under the eagle eyes of the doctor in charge of the case. It had not helped that the doctor in question, Mike Compton, had himself been attracted to Beth, but Willard had been more than a match for the authorities. As soon as possible he had moved out of the hospital into a nursing home, taking Beth with him as his private nurse. Everyone had said she was a fool, that she would regret giving up the staff appointment, that when he went back to his home in the West Indies she would find it hard to get another post. But somehow something had driven her on, and now she knew it was the love she felt for this man who was to be her husband.

In the hotel which faced the harbour, Beth insisted that Willard went straight to bed. ‘It’s been a long day,’ she said, when he would have protested. ‘It may be only early evening here, but it’s much later than that in England, and you must conserve your strength.’

Willard regarded her half impatiently. ‘I’m not a child, Beth,’ he assured her, although he began to undress obediently enough and she went to unpack her bag and take out his medication.

When she came back, he had put on his pyjamas and was folding back the fine linen bedspread. He was a big man, but these past weeks had stripped the flesh from his bones, and she guessed he was only a skeleton of the man he had once been. Yet for all that, he was still a handsome man, his greying dark hair as thick as it ever was.

Between the sheets, he looked up at her with resignation. ‘Is this to be our lives, Beth?’ he exclaimed. ‘You putting me to bed, instead of the other way around?’

Beth smiled, shaking out a couple of tablets from a bottle and handing him a glass of water. ‘You know that only time and rest can effect a cure,’ she told him, as he swallowed the tablets. ‘Now, do you need anything else?’

‘Only you,’ he said, reaching for her, drawing her down beside him on the bed and holding her close. ‘Hmm, you smell delicious. What is it?’

‘Only that perfume you bought me in Harrods,’ she murmured, aware of the hardening grasp of his fingers. His strength was certainly returning, she thought, and wondered why it should make her feel suddenly so vulnerable.

Beth’s own room was similar in style to Willard’s. Simply but imaginatively furnished, it adjoined a central lounge where she chose to eat dinner that evening. The golden lobster nestling in its bed of salad was appetising, but her own energies had been stimulated by the flight, and the sights and sounds beyond the balconies of the suite tempted her to go exploring. However, the brief dusk had given way to darkness, and although there were plenty of lights outside there were also too many people to risk losing herself among the crowds that thronged the narrow streets abounding the harbour. Instead, after eating only a minute portion of her dinner, she contented herself by standing on the balcony in the velvety darkness, listening to the combating sounds of various steel bands and the shrill music and laughter that seemed to flood from every bar and eating house. The yachts that were anchored in the harbour were floodlit at night, and on some of them there were parties going on. And towering above them all was a cruise ship of an American line, docked in Castries for an overnight stay.

It was late when she finally retired to her bed, but still she couldn’t sleep. Although the sounds outside were muted now through the louvred shutters on the windows, her brain refused to cease its chaotic tumble, and everything that had happened these last hectic weeks came back to torment her.

It was difficult to believe that it was only eight weeks since she and Willard met. It seemed so much longer than that, and perhaps that was part of his charm. From the very beginning she had felt relaxed with him, but even so she had had her doubts about his immediate attraction to her. A patient often imagined himself in love with his nurse, particularly if his illness was serious, and she had treated his devotion with a certain amount of cynicism in the beginning.

Her own feelings had been less easy to diagnose. After spending two days in the intensive care unit at the hospital, Willard had been put into her charge, and in a short time they had become friends. He had told her who he was, and where he lived, all about the island; and she had listened with the kind of fascination shown by anyone who had lived an ordinary humdrum sort of life faced with the unknown and the exotic. The fact that Beth had always been attracted by that area of the world just added to its appeal, and she guessed Willard had used that shamelessly to encourage her interest.

But gradually they had talked of other things and other places. Beth had explained how she had always wanted to be a nurse, and how she and her mother had struggled to pay for her education after her father had been drowned in a boating accident when she was four. She could hardly remember him now, and as her mother had died two years ago she had no one to keep the memories alive.

‘What about marriage?’ Willard had asked her. ‘I don’t believe there haven’t been opportunities.’

‘I’ve never seriously wanted to get married,’ she had replied honestly. ‘I enjoy my work, and I’ve seen too many of my friends’ marriages come to grief to risk making the same mistakes.’

‘And why do you think they came to grief?’ Willard surprised her by asking one afternoon, when she was helping him up on to his pillows. ‘Your friends’ marriages, I mean. I’m interested.’

Beth pulled a face. ‘I don’t know, do I? Shortage of money, poor living conditions, incompatibility …’ She sighed. ‘Or maybe a combination of them all.’

‘But do you believe marriage can work today? With all the pressures you young people put on it?’ he demanded, and she smiled.

‘I suppose so. If the circumstances were right.’

‘And what circumstances would they be?’

Beth hesitated. ‘Well—so long as the only reason for getting married wasn’t just to legalise sex,’ she declared, and flushed. ‘I’m sorry, but I feel rather strongly about this.’

