Dragons Lair
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

ENDPAGE

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

IT was rather stuffy in the small room. The air was heavy with the scent of ageing leather, paper and old-fashioned furniture polish—none of them unpleasant in themselves but oddly oppressive when served up in such a rich mixture. Or was it simply her over-charged emotional state which made them seem so? Davina Greer could not be sure.

She pressed her tongue over her dry lips and cast a longing glance at the tall Georgian windows which gave the impression of having been hermetically sealed since the day they were installed. Then she transferred her gaze to her hands, clasped tensely together in her lap. They were nice-looking hands, she thought judiciously. A little too slender perhaps, but perfectly capable as she had proved over and over again during the past two years. And very bare.

Her lips tightened slightly as almost involuntarily her right hand moved protectively to conceal her left. Surely by this time she should have forgotten what it had been like to wear, briefly, that broad band of antique gold, just as she had tried to forget the emotions she had experienced when it had been placed on her finger.

And in that at least she had succeeded, she thought. Wasn’t that precisely why she was here today?

Mr Bristow was still on the telephone, his voice reassuring, his head nodding firmly as he pressed each point home. They’d hardly had time to do more than exchange a conventional greeting before the call came through, so she had no idea what news he had for her. She stared at the buff folders tied with tape littering the polished top of his desk. One of them she supposed concerned her, but she had no idea which it was. She tried unobtrusively to crane her neck and read some of the names and references printed on the folders, but it was obvious that Mr Bristow was briskly winding up the call, so she leaned back in the comfortable leather chair and tried to give an impression of relaxation.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said as he replaced the receiver. ‘Slight case of panic, I’m afraid.’

‘And you’re looking at another.’ She tried a laugh, but it wasn’t a great success.

Mr Bristow’s eyes studied her keenly for a moment, then he reached for one of the files. It was a very thin one, she noticed, containing only a few papers.

She tried again. ‘I—I hope you have good news for me?’

Mr Bristow pursed his lips. ‘I’m afraid not, or more truthfully, I have no news at all. Your—er—Mr Lloyd has simply not answered any of my letters.’

‘I see.’ Davina bit her lip. ‘Well, perhaps he hasn’t received them. If he’s still moving around all the time …’

Mr Bristow shook his head. ‘When there was no response to the first letter, I sent the remainder by recorded delivery,’ he said. ‘And Mr Lloyd is certainly not—moving around at present. He’s been back in Britain for some considerable time, or so we discovered when we traced him.’

‘Back in Britain?’ Davina echoed bewilderedly. ‘But when? There’s been nothing in the papers about it.’

‘Perhaps he wanted it that way,’ Mr Bristow suggested. He gave the papers in front of him a frowning look. ‘I can assure you that our information is quite correct. He’s resident at present at'—his frown deepened—'Plas Gwyn, Moel y Ddraig. I’m not at all sure my pronunciation is correct, but …’

‘I get the general idea,’ Davina said with a touch of impatience. She was secretly appalled, and her mind was whirling madly. She had accustomed herself for so long to the idea that Gethyn was at a safe distance on the other side of the Atlantic that the news that he had returned quietly, without the blaze of publicity which had attended the majority of his comings and goings in the past, was a severe shock.

At least she could be thankful that he was not actually here in London, she told herself.

She swallowed, forcing herself to speak calmly. ‘So he’s back in Wales. Well, that should make things—easier, surely?’

‘Not if he refuses to reply to our letters,’ Mr Bristow pointed out. ‘Can you think of any explanation for his continuing silence? When you first consulted me, you gave me the strongest impression that your—Mr Lloyd would be only too glad to consent to a divorce.’

Davina’s hands were gripped together so tightly that her knuckles showed white. She said evenly, ‘That was what I had every reason to believe. My—my husband’s—exploits during our separation have been well-enough documented.’ The colour rose faintly in her cheeks. ‘I can’t imagine a single reason why he should wish to prolong this—farce a day longer than necessary.’

Mr Bristow sighed. ‘As I pointed out to you before, newspaper gossip in itself does not constitute acceptable evidence. And you realise of course that if your husband does not give his written consent to the divorce you would have to wait a further three years for your freedom.’

‘But that’s monstrous!’ Davina was indignant.

‘It’s the law,’ Mr Bristow reminded her placidly. He hesitated for a moment. ‘I can always write again, pressing Mr Lloyd for a reply, but I was wondering … Have you—er—Miss Greer—considered the personal approach?’

‘Are you suggesting that I should go to Gethyn and—ask him to agree to a divorce?’

‘It has been done before,’ Mr Bristow said drily. ‘It could result in a perfectly amicable arrangement, particularly as there are only the two of you concerned. Sometimes where there are children to be considered, difficulties can arise, but that isn’t the case here.’

‘No,’ Davina said woodenly. ‘That—isn’t the case. But I was hoping to avoid having to see my husband again.’

‘I think some kind of interview is almost inevitable,’ Mr Bristow said kindly. ‘For one thing, we have to convince the court that a real attempt has been made at reconciliation.’

Davina’s face burned hotly. ‘That’s totally impossible.’

‘Perhaps, but you must at least go through the motions, Miss Greer. It’s not sufficient, I’m afraid, merely to remove your wedding ring and revert to your maiden name. The divorce laws may have eased in recent years, but they are not yet that lax,’ he remarked with something like asperity. ‘Perhaps you would care to think over what I have said and then let me have your further instructions in a day or two.’

‘Yes,’ Davina gave him a constrained smile as she rose to her feet. ‘Maybe that would be best.’

‘I’m sure it would.’ Mr Bristow came round the desk to shake hands cordially with her at the door. ‘Divorce is a messy business, Miss Greer, at the best of times. If there is a chance of reducing the unpleasantness to any extent, then I think you should take it.’

Davina’s thoughts were in total confusion as she emerged from the offices to the warmth of the summer afternoon outside. Officially, she had the rest of the afternoon off, and she supposed she should go home where her mother would be eager to hear what had happened. But she would be expecting to hear that Gethyn had agreed to the divorce and that a date had already been set for the hearing, Davina thought wryly. What had actually transpired would be much less acceptable. Besides, this was one of her mother’s bridge afternoons, and Davina had no wish for her private affairs to feature over the tea-cups once the game was over.

She paused irresolutely on the crowded pavement, then hailed a passing taxi, telling the driver to take her to the Park. At least she would be delaying the inevitable recriminations for a while. Also the stuffy atmosphere in Mr Bristow’s room seemed to have given her a slight headache and she wanted to be able to think clearly.

She had been completely taken aback by Mr Bristow’s suggestion that she should seek Gethyn out and ask him to allow the divorce to go ahead. He had made it all sound so civilised and reasonable, she thought blankly, but then he had not had to suffer those few brief weeks of her marriage to Gethyn.

People said, didn’t they, that to marry in haste was to repent at leisure. Well, she could vouch for the truth of that. Her marriage had been the wild, extravagant impulse of an hour and almost as soon regretted. And now her two years of repentance were drawing to an end and she could be free again—but only if Gethyn agreed. This was what stuck in her throat—this dependence on the whim of a man she had not even seen for two years. That, and the knowledge that he was probably maintaining this silence deliberately to annoy and worry her. There could be no other reason. He had no more wish to continue this nominal relationship than she had.

She paid off the driver and walked slowly into the Park. There were people everywhere and the sun shone down out of a cloudless sky, but Davina felt cold and alone.

Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea after all, she thought, skirting a pair of lovers entwined on the grass and oblivious of everything but each other. Once—a long time ago—she and Gethyn had lain like that in this very park and let the world walk indulgently past them. She bit her lip, remembering how he had overcome her reluctance, her protests, drawing her down beside him with compelling hands, his eyes narrowed against the sun laughing up at her, reducing her scruples to absurdity.

Then his mouth had found hers and she was lost, caught in a web of delight from which not even the thought of her mother’s shocked disapproval of such conduct could release her. His lips had explored her face, her throat and shoulders, rousing her nerve-endings to rapturous life. She had been amazed by the ardour of her own response, scared by the feelings his lightest touch could evoke. It had been Gethyn who had moved away first, she recalled painfully, levering himself away from her and sitting for a moment, his head buried in his hands. Then he had looked up and seen her, watching him anxiously, her face flushed, her eyes enormous, her mouth blurred and swollen a little from his passion, and the harshness of his dark face had softened momentarily.

‘Come on.’ He got lithely to his feet. ‘Let’s get out of here before we get arrested.’

The following day, over lunch, he had abruptly asked her to marry him. And she, bewitched by his lovemaking into a frank longing to belong to him completely, had eagerly agreed. It was only later—a long time later—that it occurred to her that he had never said he loved her.

Davina quickened her steps, instinctively fighting the torment that she had released upon herself with these memories. What a child she had been, she lashed herself derisively. No doubt Gethyn had supposed that at nineteen she shared the slick, knowing sophistication of most of her contemporaries. Her eager innocence must have come as an unwelcome surprise to him.

Her mother’s opposition to the marriage had been instant and hostile.

