Born Out Of Love

Robert was more shrewd than she had given him credit for being. ‘Who’s that guy who keeps staring at us?’ he demanded in a whisper, bending his head so that no one could read his lips, and Charlotte made the excuse of reproving him for using the Americanism to give herself time to marshal an answer.

‘I don’t know,’ she denied, impatience giving an edge to her tone. ‘Robert, stop behaving like a poor imitation of James Bond! He’s probably a government official or something, come to check out the hired help.’

Robert lifted his head to return the man’s stare, and then grimaced. ‘Blimey,’ he gulped. ‘he’s coming aboard ! Did we contravene Customs regulations, do you think?’

Charlotte never failed to be amazed at Robert’s grasp of vocabulary. ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’ she was saying, when the dark man came down the aisle between the rows of seats and stopped beside them.

‘Mrs Derby?’ he queried politely, and she looked up into Logan’s critical gaze.

‘Y-yes,’ she stammered.

He inclined his head. ‘Will you come with me? I’m here to escort you to Avocado Cay.’

Charlotte’s mouth was dry. For several seconds she didn’t—couldn’t—say anything, remaining in her seat, staring at him through mists of confusion. It was Logan. She had no doubts about that now. Older, of course—he must be thirty-seven now—with lines etched upon his tanned features which had not been there before, but unmistakably the man who had ravaged her emotions and abandoned her. She ought to feel angry, she thought. She ought to feel resentful and cheated, capable of returning the contempt she could see glinting in those tawny eyes.

Instead, she felt shaken, and apprehensive; terrified of the complications he could create. She glanced anxiously at Robert, half afraid her expression revealed the turmoil in her brain, but he seemed quite relaxed at this unexpected turn of events, obviously just waiting for her to make the first move.

She took a deep breath. What could she do but go with Logan? If Madame Fabergé had asked him to pick them up she had no valid reason to refuse his offer, and certainly Robert would think it strange if she showed a preference for the bus now.

She wondered what Logan was thinking, wishing she could see behind that cool mask he was presenting. Had he decided not to acknowledge her? Were they to behave as if they were the strangers Robert believed? Her heart thumped and she cast another covert look in her son’s direction, mentally trying to reassure herself that Logan could never suspect their relationship. Why should he, after all? She had been married, and so far as he was concerned, Robert was the son of that marriage. Yet if he had guessed who she was, why hadn’t he made any attempt to stop her from coming here? He must surely have as little desire to see her again as she had to see him.

‘Avocado Cay?’ she said now, stupidly she realised, and Logan nodded.

‘That is where you’re going, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. We’re going to Avocado Cay.’ Robert spoke up with his usual confidence. ‘But Mum’s feeling a bit funny, aren’t you?’ He smiled encouragingly at her before transferring his attention back to the tall man beside them. ‘Who’re you?’

‘Robert—–’

Charlotte’s hasty reproval went unacknowledged. ‘I’m Logan Kennedy,’ he answered the boy evenly. ‘And as a matter of fact, your mother and I have met before—years ago.’ His lips twitched briefly. ‘I live at Avocado Cay, too.’

‘You do?’ Robert pushed back a lock of dark hair, his frown mirroring his confusion. ‘But Mum—–’

‘I expect your mother’s forgotten all about our brief encounter,’ Logan interposed smoothly. ‘I was an—er—associate of your father’s.’

‘Oh.’ Robert looked as though he might be about to say something about that too, but to Charlotte’s relief he gave in to other questions: ‘What’s Avocado Cay like? I can’t wait to see where we’re going to live. Is there a beach? Will I be able to swim in the sea?’

A faint trace of humour touched Logan’s mouth. ‘There are miles of beach,’ he reassured him. ‘And swimming in the sea is possible. But perhaps your mother would prefer you to use the lagoon.’

‘The lagoon!’ Robert looked intrigued. ‘What’s that, Mr Kennedy?’

Charlotte made a supreme effort and got to her feet. ‘Robert, Mr—Kennedy’s not here to answer your questions.’ She forced herself to look at Logan. ‘I’m ready when you are. Our luggage is stowed somewhere at the back of the bus.’