Their relationship entered a new phase that day, she realised now. Willard had been feeling her out, testing her. Assuring himself that they were on the same wavelength, so to speak. It was after that that he asked her whether she had ever considered private nursing, whether she would consider returning to Sans Souci with him as his nurse.

She had told him it wouldn’t be necessary, that he wouldn’t need a full-time nurse. So he had told her he was going to convalesce at a nursing home in Buckinghamshire, and asked her to go with him.

She had refused at first. She had a perfectly good position at St Edmunds and she didn’t want to leave. But then all that trouble with Mike Compton had blown up, and almost before she knew what she was doing, she had resigned.

It had caused quite a stir in the hospital, and she knew some of the nurses assumed she saw Willard as something of a gift horse. There were others, closer friends, who thought she was mad tossing up a promising career just because Doctor Compton was making life difficult for her. But Beth reassured them, and herself, by making the point that there were equally successful careers to be found in private nursing.

In fact, her life changed more drastically than she could have imagined. A week later, Willard asked her to marry him, and although she did not immediately accept, she knew she was not entirely surprised by his proposal. The attraction, the mutual empathy between them, was no temporary infatuation and she knew she had been dreading the day when he would leave the nursing home for good. But whether they were sufficient grounds on which to accept his offer, she had not been sure, and she was plagued with doubts and uncertainties. Then Willard had suggested that as he could not offer her a ring, their engagement should remain unofficial until he returned to Sans Souci, but that she should accompany him. It would give her time, he said. Time to get to know him better, time for her to decide whether she really would like to live in surroundings so utterly different from what she was used to. That was when she had felt she really loved him, that she had not made a mistake by leaving St Edmunds, that after a brief engagement she would marry him because he cared for her feelings more than his own …

She rolled on to her stomach now, and banged her pillow into shape. She wondered what he would say when he discovered she was a virgin. Although his illness had prevented their relationship from developing far along those lines, she guessed he imagined she had had a lover. Mike Compton, for instance, had behaved as if he owned her, and besides, these days women with her looks were expected to be experienced. But she wasn’t.

She sighed, and rolled on to her back again, feeling the moistness of her hair against her skin. If she didn’t sleep soon she would look a hag in the morning, and she had to look her best to meet Willard’s daughter.

His daughter!

She grimaced into the darkness. Barbara! How would Barbara react to her father marrying someone four years younger than herself? She doubted she would be pleased. And trying to be charitable. Beth had to admit that put into the same position, she might not like it either. After all, it wasn’t altogether nice to think of one’s father as having those kind of appetites, particularly not for a girl young enough to be his daughter.

But then, she argued equably, just because a man had been married and made a widower it did not mean he had to remain celibate for the rest of his life. It was possible that he might even want more children, and there was no earthly reason why she should not give them to him. Not immediately, perhaps, but soon.

She sighed. There were bound to be problems, and of a kind she had not even considered because she didn’t yet know what the situation was. She knew a little about the island, of course. She knew about the sugar plantation, which was its mainstay economy, and about the smaller banana plantation, that needed so much less cultivation. She knew he found it hard to keep workers these days, with world-wide inflation running at such a terrific rate, but he had told her that he had granted sufficient land to the men who stayed with him so that they could grow their own crops, and Beth thought affectionately how typical this was of him, of his generosity.

But apart from these impersonal details, he had not told her a lot about his relationship with his daughter. They apparently lived in quite a large house that stood in its own grounds, but again Barbara had to do her own housekeeping as servants were so hard to find. This had made Beth wonder how the situation would develop after she and Willard were married. Would his daughter want to hand over her authority to someone else? And if not, what would she, Beth, do?

She kicked the cotton sheet aside, and smoothed her gingham night shirt down over her hips. She was being unnecessarily pessimistic, she told herself fiercely. She didn’t even know the girl yet, and already she was anticipating her hostility. It was ridiculous. Barbara might well welcome another white woman about the place, but somehow that particular supposition had a hollow ring.

Sans Souci rose from the sea in a graceful curve, its hinterland thickly wooded and deeply green. Only the upper slopes of the rugged hills that rose inland were shadowed purple in the noonday glare, the rest of the island shimmered in a shifting haze of heat. Groves of palms and the twisting roots of mangroves grew down to the water’s edge in places, and beyond the headland the coral purity of the sickle-shaped beach was lapped by creaming surf.

As they neared the quay, Beth’s attention was caught and held by the colourful harbour of Ste Germaine, where yachts and fishing vessels vied for space within the curving arm of the sea wall. Beyond the quay where there was constant activity, market stalls could be seen, and above, the winding streets of the small town were lined with stucco buildings colourwashed in every imaginable pastel shade. Tumbling bougainvillea, in colours of pink and violet, grew in careless profusion while the more exotic petals of the hibiscus grew from pots and urns or along the wrought iron rails of overhanging balconies.