‘You can’t marry him,’ Mrs Greer said, her face white and pinched. ‘A man like that! He must be twice your age, and he’s positively uncouth.’

‘He’s a writer—a poet.’ Davina had tried to reason with her. ‘I know he doesn’t correspond with your idea of one—but he’s famous already …’

‘On the strength of two novels and a few poems,’ her mother had sneered. ‘A television celebrity—until the next nine-day wonder comes along, and then he’ll soon be forgotten about.’

‘Uncle Philip doesn’t think so.’

‘Of course your uncle would defend him.’ Mrs Greer smiled thinly. ‘He’s his publisher, after all. Oh God, I wish you’d never gone to that party, then you would never have met him.’

‘Oh, but I would.’ Davina lifted her head, her eyes shining. ‘It was fate.’

‘Fate!’ her mother scoffed angrily, and turned away. ‘Well, you won’t marry with my consent, Davina.’

‘Then we’ll marry without it,’ Davina said angrily, and saw her mother flinch. Compunction overcame her then, and she went to her, laying a hand on her arm. ‘Mother, if you would just get to know Gethyn—properly.’

‘As you do, I suppose,’ Mrs Greer returned impatiently. ‘How long has this—whirlwind courtship lasted? Three weeks? Do you really imagine that’s a sufficient period of time to find out about a man with whom you intend to spend the rest of your life? If you must continue with this —relationship, why not just become engaged? At least one can withdraw from an engagement honourably before too much harm is done—but marriage!’ Mrs Greer shuddered.

‘I don’t want to withdraw from it,’ Davina said desperately. ‘And neither does Gethyn.’

Her mother’s lip curled. ‘That I can well understand. He’s doing very well for himself, after all. A miner’s son from some obscure pit village in Wales, marrying his publisher’s niece. Another rung on the ladder from rags to riches. Of course he wants to go through with it. He’d be a fool not to. No doubt by now someone will have told him about the money that’s to come to you from your father’s estate when you’re twenty-five, and that will be an added incentive.’

There was a long silence, and then Davina said huskily, ‘That—that’s an appalling thing to say.’

‘The truth often does hurt,’ he mother returned inimically.

Mrs Greer had not attended the ceremony at Caxton Hall a few days later. Uncle Philip had been there, however, with Gethyn’s agent Alec Marks to act as the other witness. It had been swift and rather impersonal and very far from the sort of wedding she had once day-dreamed about when she was younger. Gethyn was different too in a dark formal suit which contrasted strangely with the denims and dark roll-collared sweaters she was accustomed to seeing him wear.

That was what he had been wearing the first time she saw him at the party Uncle Philip had given to launch his new volume of poetry. Poems were often considered by publishers to be a drug on the market, and yet this book would sell, her uncle knew, because Gethyn Lloyd had written it.

The first thing Davina had thought when she set eyes on him was that he didn’t look at all like the star of the show. She had been at many such parties in the past, and writers often, she found, behaved either with a becoming diffidence or an excessive eagerness to please when confronted by the media men, or sometimes both. Not so Gethyn Lloyd.

He hadn’t been the tallest man in the room, yet he had seemed so. There was something about his lean, muscular body, the dark harsh lines of his face, that made the other men seem positively effete. He stood a little apart, gazing broodingly into the glass he held, his dark brows drawn frowningly together above that hawk’s beak of a nose which surely must have been broken at some stage in his career. Then he had looked up suddenly, so suddenly that she had been unable to avert her gaze in time, and his cool green eyes had locked startlingly with hers. And the firm sensual lines of his mouth had relaxed into a smile—not the hurtful mockery she had come so painfully to know later—but with a charm that made her heart turn over.

He came to her side, dealing summarily with a woman journalist from a popular daily who tried to detain him. His eyes swept over her, missing nothing, she thought dazedly, from the dark auburn hair piled smoothly on top of her shapely head to the silver buckles on the shoes just visible beneath the deep plum velvet trousers.

‘I don’t know who you are, but I’d like to take you to dinner tonight.’ His voice was low and resonant, with an underlying lilt which was undeniably attractive.

She smiled. ‘Perhaps you’ll change your mind when you learn my identity,’ she said lightly. ‘I’m Davina Greer.’

He studied her reflectively for a moment, then swung to look at Philip Greer, deep in conversation at the opposite end of the room. ‘Daughter? You’re not much alike.’

‘Niece—and I’m supposed to resemble my mother’s side of the family.’

‘Hm.’ That devastating green glance was on her again, assessing the candour of her hazel eyes under their long sweep of lashes, the high delicacy of her cheekbones and the sweet vulnerable curve of her mouth. ‘Then I must meet her. They say, don’t they, that if you want to know what your girl will look like in years to come, take a look at her mother.’

‘Do they?’ She lifted her brows coolly, trying to conceal the instinctive tremor that had gone through her when he’d said ‘your girl’. ‘I’ve never heard that before.’

‘Oh, I’ve a fund of such information,’ he said softly. ‘Stick with me, lovely, and you could learn a lot.’

She was on her guard instantly, aware that there was an implication in his words that put them squarely into the category of doubtful remarks, to be dealt with by cool politeness. She gave him a formal smile, and changed the subject.

‘Will you be in London long, Mr Lloyd?’

‘Long enough.’ His eyes never left her face. ‘And at least until I’ve persuaded you to have dinner with me.’

‘You’re very persistent,’ she said helplessly.

‘I’ve been accused of worse things,’ he returned laconically. He put out a finger and lifted her chin slightly, forcing her to look at him. ‘What’s the matter? Surely I can’t be the first man who’s fancied you?’

No, she thought, but you’re the first man I’ve ever—fancied, and I don’t know what to do. I’m frightened.

She smiled again, moved slightly so that his hand was no longer even fractionally against her skin. ‘Well, hardly.’

‘So what’s the problem, lovely?’

She managed to meet his gaze. ‘Nothing, I suppose. Thank you, Mr Lloyd. I’d like to have dinner with you.’

Which was a tame way to describe this sweet insidious excitement which was beginning to take possession of her.

‘Good.’ He drained the contents of his glass. ‘Shall we go?’

She stared at him. ‘But the party—it isn’t over yet.’

‘It is as far as I’m concerned. I’ve answered all their questions. Now I’m leaving them in peace to drink and talk at each other, and that’s what they really want to do. Most of them only came here today anyway because someone in the higher echelons suddenly decided that poetry might be trendy. Besides, there’s always a story in me—a miner’s son who can actually string words together like a real person.’

‘That’s rather bitter, isn’t it?’

‘Probably, but it’s the way I’m feeling at the moment. Indepth interviews and expensive whisky seem to affect me like that. I’m relying on you to exorcise all my evil spirits.’

‘That sounds a tall order on such a short acquaintance.’ She pulled a wry face.

‘Who said our acquaintance was going to be short?’ he said. ‘And you don’t have to worry. I think, if you wanted, you could coax wild beasts and dragons to eat out of your hand if you put your mind to it.’

She was embarrassed at the personal turn to the conversation and took refuge in flippancy. ‘Even a Welsh dragon?’

He gave her a long look, and she made herself meet it steadily.

‘Oh, that most of all, girl,’ he said. ‘That most of all.’

Somehow she found herself apologising to Uncle Philip for her early departure and calling goodbyes to the surprised glances which were noting it around the room.

As they waited for the lift in the corridor, she began to laugh.

‘It’s far too early for dinner. There won’t be a restaurant open.’

‘Then we’ll walk and talk and generally further our short acquaintance.’ He allowed her to precede him into the lift. The doors closed noiselessly, shutting them into a tight enclosed world where they were quite alone.

Davina said breathlessly, ‘We need the ground floor. You have to press the button.’

He slanted a glance at her. ‘I’ve been in lifts before. Why are you so nervous?’

She moistened her lips. ‘I’m not.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Davina. Not now, not ever. What do you imagine I’m going to do? Leap on you?’

She felt herself go crimson. ‘Of course not,’ she denied too quickly.

His lips twisted slightly. ‘Then you’re far too trusting,’ he told her mockingly, and sent the lift on its way to street level.

She was recalled abruptly back to the present as a child’s coloured ball bounced towards her and she instinctively put out a foot to stop it. She stood quite still for a moment, assimilating her surroundings, and telling herself that these things were all in the past now and could only have the power to hurt her if she allowed them to. But her eyes were stinging suddenly and she fumbled in her handbag for her dark glasses, insisting to herself that it was only the sunlight that was too strong.

She was dazzled now, as she’d been dazzled then, and as she walked on, the words, ‘Too trusting. Too trusting …’ began to sound a bitter knell in her tired brain.

In the end, she took another taxi and went back to the office. The publishing firm of Hanson Greer was situated in a quiet street not far from the Post Office Tower. She pushed open the glass door and went in with a smile for the receptionist in her panelled cubicle. She accepted a list of the people who had telephoned her during her absence and took the lift up to her office.