‘I know.’ Logan’s expression hardened as he looked at her. ‘Miguel is presently loading it into my car.’

‘Miguel?’ Charlotte glanced round in time to see the overweight bus driver closing the rear flap of the station wagon and her lips tightened. ‘You were sure we would agree, then?’ The words would not be denied.

Logan’s heavy-lidded eyes flickered with an emotion she couldn’t identify. ‘Why not? The journey is rough, whatever the conveyance, and I’d hazard a guess that physically you’ll feel safer with me.’ He turned. ‘Come.’

‘Mum wasn’t looking forward to riding in this!’ agreed Robert, apparently unaware of the undercurrents in their conversation. ‘It’s a museum piece!’

Following Logan along the aisle to the exit, Charlotte was aware of Robert’s voice carrying clearly to the man standing at the foot of the steps, and she wasn’t surprised when Miguel pulled a face at him.

‘What is this? You are calling my beautiful bus a museum piece!’ he exclaimed in mock fury, and Robert grinned widely.

‘I’d like to ride with you, Miguel,’ he offered placatingly, ‘but I don’t think Mum could stand the pace!’

Miguel roared with laughter, and Charlotte, prepared to remonstrate with her son once again for his casual use of the man’s name, bit her tongue. She saw Logan watching Robert with a curious expression on his face and her heart turned over. What if he should guess the truth? she thought agonisingly, and turned back from the inevitable outcome of such a consequence.

‘Perhaps you might prefer to travel in the bus—er—Robert?’ suggested Logan quietly, and Charlotte’s nerves jangled at the terrifying possibility of having to make the journey to Avocado Cay alone with this man.

But Robert took one look at her pale features and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, thanks. Not today anyway. I think I ought to stick with Mum, if you don’t mind.’

Logan shrugged and swung open the nearside door of the station wagon. ‘De nada,’ he said indifferently, reminding Charlotte that in spite of his perfect English he was not European, and at his silent indication she subsided into the passenger seat with unconcealed relief.

CHAPTER TWO

THE road up from the harbour was little more than a dusty track, that in wet weather might well become dangerous, Charlotte surmised. Within minutes, the harbour had fallen away below them, a natural basin, which from this height revealed light and colour invisible from the quay. As they climbed higher, the air grew fresher, and the wind through the open windows tumbled Charlotte’s hair about her shoulders.

The palm groves which fringed the coastline had given way to dense undergrowth which was crushed beneath the wheels of the station wagon where it encroached on to the road. The trees, Charlotte could see, were overgrown with creepers, and their progress sent birds winging into the air, noisily indignant at being disturbed. They could hear water, clear rushing water, that revealed itself in streams and tiny waterfalls tumbling down the mountainside. Ferns and mossy rocks determined its course through pools and cascades, flowering plants clinging to its path for survival.

They followed the curve of a ridge until the harbour was hidden by the shoulder of the island and thick vegetation gave way to waist-high grasses. From here it was possible to glimpse the shapes of other islands in the group, shadowy mounds rising out of the deepening colours of the sea.

Robert, who, like Charlotte, had been silent on the journey up from the quay, now exclaimed eagerly: ‘How big is the island?’

‘I don’t know—–’ Charlotte was beginning, when Logan interrupted her.

‘San Cristobal is approximately twelve kilometres long and seven across at its widest point,’ he stated calmly. ‘Not very big, as you can see.’

Robert rested his arms along the backs of their seats, obviously regarding this as an invitation for more questions. ‘They’re volcanic islands, aren’t they?’

‘Twenty-five million years ago,’ agreed Logan dryly.

‘Twenty-five million years! Gosh!’ Even Robert was impressed by this. ‘I can’t imagine that—twenty-five million years!’

‘Nobody can,’ replied Logan, swerving to avoid the protruding buttress of a thickly rooted evergreen. ‘But geologically the oldest islands in the Antilles were formed about a hundred and fifty million years ago.’