The motor launch which had brought them from St Lucia drew alongside the quay, and Willard put his hand beneath Beth’s arm.

‘Well?’ he said, and it was a challenge. ‘Do you approve?’

‘Do I approve?’ She looked up at him helplessly, shaking her head in a confused gesture. ‘Oh, darling, I love it already.’

‘Darling,’ he repeated with some satisfaction, sliding the back of his hand along her jawline, and then the pilot was smiling at them and indicating that it was time to disembark.

Beth had chosen to wear pants for the journey. Climbing in and out of motor vessels was easier when one did not have to worry about billowing skirts, and she hoped Barbara would not think her jeans were a sign of disrespect. Teamed with a navy body shirt, they threw her intense fairness into relief, and she had secured the silvery rope of her hair with a silk scarf at the nape.

Their arrival had aroused a deal of interest, and as Beth thanked the dark-skinned pilot for his assistance on to the quay a crowd of people clustered around them, shaking Willard’s hand and asking about his health. Apparently everyone knew about his illness, and Beth was disarmed by their obvious concern. She herself came in for a lot of curious scrutiny, but Willard was beginning to look strained and she looked about them anxiously, hoping to break this up before he started introducing her.

She saw a car parked along the quay, and a man leaning against its bonnet. He was tall and lean and dark, dressed in rough cotton trousers and little else, and she thought at first he was a mulatto, but when he moved to push a drooping cotton hat to the back of his head, she saw that he was probably only darkly tanned. He was watching them with a curiously insolent expression, she thought, resenting the way he was staring, and deciding rather irritably that men like him were the same the world over. He probably imagined she was interested in him, she conceded impatiently, and looked away from his decidedly arrogant features. He looked cruel, she thought uneasily, and then chided herself for letting his attitude spoil what had been such a spontaneous welcome to the island.

She wondered where Barbara was. Surely she wouldn’t let her father return home after two months’ absence and an illness which had been severe enough to kill a weaker man without coming to meet him. If she had, it did not augur well for good relations.

‘Excuse me …’

It was the man from the car. He stood before her indolently, his thumbs pushed into the hip pockets of his pants, his weight resting without effort on one booted foot. This close she could see the shadow of beard already growing along his jawline, and the over-long darkness of his hair pushing out below the cotton hat. That same darkness was repeated across the width of his chest and followed an indeterminate path down to his navel. His eyes were a curious shade of green, unusual in one so dark, and shaded by thick dark lashes. They were slightly hooded eyes, but everything about him was aggressively masculine.

Beth glanced hesitantly towards Willard, but for the moment he had not observed the man’s approach, and she decided it was up to her to show him he was wasting his time on her. She had met men like him before, she thought contemptuously, men who imagined any woman would fall over herself to be friendly towards them.

‘I think you’re making a mistake,’ she said now, quietly but succinctly. ‘Do you mind?’

‘I mind,’ he returned annoyingly, and Beth squared her shoulders, for once glad of her five feet eight inches of height.

‘Get lost, will you?’ she said, her smile less than polite, and a mocking expression replaced the insolence.

‘If you say so,’ he agreed, and turning on his heel he sauntered lazily back to the dust-smeared vehicle.

‘Raoul!’ Willard’s startled voice arrested him, and Beth turned to stare open-mouthed at her fiancé as he excused himself from his audience and hastened after the other man. ‘Raoul!’ she heard him say again, and to her dismay he practically embraced him.

Over Willard’s shoulder, the man’s green eyes sought and found hers, and it was with a sense of impotence she acknowledged that he had some grounds for his provoking expression. But it took all her self-control to stroll after her fiancé, and wait patiently for him to introduce them.

‘My dear,’ he turned to her almost immediately after assuring the other man that he was feeling fine, which wasn’t strictly true, Beth decided. ‘Let me introduce you to Raoul Valerian, my—right-hand man. Raoul, this is Miss Elizabeth Rivers. My fiancée.’

Beth forced a faint smile and held out her hand. ‘How do you do, Mr Valerian,’ she said politely, and his long fingers gripped hers firmly for a brief moment. His hands were hard, and she could feel the callouses upon them, but his nails she saw were clean and well-shaped.

‘My pleasure, Miss Rivers,’ he acknowledged, with a mockery which was only apparent to her, and then he indicated the vehicle behind him.

Willard went towards it with evident relief, but Beth hesitated as Raoul Valerian went past them to attend to the unloading of their luggage. Two of the blacks who had greeted them were struggling towards the car with their suitcases, and Raoul went to help them, taking a case from each, speaking to them with easy camaraderie. Beth waited only a moment longer, and then, aware that her assistance wasn’t needed she followed Willard to the welcoming shade of the car. She had taken off her sunglasses as they landed, but now she pushed them back on to her nose again, glad of the anonymity they provided.