Her mother had not wanted her to work here, yet at the time it had seemed a perfectly logical thing to do. Her father had been a director of the firm until his death, and if she had been a boy, it would have been quite natural for her to follow him into publishing. And this was supposed to be the age of equal opportunities, so … Besides, Uncle Philip’s offer of a job had come just when she needed it most—when she was looking round desperately for something to fill this emotional vacuum inside herself, and she had seized it with relief.

She knew the reason for her mother’s opposition, of course. She was terrified that Davina would be brought into contact with Gethyn again through her work. But it hadn’t happened. For one thing, as far as she had known until today Gethyn was still in America, teaching creative writing at some New England college. And for another, in the two years they had been apart, he had apparently not produced another manuscript of his own. While he had been in the States, he had written the screenplay for the successful film of his first book, A Power for Good, but no new work had been forthcoming from him, and although he had never discussed it with her, Davina knew this had been a major disappointment for her uncle.

She went into her small room and sat down with a sigh, her eyes fixed absently on the scrap of paper in her hand. She really ought to make a start on returning these calls. One of them at least would probably be urgent. But the names and numbers kept dancing meaninglessly in front of her eyes, and eventually she dropped the piece of paper impatiently into her in-tray to await her attention in the morning.

Her door opened and the smooth fair head of Jan Preston, her uncle’s secretary, appeared.

‘Oh, you are back,’ she exclaimed in surprise. ‘I’ve been trying to get you at home. Mr Greer would like a word with you.’

Davina groaned inwardly. For a moment she toyed with the idea of asking Jan to forget she had seen her while she made her escape, but she soon abandoned it. Jan was a pleasant woman, but she was simply not on those kind of terms with her. So instead she smiled and murmured her thanks, promising she would be along presently.

When Jan vanished, she got up and walked the few paces to the window. There was little to see but a patch of sky framed by other people’s roofs, and the odd pigeon or two, but when she had first come there, she had spent a lot of time staring out at that limited view until she felt she knew every slate and every Victorian chimneypot.

Her fingers drummed restlessly on the white-painted sill. She knew why Uncle Philip wanted to see her, of course. He knew precisely where she had been that afternoon, and could presumably restrain his curiosity no longer.

She supposed she could not blame him under the circumstances. After all, the other party involved was one of his protegés, a writer for whom he had confidently predicted great things. And he had been right. Both Gethyn’s novels had been runaway best-sellers, here and in the States, and he promised to become a major force in the poetic world as well. Since then—two years of silence.

Her uncle’s voice sounded preoccupied as he called out 'Come in’ in reply to her brief tap on the door. He was dictating some letters into a dictaphone as she entered and he signalled to her to take a seat while he went On talking ‘… and shall look forward to seeing you on the 21st. Yours.’ He switched off the machine and smiled at her.

‘Hello, my dear. How did it go? Did this tame lawyer your mother found produce the goods?’

‘Well,’ Davina considered her polished fingernails, ‘at least he’s produced Gethyn. He’s back in Wales. Did you know?’

‘No.’ Was it her imagination, or had there been a slight pause before the monosyllable? Davina glanced up quickly, but Philip Greer was leaning back in his chair, his frowning gaze fixed musingly on a ballpoint pen he was twirling in his fingers. ‘But all the same I’m pleased to hear it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it might just mean he’s ready to settle down and get some work done—some real work.’

Davina bent her head. ‘I see.’

Philip Greer gazed at her rather ironically. ‘What did you expect me to say? I haven’t any other hopes where Gethyn’s concerned any more. I’m resigned to the fact that you’re determined to put an end to this marriage of yours.’

She looked up indignantly. ‘Well, what do you expect?’ she demanded in turn. ‘This marriage of mine, as you put it, hasn’t existed for two years. It barely existed before then.’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘If I’d ignored my upbringing and simply gone to bed with Gethyn, it need never have taken place at all. Now there’s an irony for you!’

Philip Greer made an abrupt movement. ‘If you’re saying that the basis for your marriage was no more than physical attraction, then I should point out that a great many successful unions have started out on little else.’

‘I see,’ she said again. ‘Perhaps I pitched my own expectations too high.’

He sighed. ‘Now I’ve made you angry, my dear, and I didn’t intend that. I’ve always felt—responsible in some ways for what happened between you and Gethyn, and I know your mother shares my viewpoint,’ he added wryly.

She flushed. ‘I know. I’ve tried to tell her …’

‘My dear, no one will ever convince Vanessa about anything she doesn’t wish to hear. And I’m afraid she “took agin” Gethyn the first time she saw him. And he didn’t help, of course. He needn’t have made it quite so clear that he was indifferent to her and her opinion of him. If he’d just pretended …’

She gave a strained smile. ‘Pretence was beyond him, I’m afraid. He—he couldn’t even pretend with me—pretend that I mattered, or that he cared, even a little.’

‘Are you so sure he didn’t?’

‘Uncle Philip,’ Davina stared at him, ‘how can you ask that? You know what happened. He was in the States and I was here—in hospital, losing his baby. I sent for him—I begged him to come back and be with me. But he was far too busy with some television chat show. He just didn’t want to know. Every time the door opened in that hospital room, I thought it was going to be him. Only it never was. And even then, I swallowed my pride when it was all over and telephoned him. Do you know the answer I got? He was resting and couldn’t be disturbed. Later that night I wrote to him and told him I was leaving him. He never replied to my letter either, and I’ve never heard from him from that day to this.’ She forced a smile. ‘I’m sorry about the downbeat ending, but …’

‘Don’t be flip, my dear. It’s unsuitable in this context.’ Her uncle was silent for a while. ‘I can only say that I find his—lack of response totally incredible. I can’t help wondering if it would have made any difference if you had gone to see him, instead of writing. Letters can go astray, you know. Phone messages may not always be passed on, and sometimes are distorted in the re-telling. Did it ever occur to you that there might have been some—misunderstanding?’

‘One, perhaps. Not three,’ she said quietly. ‘And I feel sure his silence was—is—deliberate. He won’t answer my solicitor’s letters either.’

Philip Greer raised his eyebrows. ‘Indeed? So what’s the next move?’

‘I’m not altogether sure.’ She hesitated. ‘Mr Bristow has suggested that I should do—what you’ve just said—go and see Gethyn and try and talk him into agreeing to a divorce.’

‘And you said?’

‘I didn’t know what to say. Frankly, I was stunned.’

‘But you didn’t reject the idea out of hand?’

‘No.’ Davina paused bleakly. ‘I wouldn’t reject any idea that might help me to be free of him.’

‘Hm.’ Her uncle gave her a narrow look. ‘Well, if you do decide to seek him out, I wouldn’t be quite so frank. In fact, it’s a pity that the divorce has to be your sole motive for going to Wales. Now I wonder …’ he relapsed into frowning silence. Then he glanced at her. ‘How would it be if this was ostensibly a business trip? After all, Gethyn is still under contract to us, and we need another book from him. Go and see him—but as my representative, not as his estranged wife. Don’t even mention Bristow’s letters or the divorce, unless he does.’

Davina shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t be taken in by that.’

‘I’m not saying he would be, but at least he wouldn’t be expecting it. I also know Gethyn, my dear, and I’m sure an oblique approach would work best. It’s a pity we didn’t think of it before your mother involved Bristow, but it’s too late to do anything about that now. What I’m trying to say is that you won’t get what you want by flying off to Wales and quarrelling with Gethyn. That would only harden his attitude, and that’s the last thing you want to do.’

‘Yes.’ Davina was silent for a moment. ‘I suppose it’s worth a try. At least it’s better than doing nothing—than just waiting for Gethyn to make the first move.’

Philip Greer tapped his upper lip thoughtfully with his forefinger. ‘Tell him too that there could be another tour in the offing. Oh, it’s quite true,’ he added hastily, meeting Davina’s quizzical look. ‘There have been a number of overtures in the past few months. I’ve just been waiting for the psychological moment to put it to Gethyn. I had to sell the last one to him, as a matter of fact, but you probably know that.’

Yes, Davina thought, as she walked slowly back to her own office. She had known that. But not until afterwards—after she had agreed to marry Gethyn. And then it had been altogether different because the trip to America was going to be their honeymoon—not the handful of nights in the suite of a luxury hotel which Uncle Philip was giving them as a wedding present. She had been as excited as a child at Christmas at the prospect, thrilled to the core as well because Gethyn had told her that if she hadn’t wanted to go with him, he would have called the whole thing off. It gave her a wonderful feeling of power, a feeling of being necessary. It had been a delusion, of course, as she quickly found out, but for that brief time she had never been happier. She had dreamed of the places they would see together—New York, San Francisco, even New Orleans.

‘And Niagara Falls,’ Gethyn had said, grinning. ‘Isn’t that where all self-respecting honeymooners go?’

Only by the time he had left for the States—alone—the honeymoon was already over.

Davina closed her door behind her, and sank down in the chair behind her desk, reaching automatically for the manuscript on top of the pile in front of her. She began to read it, forcing herself relentlessly to concentrate, but it was useless. It was the story of a failed marriage, and even in the first chapter there were words, phrases, scraps of dialogue which struck a painful chord in her own memory. At last she pushed it almost desperately to one side and buried her head in her folded arms on the desktop.