‘Is that so?’ Robert frowned. ‘Have you made a study of the islands, Mr Kennedy?’

Logan glanced sideways at Charlotte. ‘I’m a scientist, Robert. All—behaviour interests me.’

Robert was intrigued. ‘What kind of a scientist?’

‘Oh, Robert, please—–’ Charlotte glanced round at him, nervously impatient, and then felt dismayed at his obvious lack of comprehension. ‘I—Mr Kennedy can’t want to answer all these questions!’

‘I don’t mind.’ Logan was infuriatingly casual. ‘I’m a marine biologist, Robert. I study underwater life, among other things.’

‘How terrific!’ Robert was really impressed now. ‘Do you go scuba diving—that sort of thing? Like Jacques Cousteau?’

A touch of humour lifted the corners of Logan’s mouth. ‘Well, I would not put myself in the class of Monsieur Cousteau, but yes—I do spend some of my time underwater. It’s a fascinating world.’

‘I’d love to see it—–’ Robert was beginning wistfully, when Charlotte determined that this conversation had gone far enough.

‘How well do you know the Fabergés, Mr Kennedy?’ she inquired politely, as much from a need to penetrate the wall of isolation she could feel closing around her as a desire to prelude her introduction to her employers.

Logan’s long, narrow fingers slid effortlessly round the wheel. ‘Quite well,’ he replied, after a moment’s pause.

Charlotte forced herself to go on. ‘I believe Madame Fabergé’s husband is working here on the island. Does he work with you, by any chance?’

Logan turned to look at her and for a moment their eyes met and held. But the coldness in his was chilling and she looked away as he answered: ‘Madame Fabergé’s husband is dead, Mrs Derby. I thought you knew that.’

For a moment, Charlotte’s brain spun dizzily. She tried to remember what it was Mr Lewis had said, and she could almost swear that he had told her that her employer’s husband was living and working at Avocado Cay.

Grasping the frame of the open window for support, she said faintly: ‘I didn’t know that, Mr Kennedy. How could I?’

Logan shrugged. They had been descending a steep slope for some minutes, and below them stretched the serried ranks of a plantation of some kind. Thick leaves disguised their fruit, but Robert recognised the fleshy green fingers beneath.

‘Hey, they’re bananas,’ he cried excitedly. ‘Rows and rows of banana plants!’

Logan gave him an inscrutable smile, his benevolence fading when he again encountered Charlotte’s troubled gaze. But he went on to explain that this was the only crop grown in any quantity on the island. They had an unusual amount of rainfall, he explained, and its hilly contours were not suitable for acres of sugar cane. The island was not overly populated either. Apart from the village they could see ahead of them, and Avocado Cay, the small township of San Cristobal was its main settlement.

The village was a thriving community, with weatherboard houses and stores fronting a narrow main street. Charlotte saw the schoolhouse and beside it the Episcopalian church, the churchyard incongruously ordered among such tropical disorder. She wondered how many other white people lived on the island. She had seen mostly black faces.

Logan was instantly recognised, and their progress was slowed by his casual exchanges with passers-by. Occasionally, someone would approach the car to take a look at the newcomers, and once a child clung to Logan’s open window, cheekily demanding when he was going to be taken sailing again.

‘You ought to be in school, Peter,’ Logan retorted, smiling to take the edge off the reproof, and in the moments before his features hardened again, Charlotte glimpsed the man who had awakened her to an awareness of her own femininity.

‘Will I go to school there?’ asked Robert, as the outskirts of the village were left behind, and they passed beneath the hanging branches of a belt of thickly rooted trees.

‘That depends,’ Logan replied quietly, and Robert, seizing on something else he had heard, went on:

‘Do you sail, too? What kind of a boat do you have?’

Charlotte licked her dry lips. ‘Perhaps you could explain why you thought I should have known Madame Fabergé’s husband was dead,’ she suggested tautly, ignoring Robert’s impatient sigh.