Willard had climbed into the back of the vehicle which Beth now saw was an old-fashioned station wagon. But it was in immaculate order, in spite of the dust, and she admired its flowing lines as she joined him. Briefly she looked at him over the rim of her glasses and saw the unhealthy pallor of his cheeks.

‘This has all been too much for you,’ she declared crisply. ‘You must rest when you get home. Promise me you will.’

Willard leaned back weakly against the upholstered seat. ‘I hope you’re not going to become one of those nagging women, Beth,’ he exclaimed, and then grasped her hand contritely when she looked hurt. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but these are my people. They’re welcoming me home. I couldn’t ignore them.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting you should,’ replied Beth stiffly, and he squeezed her fingers.

‘I know, I know. You’re only thinking about me.’ He gave her a rather rueful smile. ‘I just hate being made to feel I’m helpless!’

Beth turned to stare out of the window, and then started as several cases thudded into the rear of the vehicle behind them. Raoul thanked his helpers, and slammed the rear doors closed, then came round to lever himself behind the wheel. He was lean and muscular, but not thin, and Beth’s trained eyes noticed how the bones and sinews of his back rippled smoothly under his sweat-oiled skin. He might have put on a shirt, she thought distastefully, although her own shirt was clinging to her like a second skin, and she was glad of a bra underneath to protect her modesty.

As the station wagon left the quay, waved off by their welcoming committee, Raoul said: ‘Barbara asked me to come and meet you. She wasn’t—feeling well, and as I had to come down to the town anyway …’

‘… you volunteered,’ remarked Willard, nodding.

‘That’s right.’

‘What’s wrong with Barbara?’

There was silence for a moment, and then Raoul said: ‘One of her migraines, I guess. I don’t know. She sent Marya over with a message.’

Willard didn’t seem surprised, but Beth’s nerves tightened. Barbara might well have a headache—a migraine, even—but her father had been away more than two months. In her place she thought she would have had to have been very ill indeed to prevent her from meeting him. Still, Willard wasn’t concerned, so why should she be? But she was.

Willard roused himself to lean forward, resting his arms on the back of the empty seat in front of him.

‘How are things workwise?’ he asked Raoul. ‘Did you get the new rotor blade? What about that lime? Did you have it replaced? And what happened about Philippe’s arm——’

‘Don’t you think you ought to take it easy instead of getting uptight about things that were settled weeks ago?’ Raoul interrupted him tolerantly, glancing round. His eyes flickered to Beth. ‘What does your—er—nurse say? Does she approve of you jumping in with both feet the minute you get back?’

Beth guessed he had overheard what she had been saying to Willard while they waited for their cases to be loaded, and her lips tightened in annoyance. But Willard was unaware of her indignation, and casting an apologetic look in her direction, he replied.

‘Beth’s my fiancé first, and my nurse second. She understands how I feel, don’t you, darling?’

Beth’s smile was strained. ‘And you know how I feel,’ she countered tautly, causing Willard to wrinkle his nose affectionately at her. But he went on asking Raoul questions, and she determinedly turned her attention to her surroundings, trying not to look as put out as she felt.

They drove up through the narrow streets of the town, using the horn to clear a path between mule-drawn carts and bicycles. Children ran heedlessly in front of the station wagon, but miraculously they remained unscathed, due, she had reluctantly to concede, to the skill of the driver. The drawn blinds and striped canopies they passed reminded her a little of the South of France, but the high walls that concealed hidden courtyards were more Spanish in origin. She saw people of seemingly every race and colour, Indians sitting in shop doorways where exotically-woven carpets screened their shadowy interior, and Chinese women hand-painting lengths of wild silk with brilliantly-plumaged birds and flowers.

Beyond the town they skirted fields of tall, grass-like stalks that shaded in colour from a golden yellow through to an orangey-red. She realised this must be the plantation, and that what she could see was sugar cane, but it looked so different from how she had imagined it that she almost felt cheated. Towering above the station wagon, it looked coarse and disjointed, not at all romantic as she had expected.

Willard paused long enough in his conversation with Raoul to point out the start of the plantation, but Beth found the view of the coastline which could be seen from the other windows of the car far more appealing. They had climbed some way since leaving the harbour, and now the whole of Ste Germaine and its neighbouring beaches was spread out below them. It looked incredibly beautiful, and from this height one could not see the poverty Beth had glimpsed through the doorways of buildings that were little more than shacks, or smell the unpleasant scent of unwashed humanity which had pervaded the narrower streets. Her spirits rose again. It was foolish letting anything upset her when the sun was shining and she was here at last, on her way to her new home. If only Willard had been a little more understanding, and Barbara had come to meet them—and Raoul Valerian had not behaved as if he owned the island …

The road began to descend slowly through thickets of cypress and acacia trees that mingled with the palms which grew so profusely throughout the islands. The smell of damp undergrowth was not unpleasant, nor was the sound of running water from a cascading stream that tumbled over rocks at the side of the road. Their way was strewn with stones which made it rather uncomfortable riding, although the springs of the old station wagon seemed strong enough to weather it.