When had it all started to go wrong? she asked herself. Hadn’t her mother sown the first seeds of doubt, even before the wedding ceremony had taken place? She had come into Davina’s room on the morning of the wedding and watched her as she packed a suitcase.

Davina had just been smoothing the folds of a filmy drift of nightgown when she had caught sight of her mother’s expression in the dressing-table mirror, her eyes hooded, her lips thin with distaste.

‘Mother,’ she had said, gently enough, ‘please try to be happy for me.’

‘Happy?’ Her mother’s laugh had been almost shrill. ‘Happy that you’re rushing headlong into marriage with a complete stranger? You may think you know all you need to know, but you’re a child. What do you know of men—of what living with a man means? I was fortunate. Your father was a kind man—considerate, undemanding. But he won’t be like that. You’d better enjoy your innocence while you can. It won’t be yours much longer. Wait until you’ve been alone with him, tonight, and then talk to me about happiness!’

She had turned then and gone from the room, leaving Davina staring after her with startled eyes and parted lips. She had resumed her packing, but the golden glow which surrounded her had dissipated somewhat. It was the nearest her mother had come, or ever would come, she realised, to discussing the sexual relationship with her. She had always sensed instinctively that her parents’ marriage had been lacking in certain aspects. Widowhood, she had often thought wryly, suited her mother far better than being a wife had done. But this was the first time Mrs Greer had ever spoken openly on the subject, and made her disgust plain.

And later when she arrived at Caxton Hall and saw Gethyn waiting for her, tall and unfamiliar in his dark suit, her mother’s words had returned to her mind with paralysing force, freezing the smile on her lips. Even while the registrar was marrying them, she could feel Gethyn’s eyes on her, questioningly. Afterwards Uncle Philip had taken them to the Ritz and they had drunk champagne, and she had found herself acting the part of the radiant bride, laughing that little bit too much, smiling until her mouth ached. And all the time knowing that he was watching her, and not wanting to meet his eyes in case she read in them a message she wasn’t ready for yet. But she had to be ready, that was the whole point. She was his wife now and very soon now they would be alone and he would take her in his arms and everything would be all right. She held on to that thought with quiet desperation. She was just being stupid —bridal nerves. That was all it was—it had to be.

After all, in the past weeks there had been times when she had clung to Gethyn, glorying in his desire for her, but armoured at the same time, she realised, by the iron self-control he seemed to be able to exercise where she was concerned. Now there was no longer any need for that control. She belonged to him.

She sat beside him in the taxi as they drove to the small flat he was renting to fetch his own case, not touching him and thankful for the taxi-driver’s cheerful presence. She would liked to have made an excuse and waited for him in the cab, but he made it quite clear he expected her to accompany him up to the flat. She stood silently while he unlocked the door and then walked ahead of him into the small living room. This was all strange too, she thought, even though it was where they would be living when they returned from the hotel until they left again for the U.S.A. She wandered round the room while Gethyn collected some things from the bedroom. It was difficult to imagine herself sitting in either of the fireside chairs reading while Gethyn worked at the table behind her. She peered into the kitchenette where she would soon be cooking the meals and a feeling of total inadequacy began to invade her.

It was as if some romantic veil had been suddenly torn from her eyes and she was seeing life as it really was for the first time. Where had they gone—all those hours she had spent with Gethyn, wandering round art galleries, browsing through bookshops? He had taken her to dinner, to the theatre, walked with her along the Embankment and through the parks. Sometimes he had kissed her, and she put a hand almost fearfully against her lips. It wasn’t a great deal on which to base a relationship as intimate as marriage, yet this was what she had done. What did she know about him really—except where he had been to school and university and the titles of the books he had written? She knew his parents were dead and that he was an only child like herself, and preferred Italian food to Chinese. She shook her head almost dazedly.

She heard a board creak behind her and turned to find him leaning against the bedroom door jamb watching her. He had discarded his jacket and loosened his tie and looked completely at home, which she supposed he was. She was the stranger here. The little fish, suddenly and disastrously out of water.

‘Come here.’ His tone was gentle enough, but there was an underlying note of command, of ownership even, which made her mouth dry.

She tried to smile. ‘The taxi will be waiting.’

His brows rose lazily. ‘I sent the taxi away. We can call another when we’re ready. Now, come here.’

Her reluctance must have been obvious for by the time her lagging steps had got her across the room to him, he had straightened with a jerk and was frowning.

‘It’s a little soon for second thoughts, isn’t it?’ he asked sarcastically, and she flushed.

‘I—I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Of course you know,’ he jibed. ‘Any resemblance between you and the loving girl I kissed last night is purely coincidental. My God, I don’t think you’ve touched me voluntarily all day.’ He took her by the shoulders, his eyes searching hers. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’

‘Nothing,’ she lied. ‘It’s all been a bit of a strain, that’s all. And Mummy was being—difficult this morning.’

Gethyn murmured something under his breath that she prudently failed to hear. Then his grip had tightened, compelling her towards him.

‘Hello, wife,’ he said quietly, and bent and kissed her on the mouth. She made herself remain passive under his touch, waiting for that familiar warm tide of feeling to engulf her, but there was nothing. It was as if her warm flesh and blood had been transformed to marble. She was incapable of even the slightest response, and presently he released her. She had closed her eyes involuntarily as he had bent towards her, and she kept them closed, afraid to encounter his anger, until she knew that he had moved away.

When she ventured to open them, she found he had returned to the bedroom and was focussing all his attention on fastening the straps round his case. She bit her lip.

‘Shall I make some coffee?’ She strove for normality.

‘If you want some,’ he said, his voice expressionless. ‘Can you find everything?’

‘Well, I shall have to learn some time,’ she returned without thinking, and blushed stormily as his sardonic gaze met hers.

‘That’s true,’ he observed smoothly, and swung the case from the bed to the floor. She turned away hastily and went to the kitchenette. She filled the kettle and plugged it in, and found the remains of a pint of milk in the refrigerator.

She was searching through the cupboards for the jar of coffee when Gethyn came in. Immediately the admittedly cramped area of the kitchen seemed to shrink to the proportions of a postage stamp.

‘Look,’ she pointed to the milk. ‘That wants using up.’

‘Perhaps.’ He came to the cupboard and leaned down, his arm brushing hers. It was as much as she could do not to flinch. He produced the coffee jar and set it down on the narrow worktop. ‘Unless we decide to stay.’

‘To stay?’ She could hear the nervousness in her own voice, and knew it would not be lost on him either. ‘But we’re going to the hotel.’

‘I’m not so sure that’s such a good idea.’ His face was enigmatic as he spooned coffee into the waiting beakers. ‘This is going to be our home, at least on a temporary basis. I don’t see why we shouldn’t move straight in, and forgo your uncle’s offer, kind though it was.’

‘Oh, but we couldn’t!’ The kettle was boiling and she moved hurriedly to swith it off.

‘Why not?’ He leaned one elbow on the worktop, watching her levelly. ‘Careful of that kettle. You’re going to scald yourself.’

She set it down, her heart thumping. ‘Because—because it would hurt Uncle Phil’s feelings. It’s his wedding present to us and …’

‘I could phone him and explain the situation. I’m sure he would understand.’

‘Well, that’s more than I do.’ She lifted the kettle and filled the beakers.

‘I simply get the feeling that the implications of the bridal suite are proving a little too much for you at the moment,’ he said unemotionally. ‘I’ll ask him just to postpone it for a few months, if you like, until you’re in a mood to appreciate it more.’

She was panic-stricken. The flat was so small. What possibility of privacy did it afford? She added a splash of milk to her coffee and sipped at it almost distractedly. She preferred it with sugar, but she did not wish Gethyn to join her on another search for the commodity. She thought fast.

‘I think it’s too late to change our minds now,’ she said rapidly. ‘The hotel will be expecting us. Besides, I didn’t really expect to have to do housework on my honeymoon.’

It should have sounded coquettish, but it came out as petulance, and she wished it unsaid. Gethyn’s dark face was still and enigmatic.

He said coolly, ‘As you wish, then,’ and drank his coffee with a slight grimace.

While he phoned for a taxi to take them to the hotel, Davina rinsed the beakers under the tap. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the kitchen window, her eyes much wider and brighter than usual, but that could be the champagne, and a tiny flush of colour high on her cheekbones. She looked as if she was running a temperature, yet inside she felt deathly cold.

She was still cold when the hotel porter ushered them into the suite. Everything was there waiting for them— more champagne on ice, red roses—lovers’ flowers, filling the air with their scent, baskets of fruit. She glanced round and saw through the half-open door the gleam of a gold satin bedspread, and hurriedly averted her gaze. Gethyn was tipping the man, who was asking, after an appreciative word of thanks, if they wished to have dinner in the suite rather than downstairs in the restaurant.