Logan reached forward and pulled a case of cheroots from the glove compartment, expertly flicking the pack until his lips could fasten round one slender stem and withdraw it. Then he felt in his pocket for a lighter, and applied the flame to its tip before replying.

‘Surely the conditions of employment were made clear to you, Mrs Derby,’ he said at last.

‘Yes.’ Charlotte endeavoured to keep the nervous tremor out of her tone. ‘I was sent here to take charge of Madame Fabergé’s small son and daughter.’

‘Philippe and Isabelle. Yes, I know.’

‘Then you must also know that I would assume Madame Fabergé had a husband. Why else would she be living in such an—an out-of-the-way place?’

‘Is that how you see San Cristobal? As an out-of-the-way place?’

Charlotte sighed. ‘Are you denying that, too?’

‘I am neither admitting nor denying anything, Mrs Derby,’ he returned smoothly.

Charlotte controlled the almost overwhelming desire to scream her frustration at him, and continued carefully: ‘You know that San Cristobal is hardly the usual haunt of a widow with two children, Mr Kennedy.’

He frowned. ‘No,’ he conceded at last, with what she felt was deliberate provocation. ‘But don’t dismiss these islands too lightly, Mrs Derby. They, like the great rain forests of my own country, make me acutely aware of my own minute contribution to the scheme of things.’

Charlotte breathed a sigh. ‘Mr Kennedy, I do not require a lecture on my own insignificance. I accept that. All I wondered was why Madame Fabergé should choose to live here.’

Logan’s nostrils flared. ‘Pierre Fabergé died of yellow fever six months ago in the Amazon delta!’ he stated grimly.

‘I’m sorry.’ Charlotte moved her shoulders in a gesture of regret. ‘I—I gather you knew him.’

‘He was my best friend,’ replied Logan harshly. ‘Lisette—his wife—had no one else.’

Now Charlotte understood. And with understanding came a feeling of withdrawal that had nothing to do with cool common sense. It was easy to see how Mr Lewis had confused the issue. Madame Fabergé’s husband had no doubt been a marine biologist, too. That would account for his friendship with Logan. And because of Logan’s occupation, it had been assumed that he was her husband.

‘You—Madame Fabergé lives with you?’ she ventured faintly, and was rewarded by a contemptuous glare.

‘Do not judge everybody by your own standards!’ he retorted cruelly, and it was fortunate that Robert chose that moment to distract their attention by pointing out the ocean ahead of them.

The road emerged from the trees above dunes of fine coral sand, where creaming waves spread a necklace of white lace. The sand looked pure, and unblemished by human endeavour. Before them lay the calm waters of the lagoon, deepening perhaps to no more than twenty feet, and beyond, maybe a couple of hundred yards out from the shore, the surging waters of the ocean tore themselves to pieces on the barely submerged crenellations of a reef.

‘Gosh!’ Robert was briefly speechless as he stared at a scene that was straight out of a travelogue, and then he shook his head as he turned to Logan again. ‘Is the water warm?’

‘Is seventy degrees warm enough for you?’

‘Seventy degrees!’ Robert hunched his shoulders disbelievingly. ‘Man, that’s warm!’ Then he sat up as signs of habitation signalled their proximity to their destination. ‘Where’s the lagoon? Is it far from the beach?’

Logan shook his head. ‘That’s the lagoon, Robert. The calm waters before the reef.’

‘Is it? Is it really?’ Robert was excited. ‘But why is it called a lagoon? I thought that was a lake or something.’

Logan hesitated. ‘Without the protection of the reef, these waters would be accessible to the biggest and most dangerous fish in the Caribbean.’

‘Sharks!’ said Robert, not without some satisfaction, and Charlotte shivered.

‘Yes. Sharks,’ agreed Logan flatly. ‘But barracuda, too.’

‘Have you ever tangled with a shark, Mr Kennedy?’ Robert asked eagerly, and Charlotte saw Logan’s mouth turn downward at the corners.

‘There are many types of shark, Robert,’ he told the boy quietly. ‘And not all of them are dangerous. The largest fish in the sea is a whale shark, and it’s quite harmless.’ He cast a strange look in Charlotte’s direction. ‘But some sharks—like some women—are unpredictable, and until you learn to recognise the species, you should leave them alone.’