The sea was nearer now, and Beth breathed deeply, inhaling its tangy scent. She was going to be happy here, she told herself fiercely, and as if to confirm this belief, Willard left his forward position to relax back beside her, reaching for her hand and saying: ‘We’re almost home.’

CHAPTER THREE

BECAUSE of the trees, Beth was unaware that they had reached their destination until Raoul turned the station wagon between stone gateposts. Then, at the end of a curving sweep of gravelled drive, she saw it, and gasped her incredulity.

The ‘Big House’, as it was known locally, was a remnant of a bygone age, a pillared white house, with Doric columns supporting a balcony that swept majestically across the front of the building. The centre part of the house had double doors, which presently stood wide, and lines of graceful windows stretching on each side. These lines were repeated on the first floor, and above a second floor had slightly smaller panes. As well as this central portion, two wings extended at either side, dual-storied and probably later additions to the main body of the building. In spite of the fact that the drive needed weeding and the lawns that stretched before the house were not as smooth as they might have been, Beth was enchanted, and looked it.

Willard was pleased. ‘Welcome to your new home, darling,’ he smiled, and uncaring that Raoul might see them through the rear-view mirror, he leant across and bestowed a warm kiss on her parted lips.

Raoul brought the station wagon to a halt at the foot of the shallow steps that led up to the shadowed portico, and Beth thrust open her door eagerly and got out. As she did so, she glimpsed the ocean between the trees, and a shiver of anticipation ran over her. She longed to go down to the beach and allow the fine coral sand to curl between her toes, or plunge into the blue waters of the Caribbean and feel its refreshing coolness soothing her overheated body. But for the moment those longings would have to wait, and Willard was demanding her attention.

Raoul had helped his employer out of the vehicle and had gone to the back to rescue their luggage when an elderly black-skinned manservant came down the steps of the house.

‘Mister Willard!’ he exclaimed warmly. ‘Mister Willard, sir. Welcome home!’

Beth turned towards him shyly as Willard came round the car to greet him, saying emotionally: ‘Jonas! Jonas, old chap! I’ve looked forward to seeing your ugly old face again.’

Beth stood to one side, watching their greetings to one another, and became aware of Raoul watching them, too. There was a curiously cynical expression on his face as he hauled the cases out of the station wagon, and then he looked at her and she looked quickly away, not wanting him to think she had been interested in his reaction.

‘Beth, this is Jonas,’ Willard announced unnecessarily. ‘Believe it or not, but we were boys together here. His mother used to work for mine, and I’ve lost count of the number of scrapes we got into together.’

Beth was a little taken aback to think that Jonas was only Willard’s age, or perhaps a little older. He looked ten or fifteen years older, at least, and there were lines on his face and grey in his hair which was not evident in her fiancé’s. But then, she thought reasonably, no doubt Jonas’s life had been vastly different from Willard’s, and no matter how unfair this might seem to her, it was commonplace here in the islands. One didn’t need to have been born and bred here to know that.

Greetings over, a shy young maid appeared behind Jonas, and she came down the steps to help Raoul with the cases.

‘Marya,’ said Willard, off-handedly, and although Beth accepted that she did not warrant the affection shown to Jonas, she couldn’t help noticing that Marya’s interest was all centred on Raoul Valerian. As she followed her fiancé and his manservant up the steps and across the portico into the house, she had to stop herself from censuring the other girl’s actions. What was it to her if Marya made a fool of herself with every man she met? She hoped she wasn’t going to become one of those awful women who were always trying to place restrictions on other people’s behaviour. But then Marya laughed, and all her good intentions flew in the face of an angry feeling of resentment that owed little to tolerance or charity.

The hall struck chill after the heat outside, but it was a welcome coolness, accentuated by marble floors and pillars, and a high arched ceiling that focussed on a circular stained glass window two floors above. Arched doorways led into the apartments that opened from the hall, and immediately ahead of them, a fan-shaped staircase split at the first landing to coil around the outer wall to the second floor. The staircase, like the floor of the hall, was made of marble, veined and fluted, and elegantly mounted by an intricately moulded wrought iron balustrade.

Yet, for all its elegance, the house had a vaguely neglected air, Beth thought. The bowls that surmounted the pedestals set about the hall should have been filled with flowers, but they looked dry and dusty, and no one had bothered to sweep away the leaves that had been blown in through the open doorway and presently shifted underfoot.

‘Where is my daughter?’

Willard was speaking to Jonas, and Beth turned her attention to the elderly servant.

‘She’s lying down, sir,’ Jonas informed him, rather uncomfortably. ‘She wasn’t well this morning, and she sent Marya across to Mister Raoul——’

‘Yes, I know about that,’ replied Willard, rather tautly, and looking at his face, Beth saw that he was beginning to look drained again.