‘We’ll dine up here,’ Gethyn said. ‘We can order later, I suppose.’

‘Of course, sir.’ The man’s voice was deferential, eager to please.

‘Oh no,’ Davina broke in, aghast. ‘I—I mean—wouldn’t it be more fun to have dinner downstairs …’ Her voice tailed away uncomfortably. She knew that they were both looking at her, the porter with a kind of sly amusement under his deferential manner, and Gethyn with an anger that held no deference at all. He turned to the porter.

‘My wife prefers the restaurant. Perhaps you would make the necessary arrangements.’

When the door closed behind the man, he said softly and chillingly, ‘Do you think you could manage to conceal this aversion you have for being alone with me in front of the hotel staff?’

He strode across the sitting room to a door on the opposite side and opened it, glancing in. He was smiling when he turned, but his eyes were like green ice.

‘The instinct that brought you here was quite right, lovely. Every modern convenience at your disposal—even a second bedroom for the bestowal of an importunate bridegroom.’ He stared round the luxurious sitting room. ‘And what shall we call this, eh? No Man’s Land, perhaps? Shall I wait for you here when it gets to dinner time, or would you prefer to eat separately too?’

She said, and there was a sob under her breath, ‘Gethyn?’ She was asking for his tenderness, his understanding, but he had gone and the door was shut behind him. She was alone and afraid.

With a long shuddering sigh, Davina sat up at her desk and pushed her hair back wearily from her pale face. She was still alone, she thought. But at least she was no longer afraid, and to prove it she would go to this place in Wales and meet Gethyn face to face once again.

CHAPTER TWO

THE signpost for Moel y Ddraig had said four miles, but Davina seemed to have been driving for hours and there was still no sign of any habitation. The narrow road wound determinedly on ahead of her, leading her deeper and deeper into the very heart of the valley.

She had encountered little other traffic, so she had been able to pay some heed to the beauty around her. It was wild and rugged when compared to some of the rounded green hills she had seen that day, with harsh, rocky outcrops thrusting through the short green turf and clumps of purple heather. There seemed to be sheep grazing everywhere, like tiny tufts of cotton wool against the vivid landscape. The sky was a deep tranquil blue with only the faintest tracery of high white cloud.

If only this had been the start of a holiday, Davina thought ruefully, she might have imagined herself in heaven. As it was, not even the wild charm of the valley could rid her of the insidious feeling of dread that was beginning to pervade her consciousness. She was already regretting quite bitterly that she had ever set out on this strange journey.

But she wouldn’t turn round and go back. Now she was here, she would go through with it. In her briefcase was a letter from Uncle Philip, setting out details of the proposed American tour—her credentials for being here. Not that she expected Gethyn to be taken in by that for one minute. It was merely a face-saver and she knew it, but at least her presence here in Wales would mean that she could test his feelings about divorce.

She had tried quite vainly to explain this to her mother. Mrs Greer had been stunned into silence when Davina had awkwardly broken the news of her proposed trip and its dual purpose. Then, and more disturbingly, she had burst into tears.

‘You’re going back to him,’ she had repeated over and over again. ‘In spite of everything that’s happened, you’re going back to him.’

‘No.’ Davina had attempted to reason with her. ‘I’m going solely to find out, if I can, why he has ignored Mr Bristow’s letters. And I have some papers from Uncle Philip to deliver as well.’

‘Oh, yes, Philip!’ Her mother had rounded on her, her eyes flashing. ‘Naturally, he’s involved. He’d be glad to see you reconciled to that—creature, if only to spite me. He’s never liked me.’

Davina felt suddenly very weary. ‘If Uncle Philip really felt like that, I doubt whether he’d go to these lengths to show it,’ she said. ‘This tour that’s being laid on is quite genuine.’

Mrs Greer produced a lace-trimmed handkerchief and sat twisting it in her hands. Her eyes when she looked at Davina were brooding and full of resentment.

‘I still see no need for you to go,’ she said. ‘If it’s all that important, Philip could go himself—or send someone else.’

‘He is sending someone else,’ Davina insisted gently. ‘He’s sending me. I do work for Hanson Greer, you know. Please try to understand, Mother. The easiest way for me to get a divorce is to persuade Gethyn to agree to it. If he won’t answer letters then it will have to be in person. I just want us to end our marriage in a civilised manner …’

‘Civilised!’ her mother cut in, with a bitter laugh. ‘With that barbarian? He has no decent feelings—leaving you ill and alone while he gallivanted across the United States.’

‘I wasn’t ill when he went,’ Davina pointed out. ‘In fact it was you. You had that bad dose of ‘flu, and I stayed to look after you.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Her mother’s lips were trembling again. ‘So it’s all my fault. But for my inconvenient virus, you’d have gone trailing after him like some pet dog.’

Davina bit her lip. ‘I don’t know what I would have done,’ she said. ‘And there’s little point in discussing it now. I—didn’t go.’

Looking back, she realised it was not merely the nursing of her mother, who had been a fractious patient, that had made her so tired, but the early pregnancy she had only dimly begun to suspect. Mrs Greer had refused to have a private nurse, and had insisted on Davina doing everything for her during her illness and convalescence, and it had been while Davina was helping her mother downstairs one day that she herself had slipped and fallen and precipitated the loss of her baby.

Afterwards she had wondered sometimes if she had confided her suspicion that she might be pregnant to Gethyn whether it would have made any difference, but on the whole she doubted it. Gethyn had already chosen his own path, and his hasty marriage had only been a temporary aberration from this. His solitary departure for the States had been an acknowledgment of their mistake, and a repudiation of his part in it.

Perhaps, Davina thought painfully, it was just as well he had not responded to her urgent call for him when she was in hospital. They might have been together even now, tied only by her dependence and his pity. It was a speculation that she found frankly unbearable.

Ahead of her, down the hill, a thread of smoke was rising from a clump of trees. Houses, she thought with a quick thump of the heart. People. And among them would be Gethyn. So far she had refused to contemplate what she would say to him when they were actually face to face. The situation was a potential minefield, and she would have to rely on her instincts to guide her, although they had not proved to be very reliable in the past.

She drove slowly, telling herself it was because the road sloped steeply with sharp bends, refusing to acknowledge the emotional reluctance that kept her foot on the brake. But it was not such a terrifying prospect that faced her after all as she turned into the narrow village street. A handful of slate-roofed cottages facing each other. A post office, combined with general store. A petrol filling station and an inn. No estranged husband stood forbiddingly in the middle of the highway ordering her away. In spite of herself, her lips twisted wryly at the prospect. And the only dragon was a painted one—black with a fiery red eye—on the inn sign.

Davina drove carefully down the street. Some of the cottages had names, others numbers, but not one of them was called Plas Gwyn. And they didn’t seem right either, with their lace-curtained windows and neatly kept front gardens bright with summer flowers. What part had Gethyn with all this quiet domesticity?

She licked her dry lips. Her obvious course was to enquire at the post office, but it seemed to be closed for lunch. That left the inn, which was a much more inviting proposition. She had been driving for a long time with no refreshment except a cup of coffee purchased in Shrewsbury. And a board outside the inn had mentioned bar snacks. There was a tiny gravelled car park at the side, and she drove in there. She leaned round to the back seat to recover her handbag, and took a deep steadying breath as she got out of the car. She pushed open the front door and found herself in a small lobby, with dark wooden doors opening on each side of her. On the right she could hear the soft drift of voices, predominantly male, with an occasional burst of laughter, and guessed this was the public bar. She opened the left-hand door and found herself in a small room, comfortably furnished with oak tables and high-backed settles. An old-fashioned wood fire had been laid in the grate but not lit. An elderly-looking golden labrador had been lying on the rug in front of the hearth, and as Davina came slowly into the room he got up ponderously and ambled across to put a damp but welcoming nose into her hand. Then he put his head back and gave a deep-throated bark.

‘Quiet, you old fool,’ a woman’s voice called from the regions behind the bar. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

The curtain that hid the doorway through to the other bar was pushed aside and she came in, small and dark with glasses pushed up on her forehead. She put her hand to her mouth in mock dismay when she caught sight of Davina.

‘There now,’ she said. ‘Me calling him names, and he was only trying to tell me you were here. What can I get you?’

‘I’d like a lager.’ Davina hoisted herself gracefully on to one of the tall padded stools along the bar counter and returned the woman’s smile. ‘And a sandwich, if that’s possible.’

‘More than possible,’ the woman said briskly. ‘There’s ham, cheese or turkey. Or I’ve a menu somewhere …’ She began to fill a glass with lager, peering round for the menu card as she did so.

‘Turkey would be fine,’ Davina assured her.

‘Come far, have you?’ The woman set the glass down on a mat and pushed it towards Davina. Her twinkling eyes frankly assessed the classic lines of the cool shirtwaister dress, and the cost of the gold chain Davina wore round her throat.

‘Quite a way,’ Davina agreed noncommittally. The lager was ice-cold, frosting the outside of the glass, and she sipped it gratefully.

‘It’s chilly in here.’ The landlady hunched her shoulders in a slight shiver. ‘Shall I put a match to the old fire for you?’

‘Oh, no, please.’ Davina put out a detaining hand. ‘It’s a gorgeous day. Perhaps I could take a chair outside.’

‘No need for that. There’s a patch of grass at the back and a few tables. You can sit and look at the river and I’ll bring your sandwiches out to you.’

‘Do you get many tourists?’ Davina asked, gathering up her handbag and preparing to follow.

‘Oh yes. Surprising it is. Families, mostly, which is why I have the tables outside—for the children, see. Funny old licensing laws we have. And there’ll be more visitors, I daresay, if the old mill up the valley gets working again as they reckon.’

‘Mill?’ Davina raised her brows questioningly.

The woman nodded vigorously. ‘An old woollen mill. Very dilapidated, but they say it will work again. Fine thing, too, for Moel y Ddraig when it does. A bit of local industry to keep the youngsters from drifting away.’

She led the way along a narrow passage and flung open the door at the end.

‘Through the yard, see, and round the corner,’ she directed. ‘I’ll bring your lunch in a minute.’

It was a wide lawn, sloping gently down towards the river at the bottom. Davina strolled down to the bank and stood on its edge, gazing down into the clear fast-flowing water. It was quite shallow at this point, but further out there were deeper pools and in one of these two small boys stood fishing happily. They gave Davina a friendly wave, and she waved back, suddenly enjoying the fresh sparkle of the water and the kiss of the sun on her face.

The sandwiches which arrived with amazing promptness were delicious—thick slices of turkey breast with a slight sprinkling of salt laid between chunks of undoubtedly home-made bread. The butter too had a taste which had nothing to do with supermarkets. Even the crusts were good. When she had finished, Davina sat back with a sigh of repletion. She smilingly refused an offer of apple pie and cream, but accepted a cup of coffee.

‘You don’t do bed and breakfast, I suppose?’ She was only half-joking. It had occurred to her that she would need to stay overnight somewhere, and that the inn would make as good a base as any.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t.’ The landlady set a cup of coffee down on the small iron table and added a bowl of brown sugar. ‘But Mrs Parry might be able to help you, that is if she’s not full up with her pony-trekkers. Are you going to be staying long?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Davina realised with irritation that she was being deliberately evasive. Yet what was the point? Sooner or later she would have to ask someone if they knew Gethyn, and this woman was friendly and approachable. She hesitated. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m here on business. I—I’m looking for someone—a Gethyn Lloyd. He’s a writer.’

‘Mr Lloyd—a writer? Well, there’s a thing, now.’ The other woman sounded amazed. ‘You won’t have to look much further, though. He’s up at Plas Gwyn. In fact, it belongs to him.’

‘Yes, that’s the place,’ Davina said, relieved that her search was turning out to be relatively simple. ‘Can you tell me where it is?’

‘Why, of course I can. That’s where I was going to send you for the bed and breakfast. It’s Mr Lloyd’s aunt, Mrs Parry, who does all that side of it, and young Rhiannon who takes out the riders.’

Davina smothered a gasp of disbelief. Gethyn might have his reasons for burying himself in the solitude of a remote valley, but she found it hard to take that one of them could involve the running of a pony-trekking centre. And she was frankly dismayed to learn that the only accommodation she could obtain locally seemed to be under his roof. That had not entered her plans at all. She had taken it for granted that any interview she might have with him could at least be conducted on some form of neutral territory.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask the landlady if she could not make an exception and put her up for the night, but she stifled the impulse. Friendly she might be, but this was only a small place and gossip would be rife. Davina guessed her arrival and revelation about Gethyn’s identity would be sufficient of a nine-day wonder without giving more grounds for speculation. And if she was only a business acquaintance as she had said, she had no real reason for rejecting Mrs Parry’s accommodation. All she could do was hope that Plas Gwyn would be full of pony-trekkers and that there would be no room for her. If that was so, she would have to start for home again that evening and trust to luck that she could find somewhere to stay on the road. It did not give her a lot of time to see Gethyn and talk to him, and she drank the remains of her coffee with a sense of resolution. She had little time to waste. She paid her bill, and listened to the landlady’s explicit directions on how to reach Plas Gwyn. She was thankful she had asked. Without them, she might have wandered round for hours, as it appeared the house itself lay at the end of an unmarked track which was unsuitable for cars. Pony-trekkers, she thought with a wry inward smile, must be an intrepid bunch!

She was so busy watching the road and looking out for the landmarks that would guide her that she quite forgot the implications of her visit. It was not until she climbed out of the car to open the big white gate which closed off the track that the old misgivings assailed her. She paused. It was still not too late to get in the car and drive away like the wind. Then with determination, she dragged the heavy gate into place behind the car and fastened it with the loop of wire provided for the purpose. She had the oddest feeling she had burnt her boats, as she set the car going again, bumping forward over the rapidly deteriorating track. She found the parking place the landlady had mentioned quite easily about half-way down. Three cars were drawn up there and a battered-looking Landrover. Davina parked her own vehicle and locked it after collecting her handbag and briefcase. Her suitcase she left where it was in the boot. Then she started to walk. The sandals she was wearing with their high wedged heels were not the most comfortable form of footwear for these conditions, she soon discovered. The track was deeply rutted and there were loose stones everywhere as an added pitfall.

Davina thought ruefully that she would be lucky to arrive at Plas Gwyn with her ankles intact, and was thankful she was not burdened with the additional hazard of her overnight case.

She rounded a corner and the house lay in front of her. It was a rambling two-storey building, half-timbered and obviously very old. Moss and lichen had gathered on the slate-covered roof, and the small square windows under the heavy eaves seemed to slant at crazy angles. It was very still, the only sign of life coming from the faint thread of smoke issuing from one of the chimneys. Davina walked forward uncertainly. There were two small lawns in front of the house, bordered by a low white fence. On one of them a cream-coloured nanny goat had been tethered and she looked up with bright, acquisitive eyes as Davina opened the squeaking gate and approached the front door.

The door stood slightly ajar and she pushed it open tentatively and went in. She found herself in a large square hall. A wide staircase in dark polished wood curved away to the upper storey on her right. The walls were panelled in wood too, and there was a big stone fireplace, swept and polished, its wide hearth filled not with logs but an attractive arrangement of dried grasses and leaves.

On the left a passage stretched away to the back of the house, and around the hall were three doors, all tightly closed. Davina looked around her a little helplessly. A big oak table stood on the left-hand wall, holding a small brass gong and what appeared to be a visitors’ book. After a moment’s hesitation, she trod across to the table and struck the gong lightly.

Almost before the echoes had died away, a voice behind her said coolly, ‘Yes, can I help you?’

Davina turned sharply, conscious of relief that it was at least a female voice. The girl facing her was, she judged, younger than herself, tall and slim with a cloud of dark hair hanging on her shoulders. She wore a pair of riding breeches, well-fitting but shabby, and a faded checked shirt. Her glance, while not exactly hostile, did not reflect the generally welcoming atmosphere of the house. It seemed to assess Davina and then dismiss her.

‘I’m looking for Mr Gethyn Lloyd,’ said Davina.

‘Oh?’ The girl’s brows rose interrogatively. ‘And who is it wants him?’

Davina hesitated. Her impulse was to tell this stranger to mind her own business, but she controlled it. Judging by what the woman at the inn had said this must be Rhiannon, and Davina had no wish to start off on bad terms with a member of the Plas Gwyn household. Things were going to be difficult enough without that. She decided to play it cool. After all, she had no means of knowing how much this Rhiannon might know of Gethyn’s private life or her own brief part in it.

‘My name is Greer,’ she said quietly. ‘Davina Greer.’

The girl took a step forward, and her eyes were blazing. Davina felt herself recoil instinctively before this fierce dislike.

‘Oh, is it?’ she said with a kind of angry derision. ‘Well, you can just go back where you came from. You’re not wanted here.’

‘Rhiannon!’ The shocked protest came from the stairs. Davina glanced up and saw they had been joined by an older woman. It was impossible that she and the angry Rhiannon could be other than mother and daughter. Mrs Parry’s dark hair might be silvering at the temples, and her eyes full of anxiety instead of sparking with temper, but their basic bone structure was practically identical.

She came down the stairs, casting her daughter a look of dismay. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she turned apologetically to Davina. ‘It’s quite true we are full at the moment, but that’s no reason for my daughter’s discourtesy.’

Rhiannon moved impatiently. ‘You don’t understand, Mam. She hasn’t come to stay. She’s come to see Gethyn. She’s his wife.’

The last staccato sentence died away into an awkward silence. Eventually Mrs Parry said nervously, ‘Oh dear—I wonder what … I suppose I’d better introduce myself. I’m Gethyn’s Aunt Beth—his father’s sister.’

It seemed ludicrous under the circumstances to express any kind of pleasure at the meeting, so Davina contented herself with shaking hands in silence.

‘I’m sorry if my arrival has upset anyone,’ she said at last. ‘But I am here on business.’ She indicated her briefcase, leaning against one leg of the table.