‘Willard——’ she began, and as if anticipating her words, he turned to Jonas and said half impatiently:

‘Has a room been made ready for Miss Rivers?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Jonas nodded, and as he did so, Raoul and the maid came into the hall carrying the cases.

‘Where do you want these?’ he asked, but Beth moved forward at once and said:

‘I can manage my own cases. If you’ll leave them here, I’ll deal with them later.’

‘Marya can deal with them,’ stated Willard uncompromisingly, and Raoul’s dark eyebrows quirked mockingly.

‘I’ll take yours up,’ he commented, looking at his employer, and Willard nodded, saying shortly: ‘You know where to go.’

The maid was small and dark, not as dark as Jonas, but almost. Her gaze flickered half enviously over the other girl, and Beth felt the first unfamiliar pangs of knowing herself helpless in the face of Willard’s domination.

‘If you’ll follow me, miss?’ Marya asked politely, and Beth was bending to pick up her vanity case when Willard said:

‘Leave that, Beth. The maid will come back for it. Go with Marya now. She’ll show you your room. Which is it?’ he asked, transferring his attention to the maid. ‘The blue suite?’ Marya bobbed and nodded her head, and Willard looked satisfied. ‘Good. I’ll follow you up.’

Beth caught her lower lip between her teeth, glancing first up the stairs to where Raoul had reached the first landing, and then back at her fiancé. ‘Willard——’

‘I’ve told you, I’m coming up,’ he insisted testily, and she had no other choice, but to follow the maid.

The rooms on the first floor were along a white-panelled corridor, the central area being given over to what appeared to be reception rooms. Beth guessed that in the days when servants were plentiful and the master of the big house had lived in some style, there had been balls and dinner parties in these echoing rooms which now accommodated only a widower and his daughter, and a handful of domestics. And his wife, she added silently to herself, remembering her own reasons for being here, but it seemed unreal. Right now, the noonday heat had created a somnolence that filled the house itself, and even her own advent seemed an intrusion.

Following Marya along the corridor they passed an open door and glancing in, Beth was disconcerted to find Raoul Valerian straightening after depositing Willard’s suitcases at the foot of a square four-poster bed. The action must have caused his hat to fall from his head, for he had bent to pick it up, and as he straightened Beth couldn’t help noticing how thick and smooth his hair was compared to Marya’s corkscrew curls. Then he turned his head and looked at her, and she found herself quickening her step to follow the maid.

Her rooms were, she found, next door to Willard’s. Marya showed her into a light, airy bedroom, with cream walls inset with blue silk panels, and a matching blue bedspread whose fringe trailed to the mosaic tiling of the floor. The bed itself was similar to Willard’s, but smaller, and there was a continental armoire in which to hang her clothes, and a pair of chests, in the drawers of which she could keep her lingerie. There was no dressing table as such, although the circular mirror which stood on one of the chests was obviously for that purpose. Everything about the room was old, but serviceable, and apart from a little dust here and there, evidence of careless housekeeping, it was very tasteful.

‘Thank you, Marya,’ Beth said now, as the maid put down her luggage. ‘This is very nice.’

‘The bathroom is through there, miss,’ Marya told her, her smile apparently reserved for someone else. ‘I’ll get the rest of your things.’

‘Just a minute …’ Beth had to ask. ‘Is—was this—I mean, did this room belong to the—the first Mrs Petrie?’

Marya shrugged. ‘I work here for two years only,’ she said, and left the room.

While she was gone, Beth wandered to the windows. Long chiffon curtains hid the handles of the french doors, but they were ajar, and Beth pushed the curtains aside and stepped out on to the balcony. As she had expected, these rooms overlooked the front of the house, and from here she had an uninterrupted view of the ocean. A sweep of white sand descended to waters that were white at the rim but deep turquoise further out. The beach seemed to shelve quite rapidly, and she thought of swimming out there, submerging her body in the water, drifting with the tide …

‘Is everything to your liking?’

Beth turned back into the room at the sound of Willard’s voice. He was standing rather heavily in the doorway, supporting himself against the jamb, and she hurried towards him anxiously.

‘Darling, everything’s perfect, but I have to say it—you do look tired. Won’t you rest for a while? I’m sure—everyone would understand.’

Willard drew a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ he conceded with a faint smile. ‘You’re right, I do feel absolutely shattered. But Clarrie’s preparing lunch——’

‘Clarrie?’ Beth frowned, and then shook her head. ‘Well, never mind now, I’m sure you could have some lunch in bed if you’re hungry. I’ll fetch it up to you myself.’

‘You’re so good—and so beautiful,’ he breathed huskily, reaching out a hand to touch a coil of silvery silk which had fallen over one shoulder. ‘Do you like your room? It was Agnes’s, you know. Barbara must have known that I would want you next to me.’

Beth swallowed a momentary sense of unease. It was the first time Willard had mentioned his first wife by name. And as to Barbara’s motives for giving her the room … She found it harder to be charitable about that, too.