Mrs Parry eyed it almost distractedly. ‘Yes, of course, only … It’s so difficult, you see.’

‘Mrs Parry,’ Davina tried to sound reassuring, ‘I haven’t come to stay. I work for my uncle at Hanson Greer and I have some papers for Gethyn to look at. If I could just see him for a few minutes …’

‘Well, you can’t, then,’ Rhiannon broke in rudely. ‘Because he’s not here and he won’t be back until tomorrow or the next day. So you may as well take yourself off.’

‘Rhiannon!’ It was her mother’s turn to sound really angry now. ‘If you can’t be civil, you’d better go to your room. I’ll deal with this.’

Rhiannon’s lip curled. ‘Please yourself. If you want me, I’ll be in the stables.’ With a last inimical glance at Davina she walked out of the front door and disappeared.

Mrs Parry became galvanised into activity. ‘Won’t you come in, Miss—er—oh!’ She broke off in confusion. ‘I don’t even know what to call you.’ She threw open one of the doors on the left revealing a large sitting room furnished with comfortable sofas and deep armchairs covered in faded chintz. ‘Do sit down. I’ll go and make some tea.’

Davina halted her. ‘Please—not for me. Was Rhiannon right? Is Gethyn not here?’

His aunt looked troubled. ‘Well, no—not at the moment he isn’t. He’ll be back, of course, but it’s difficult to say when. He comes and goes as he pleases, you see.’

‘He hasn’t changed,’ Davina said quietly. She made herself smile briefly. ‘Well, that makes things—rather awkward. I had rather counted on seeing him. My uncle will be very disappointed.’

Mrs Parry appeared to think quickly and make up her mind. ‘Well, if you’d like to stay and wait until he returns, you’d be very welcome.’

Davina hesitated. It was obviously the most sensible course to pursue under the circumstances, yet she felt uncertain. For one thing she was putting Gethyn’s aunt in a difficult position, and for another she would have to cope with Rhiannon’s open hostility. Gethyn, it seemed, had not been reticent about the past with his young cousin.

‘I don’t know,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I thought you said there was no room.’

‘Oh, but you’re family.’ Mrs Parry gave a quick, rather shy smile. ‘That makes all the difference. We can find a corner for you.’

Davina bit her lip. To describe her as family under the circumstances was pitching it a bit high, but Mrs Parry clearly meant well and it would be churlish to reject the relationship or the hospitality, so she merely thanked her quietly.

The room she was shown to was quite a large one at the back of the house, overlooking a small orchard with a glimpse of the river in the distance, and beyond that the steep outline of the mountain. It contained a wide brass bedstead covered in a Welsh tapestry counterpane, and matching curtains hung at the windows. There was a tall dressing chest in one corner topped by a mirror on a swivel, and a matching mahogany wardrobe on the other side of the room. There was a small table under the window and an elderly easy chair close beside it. The floorboards and furniture gleamed with polish and a faint fragrance of lavender hung in the room.

‘It’s delightful,’ Davina said after the first appreciative glance around.’

‘It’s a lovely old house,’ Mrs Parry agreed. She walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. ‘Nice view, too. It’s clear today, so you can actually see the Dragon.’

‘What did you say?’ Davina stared at her.

Mrs Parry smiled. ‘Moel y Ddraig—that’s what it means. The bare hilltop of the dragon, and there he is, the old thing.’ She pointed upwards and Davina, intrigued, came to her side.

It was quite true. The enormous crag which jutted out above the house could, with very little imagination, have been a petrified dragon. It was all there—the great thrusting head with its menacing horns, and the long clawed foot raised threateningly just beneath it. And if you half-closed your eyes, the great shadowy bulk of the hill seemed to become huge spreading wings …

Davina wrenched herself back to reality with a jerk. She smiled. ‘I hope he’s a friendly dragon, otherwise he’d be rather too close for comfort!’

Mrs Parry’s eyes twinkled suddenly. ‘Well, he’s never done me any harm. Now I am going to make some tea.’ She paused. ‘Would you like to have yours up here, perhaps?’

Davina guessed that Rhiannon would probably be coming in to have tea and that this was a tactful intimation of the fact, and she agreed. The prospect of seeing Gethyn again had made her more keyed up than she had realised, and now she felt almost weak from anti-climax. She needed to relax and unwind for a while, and it would be far preferable to do so up here, out of Rhiannon’s hostile sight.

Mrs Parry hesitated at the door. ‘I’m sorry Rhiannon’s behaving like this,’ she said frankly. ‘But she is very fond of Gethyn—always has been. But she’ll come round, I daresay. Maybe this is the best thing that could have happened.’ And on that, she vanished.

Davina sat down in the easy chair and looked out on to the apple trees, their leaves moving gently in the slight breeze. She still could hardly believe that she was actually at Plas Gwyn. She leaned her head back on the cushions and closed her eyes, absorbing the sounds and silences of her new surroundings. She could hear the distant sound of the river, and superimposed upon it, closer at hand, the bleating of sheep and the sharp bark of a dog. Somewhere a horse whinnied with a restless stamp of hooves, and below her she could hear the homely clatter of cups and the rising whistle of a kettle.

Presently, when she had had her tea, she would walk up to the car and fetch her case. It contained her night things and a change of underwear, but little more, and she wondered rather restlessly what she would do if Gethyn’s absence was a prolonged one. She sighed. That he would be away from home when she arrived was the last thing she had bargained for. It was almost as if he had guessed her intention and timed his absence accordingly, but that was nonsense, of course. He could have had no idea she was on her way.

The bedroom door banged open and Rhiannon made her appearance, carrying, somewhat surprisingly, a tray of tea. Her eyes lowered sullenly, and her lips set, she marched across the room and deposited the tray on the table at Davina’s elbow.

Davina decided to try another friendly overture. ‘What a charming room this is,’ she commented. ‘I hope I’m not putting anyone out by being here.’

Rhiannon shrugged. ‘Only Gethyn, and he’s not here at the moment, it hardly matters, does it? Who knows? When he comes back, he may be putting you out.’

The bedroom door slammed on her departure and Davina sat bolt upright on her chair, her attention utterly arrested by what the other girl had said. Then she jumped to her feet and went over almost feverishly to the dressing chest, tugging open a drawer at random. Her worst fears were confirmed. A pile of shirts, neatly folded and unarguably masculine, was revealed. The contents of the other drawers only served to hammer the lesson home. This was Gethyn’s room.

A bright spot of humiliated colour burned in her cheeks. What could Mrs Parry have been thinking of? She must know what the situation was between Gethyn and herself—might even be aware that a divorce was projected, so how could she have put her in this room?

Davina swallowed and closed the drawers, backing away from them. Then she caught at herself. She was being utterly ridiculous. She would have to spend one night in this room—two at the most depending on when Gethyn returned, and then she would be gone. It would probably be never necessary for him to know that she had slept in his room—in his bed. And she was being foolish to ascribe any ulterior motive to Mrs Parry. Gethyn’s aunt had obviously been disconcerted by her arrival and had probably reacted without thinking. Besides, if there was no other room available, what choice did she have? It was either this, or some makeshift on a floor somewhere—possibly Rhiannon’s room, and Davina shuddered at the prospect. She was being hysterical, she thought. She should be thankful for small mercies. At least she had a roof over her head for the night.

But she still walked over to the bed and pulled back the counterpane. She relaxed perceptibly. The bed linen was crisp and fresh, clearly newly-changed. She knew, with an odd twist at the pit of her stomach, that it would have disturbed her to have to sleep in the same sheets as Gethyn had used, and she told herself defensively this was because he was now a stranger to her.

But she knew, if she was honest, that that was not her real motive, and she turned away sharply, forcing herself to go back to the chair and sit down and pour herself a cup of tea. It wasn’t her favourite drink, but she supposed wryly it might help to steady her jumping nerves.

Her pulses seemed to be behaving most oddly altogether, and she made herself sit quietly, trying to regain her control of herself. Anyone would think, she told herself, that the door was suddenly going to swing open and Gethyn was going to be standing there—as he had been that night more than two years before.

Davina put up her hands to her face as if she was trying to blot out the images that presented themselves relentlessly to her teeming mind. But it was no use. She was incapable of stemming the flood of memory that rushed to engulf her.

The bed in the honeymoon suite had been a very different affair—a wide, low divan with fluffy lace-trimmed pillows and a magnificent gold satin bedspread. She had sat at the dressing table in the white chiffon of her wedding nightgown, brushing her hair with long nervous strokes. She could see the bed behind her in the mirror, and she was assailed by a terrible feeling of inadequacy.

The dinner in the hotel restaurant had been a disaster. Gethyn had retired behind a mask of cool courtesy, and it was impossible for her to reach him, to try and explain the fears and apprehensions which were overwhelming her. In the end, resentment had begun to burn in her, and she had become equally silent. She shouldn’t have to explain; he ought to know how she was feeling. But sympathy and understanding seemed to be the least of his emotions. When they left the restaurant, he told her abruptly he was going to the bar for a drink, and wished her goodnight.

She came up to the suite alone, and looked round her desolately. It was all such a farce. The flowers were already beginning to wilt in the central heating, and the champagne remained unopened. She found some magazines on a table and sitting down on one of the sofas began to leaf through them, but the words and pictures danced meaninglessly in front of her eyes, and at last she threw them down with an exclamation of disgust. She glanced at her watch and saw that Gethyn had been gone for over an hour. Her temper rose. Well, he would not come back and find her sitting here meekly waiting for him!

She banged into the bedroom and closed the door. If it had had a key or a bolt, she would have used them. She undressed and showered in the luxuriously appointed bathroom, then put on her nightgown and the negligée which matched it and went slowly back in the bedroom.

She was feeling totally unnerved by the apparent volte-face her emotions had suffered, and all because of a few bitter words from her mother. Was it—could it be because deep in her heart she knew those words were true and that she had married a stranger? She shivered and laid down her hairbrush. Was it better, as her mother had always claimed, for love to develop slowly from friendship and trust and respect over a long period, or could it burst on the senses in a few short weeks with all the violence of an electric storm? Did Gethyn love her? He had never said so —that was when she realised it for the first time. She knew he wanted her, and had hugged to herself her secret joy in her own sexual power over him. But love was a different matter and one she had tended to take for granted. He wanted her, therefore he loved her, and it had taken her all this time, to their wedding night in fact, to realise that the two things did not necessarily bear any relation. This was what frightened her—this lack of spoken commitment which should have come, she thought, much, much earlier than the brief vows they had repeated that day. Sheer physical desire alone was too transient a thing on which to build a relationship which had to last for life.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked in the mirror at the blurred image of a girl, her body barely veiled by the misting of chiffon, traditionally prepared for a night of passion, and terrified. She tried to recapture the memory of Gethyn’s mouth on hers, to remember the swift, vibrant reponse he had been able to engender from the day they had met, but there was nothing but chill inside her.

And at that moment she heard the outer door of the suite slam. For a second she sat tensely, her slim body poised as if for flight, only there was nowhere to fly to. But her door remained closed, and after a while she relaxed perceptibly. Gethyn, it seemed, had gone to the other room, as he had indicated before dinner.

She slipped out of her negligée and laid it across the dressing stool, then got into the big bed. She felt lost in the wide expanse of sweet-smelling linen, and she wished fretfully that she had some sleeping tablets so that she could blot out this whole disastrous night. Perhaps everything would seem different in the morning.

She reached for the button of the bedside lamp, but as she did so, a slight sound came to her ears, and she looked up to see the bedroom door opening. Gethyn sauntered into the room, and pushed the door shut behind him. His dark hair was damp and dishevelled from the shower, and he was wearing a towelling bathrobe, and Davina knew with a sudden tightening of her stomach muscles that he wore nothing else. He strolled across the room to the side of the bed where she was lying and stood looking down at her mockingly. When he spoke, she could smell the whisky on his breath.

‘Good evening, lovely. And how are we enjoying our solitary honeymoon so far?’

She bent her head so that a swathe of dark auburn hair hung across her cheek like a curtain. ‘Gethyn, please,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I—I’m very tired.’

‘Tired, is it?’ The note of exaggerated concern in his voice was almost more than she could bear. ‘But I thought a headache was always the classic excuse—or does that come later in marriage? You’ll have to instruct me—I’m new to these feminine foibles.’

She looked up at him in swift resentment. ‘You mean I’m the first woman to refuse the great Gethyn Lloyd?’ she could not resist the biting words.

‘No, I don’t,’ he said softly. ‘Because you haven’t refused me yet, and you’d better not.’

A searing quiver of alarm ran along her senses, and this time she made no attempt to answer him.

His voice went on. ‘For the past few weeks, you’ve been promising me all the delights of Paradise. But at the same time it was made clear that you being an innocent virgin, and Mummy’s daughter to boot, it would be at a price. Well, today I paid that price, and now you’re going to keep your side of the bargain.’

‘Gethyn—no!’ She spoke then, her voice husky with suppressed tears. ‘It—it wasn’t like that, believe me.’

‘Then what was it like?’ he said gently. He took off the bathrobe and tossed it aside. ‘You have a golden opportunity, lovely, to convince me, right now.’

She was cold and trembling as he took her in his arms. As his mouth sought hers, she turned her head away, and her body flinched as his hands began their long, slow exploration. After a time, he lifted himself on to one elbow and stared down at her averted face.

‘Was it all an act, then?’ he asked, his voice harsh. ‘All that passion and promise? My God, you really had me fooled. Well, you’re cast in a new and demanding role now, Davina, and I’m sorry if you don’t know your lines.’

He took her with an insolent expertise, just short of brutality. When it was over, she lay very still, the first scalding tears squeezing from under her closed lids and trickling slowly down her face. She knew he had left the bed, and when eventually she opened her eyes, he was standing watching her, tying the belt of his bathrobe, his face sombre.

‘Goodnight, Davina.’ His voice was cool and cynical. ‘Thank you for the loan of your body. If at any time in the future you’re curious to know how it really should be between a man and a woman, you have only to let me know.’

‘I hate you!’ she whispered with passionate intensity. It might have been a trick of the lamplight, but she thought for a moment she saw him flinch. But when he spoke, the mockery was still in his voice.

‘Do you, cariad? Then that makes two of us, because I also hate myself.’

He turned and left her.

She fell into a restless uneasy sleep just before dawn. When she awoke, it was to the rattle of a breakfast trolley being wheeled into the sitting room outside. She sat up, pushing her hair back, and dragging the covers across her body as a quiet knock fell on the bedroom door. But no one made any attempt to enter, and after a moment or two she got out of bed. Her discarded nightgown lay on the floor beside the bed where Gethyn had tossed it and she kicked it out of her way with loathing. She slipped a black silk kaftan heavily embroidered with butterflies over her head, and tugged a brush through the tangle of her hair. She looked heavy-eyed, but no more so than other bride waking up after her wedding night, she decided with a wry twist of her lips.

For a moment she stood, nerving herself, then she opened the door and marched out into the sitting room with a defiant tilt to her chin. But the gesture was wasted, because the room was empty. And the breakfast in its silver chafing dishes was quite clearly for one …

She poured herself a cup of coffee, glancing in bewilderment towards the closed door on the other side of the suite. Presumably Gethyn was still asleep, in which case, who had ordered this breakfast? Cooked food was beyond her, but she took one of the warm rolls and spread it with butter. When she had drunk her coffee, she got up restlessly and wandered across to Gethyn’s door. She stood for a moment with her head bent listening for some sound of movement, but there was none, and after a brief hesitation she twisted the knob and pushed the door open. The room beyond was also deserted, the sheets and blankets stripped back, and the wardrobe door standing open, as if the occupant had made a hurried departure.

Davina’s hand stole to her mouth as the implications of this burst over her. He had gone. But where? She had never felt so humiliated. Even the degradation she had suffered at his hands the night before seemed to pale into insignificance beside this. She sank down on to the softness of the carpet and stared almost unbelievingly about her. Nothing could have underlined more bitterly the terms of their relationship, she thought, swallowing. He had married her for purely sensual reasons, and when she had proved a disappointment, he had decided to cut his losses.

Slow anger began to burn deep inside her. And what was she supposed to do? Go meekly back to her mother’s house and admit that Vanessa Greer had been right, and that it had all been a terrible mistake? She would see him in hell first!

Within an hour she had bathed, dressed and packed and was in a taxi on the way to Gethyn’s flat. It had already occurred to her that he might not be there, but the landlord lived on the premises and would have a pass-key.

But there was no need for this. As she approached the flat door, she could hear the sound of Gethyn’s typewriter. She banged her case down and beat a tattoo on the door. After the briefest of pauses, the door opened, and Gethyn stood looking down on her. He did not offer any kind of greeting or explanation, but his brows lifted almost cynically at the sight of her.

‘Come in,’ he said at last. ‘There’s some coffee if you want some.’

Davina gasped as she dumped her case down on the sofa. ‘Is that all you have to say?’

He shrugged, his thin dark face inscrutable. ‘What do you expect me to say?’ he countered.

She held on to her temper with difficulty. ‘Well, some kind of apology might do to start with. Didn’t it occur to you as you walked out this morning that I would be worried sick?’

‘Frankly, no, it didn’t. How very wifely of you,’ he said smoothly, and she could have struck him. ‘But it can’t have been too traumatic for you as you knew exactly where to come to find me.’

‘That’s hardly the point.’ Her voice rose almost to a shout. ‘You walked out on me!’

‘You didn’t really expect me to hang around that gold-plated film set playing the doting groom to your adoring bride for the benefit of a pack of hotel staff—or did you?’ He gave her a long hard look. ‘I gave in to you yesterday only because it seemed to be what you wanted. Now I’m no longer sure what it is you do want. Except that it isn’t me,’ he added almost as a casual afterthought.

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