‘Come along,’ she said now. ‘Let me help you to your room. And you can tell me who Clarrie is.’

Willard went with her willingly enough, and Beth saw to her relief that Raoul had departed. She helped Willard on to the bed, and then began very efficiently to strip the clothes from him.

‘Do you have any pyjamas here?’ she asked, looking around, and he nodded towards the chest of drawers in one corner.

‘In there,’ he said wearily, and she was glad she did not have to start rummaging his suitcases looking for night-wear.

His room was very similar in design to her own, with yellow hangings instead of the blue. She folded back the bedspread and helped him between the sheets, then went to the wndows and closed the shutters, instantly cutting the illumination in the room to a filtered twilight.

‘Now,’ she said, approaching the bed again. ‘Shall I bring you some lunch, or would you rather rest a while?’

‘I’d rather rest,’ Willard confessed reluctantly. Then he reached for her hand. ‘Beth, I’m sorry about—about Barbara. She’ll come round, I know she will.’

It was the nearest he had come to admitting that anything was wrong, but Beth had not the heart to ask him questions then. Instead, she bent over him and kissed his forehead, saying softly:

‘You just rest. Everything will work itself out, you’ll see.’

But in her own room again, Beth couldn’t help conceding that she had sounded more confident than she actually felt. Yet anger was a great morale-booster, and it was with irritation she pondered the kind of woman who would let her sick father return home without making any attempt to greet him.

Marya had returned in her absence with the rest of her things, and with a sigh, Beth hoisted her largest case on to the bed and unlocked it. She was halfway through unpacking its contents when there was a knock at her door.

‘Yes?’ she turned automatically, and Marya’s face appeared again.

‘Clarrie says that lunch is ready, miss,’ she announced, her eyes flickering with evident interest over the shreds of underwear strewn across the coverlet.

‘Oh. Thank you, Marya,’ Beth nodded, and with a casual shrug left what she was doing. ‘I’ll come down now.’

‘Yes, miss.’

Marya went ahead along the corridor, her slim hips swaying suggestively under the plain white shift which appeared to be the only garment she was wearing. An apron was tied about her waist, but it only emphasised the sinuous limbs beneath the material, and Beth found herself resenting the girl’s careless sensuality once more. Even so, she had to admit that her own pants were clinging rather tightly to her legs and that the fastening of her bra dug uncomfortably into her heated flesh.

They descended the elegant staircase, and walking down it for the first time, her hand running lightly over the smooth wrought iron rail, Beth couldn’t help feeling a sense of achievement. She was to be mistress here, she thought disbelievingly, and a shiver of excitement feathered along her spine.

Marya crossed the hall and went through one of the arched doorways into an enormous open living area. Regency striped couches, their covers slightly faded with age, were set about the room, there were hand-carved chairs with velvet-cushioned seats, and a French escritoire with rose-leaf marquetry. There were tables, and stools, and more contemporary cupboards, and a vast open fireplace filled with logs for burning. Above the fireplace hung a portrait of Willard, in the robes of some university, painted, Beth suspected, some twenty years before.

They went through this room and out through double doors on to a patio, shaded by a canopy that extended from the wall of the house. It was here that lunch was laid on a square, glass-topped table, flanked by wrought iron chairs with attractively cushioned seats. The table was set for two, but Beth immediately explained that her fiancé would not be joining her.

‘I will tell Clarrie.’ said Marya at once, and went away, leaving Beth to admire the blossom-hung trellis that marked the boundary of the gardens which stretched away from the back of the house. Roses grew in wild profusion beyond the trellis, and she recognised other flowers that were common enough in England between the lush banks of semi-tropical vegetation. But nature had repossessed much of what had once been formal walks and arbours, and while the mass of shrubs and creepers was colourful, it was also untamed and uncultivated.

Marya came back with an extremely fat woman whose face nevertheless creased into a smile when she saw Beth.

‘So you are Mister Willard’s fiancée, are you?’ she asked, regarding the girl critically. ‘Mmm, a little young perhaps, but woman enough, I think.’

Beth’s cheeks flamed. ‘Are you Clarrie?’

‘That’s right.’ The fat woman dug a finger into the mound of flesh that swelled above her middle. ‘I’se the cook here. I used to be nursemaid to Miss Barbara, but now I’se the cook.’

Beth couldn’t take offence. ‘Did Marya tell you that—that Mister Willard doesn’t want anything to eat right now?’

‘She did.’ Clarrie nodded. ‘I seen him earlier. Jest after you come.’ She paused. ‘Miss Barbara says you was his nurse. How is he? Is he really better?’

Apart from Jonas’s evident affection, it was the nearest thing to concern that Beth had heard expressed, and she responded to it. ‘He’s still very weak,’ she admitted. ‘His heart is recovering from the shock, but the muscles are still strained. He must take things easily for a while. Maybe six months. Only time will tell.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Clarrie was digesting this thoughtfully when on impulse Beth asked: ‘What about—Miss Barbara? When will I get to meet her?’

Clarrie’s generous mouth drew in. ‘Miss Barbara will come down in her own good time,’ she declared expressionlessly, turning towards the house. ‘I’ll get the food.’

The meal was delicious—melon balls served with ginger, a shellfish salad that filled her plate, and fresh fruit to follow—but Beth could not do justice to it. She tried to tell herself it was because she was alone, because she had no one to talk to, but it was more than that. She felt curiously vulnerable, and it was not a pleasant experience.

When the meal was over she waited for Clarrie or Marya to come and clear the table so that she could ask them whether they thought it would be all right if she went exploring. But after lingering over her coffee for more than half an hour, with the shadows on the patio lengthening all the while, she eventually left the table and walked back through the huge living room to the hall.

Beyond the archway which led into the living room, long corridors stretched away on either side which she guessed led to the two wings she had seen from the drive. Directly opposite the living room, another archway gave on to what appeared to be a formal dining room, with a long table hedged about with ladder-backed chairs. Here there were more portraits of Willard and his horses, but she was reluctant to venture further without his permission. She was not his wife yet, and besides, she wanted him to show her his home. Even so, it was borne in on her that they couldn’t possibly live in all the rooms of this echoing mansion, and the sense of space was somehow intimidating.

With a sigh, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, passing Willard’s door on silent feet. The faintly droning sound she could hear indicated that he was sleeping, and a relieved smile curved her lips. At least he was home and at peace. Everything else would work itself out.

To her astonishment, someone had been into her room in her absence and unpacked all her cases, hanging away her pants, skirls and dresses in the armoire and folding all her lingerie into the drawers of the chests. Remembering Marya’s inquisitive interest in her clothes, she guessed it must have been her, but somehow the knowledge did not please her. Then she chided herself for her ingratitude, and resolved to thank the maid next time she saw her.

As if by a magnet, she was drawn to the windows once more, and she looked out at the ocean yearningly. Surely Willard wouldn’t object if she just went for a walk along the beach, she thought restlessly, but her damp clothes mocked her detachment. If she went down to the beach now she would be unable to resist going into the water, and that was something she did not intend to do.

She flicked a glance towards her bathroom, and then, coming to a decision, she opened the armoire and pulled out a simple cotton skirt and a sleeveless vest. Collecting clean underwear from the chest, she walked into the bathroom and turned on the taps of the shower.

However, the fitments of the bathroom proved to be more efficient than the plumbing. The water coughed and spluttered its way out of the pipes, and what was more it was icy cold. Beth gasped as the chilly spray probed her warm flesh like frozen needles, but at least it achieved her purpose. When she emerged from the shower to towel herself dry she was shivering, and the ocean outside no longer seemed so appealing. But the heat did, and after brushing her silky hair until her scalp tingled, too, she left her bedroom once more.

The house could have been empty. She saw no one, and she walked outside with a distinct feeling of isolation. The gravelled sweep of the drive curved into a shimmering haze, and she was glad she had put on canvas shoes instead of sandals as the stones crunched under her feet. She crossed the lawns that fronted the dining room she had seen earlier, and walked between the trees to where she could see the sparkling glitter of the water. The salty tang was stronger here, and she breathed deeply, looking along the curve of the bay that arched away to her left.

The house was set on a rocky bluff overlooking a lagoon, and in the distance she could hear the sound of the water breaking on the reef. Shading her eyes, she looked towards the horizon, and then allowed her head to move, taking in the whole sweep of sand that stretched away to her right. It was completely deserted, and while she had not liked the emptiness of the house, a beach had never looked so inviting. She felt like Robinson Crusoe must have felt, discovering that he was alone on the island, and unable to resist, she descended the rocky slope to the sand.

Kicking off her shoes, she allowed the grains to squeeze between her toes. It was incredibly warm, but not uncomfortably so, and she did a little dance of pure enjoyment. Then she ran to the water’s edge and allowed the creaming foam to wash the sand away, giggling as it ran away beneath her causing widening eddies as her weight made a deepening impression.

She turned and looked back towards the house. She thought she could pinpoint which windows were hers and Willard’s, and she wondered if he had awakened yet and was wondering where she was. But no, she decided. He would probably sleep for most of the afternoon, and he would not expect her to sit around in her room waiting for him to wake up.

She decided to walk along the shoreline for a while. It was hot, but she was not one of those people who burned easily, and considering her Scandinavian fairness, she tanned quite easily. A short walk would not harm her, she resolved, and at least the sea would keep her toes cool.

The beach curved, and ahead of her some distance away she could see the jutting arm of the headland. The colour of the water was greener around the headland, and she guessed it was much deeper there where the rocky outcrop made swimming hazardous. But she never tired of looking at the translucent shallows, catching her breath as tiny sandcrabs scuttled out of her path.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.