Avocado Cay was a collection of dwellings bordering the ocean. Here and there, attempts at cultivating gardens had been made, but the rioting undergrowth and off-shore winds had almost defeated them. They were verandahed buildings, mostly, with corrugated roofs, set in clearings between flowering shrubs and ubiquitous palms. A few goats grazed on the outskirts of the village, and hens scattered before the wheels of the station wagon. They could smell the sea, its sharp salty tang coming strongly through the windows of the vehicle. The clarity of the air was startling, and only the blown spume on the reef misted the distant horizon.

Logan drove through the village, following a narrow track which led down through a belt of palms and eucalyptus trees almost to the water’s edge. Ahead of them, Charlotte could see the roofs of several single-storied buildings, and beyond, a wooden landing jutting out into the lagoon where a sailing ketch was moored. It all looked very beautiful and very peaceful, and without the presence of the man beside her, she would have felt a greater sense of relief.

‘Is this where we’re going to live?’ demanded Robert, voicing the question which had trembled on his mother’s lips, and Logan nodded.

‘Yes. That bungalow directly ahead of us belongs to Madame Fabergé.’

‘And where is our house?’ Robert persisted, but Charlotte again intervened.

‘I expect—Madame Fabergé will explain where we’re going to stay, Robert,’ she told him quellingly, avoiding looking at the man beside her. Then: ‘Now what are you doing?’

Robert grinned. ‘Taking off my sandals. I can’t wait to try the water.’

‘Robert! At least let’s meet my employer first.’

Logan slowed the station wagon as they neared the sand-strewn slope beside the bungalow. ‘Didn’t I explain?’ he asked with deliberate irony: ‘You already did—meet your employer, I mean. I employed you, Mrs Derby. Didn’t I make that clear?’

Charlotte’s lips trembled, and she pressed them together to hide the fact before gasping distractedly: ‘You know you didn’t!’

Logan’s thick lashes shaded his eyes, but his expression was unmistakably smug. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I am. Does it make any difference?’

Charlotte’s breathing felt constricted. ‘You—you—–’ she began chokingly, and then became aware of Robert’s startled eyes watching her. Pressing a hand to her throat, she moved her head in a helpless gesture of defeat, and the station wagon slowed to a halt as a small boy came darting round from the back of the building to meet them. The child’s face was tear-stained, and his tee-shirt and shorts were grubby with sand.

‘Uncle Logan! Uncle Logan!’ he yelled excitedly, and Logan swung out of the vehicle to catch the small figure up in his arms.

‘Olà, Philippe!’ he exclaimed, one long finger tracing the marks of tears on his cheek. ‘What have you been doing now?’

‘Nothing.’ Philippe looked sulky for a moment, and then his attention was attracted by Robert getting out of the back of the station wagon. ‘Who’s that?’

‘That’s Robert,’ answered Logan easily, turning towards the older boy. ‘Perhaps he might be persuaded to play with you sometimes. Providing you remember you are only four years old.’

Robert grinned. ‘Hi, Philippe,’ he said, somewhat self-consciously. ‘How are you?’

Philippe wriggled down from Logan’s arms, surveying the newcomer’s five feet from half that height, and Charlotte deemed it time she made her presence apparent. She pushed open her door and got out just as a plump woman of medium height came down the verandah steps to join them.

It was reasonable to assume that this was Lisette Fabergé. She was carrying a baby of perhaps nine months, a fat little thing wearing nothing but a nappy, and she was obviously in some distress. Her dishevelled appearance matched the dishevelled appearance of her son.

‘Oh, Logan, thank goodness you’re back!’ she exclaimed, with evident relief, ignoring Charlotte standing beside the car and going straight to the man.

Logan turned towards her, sparing a smile for the baby before his concern made itself apparent. Tall and masculine, he dwarfed Lisette, and Charlotte felt an ugly feeling of resentment stirring inside her. So much solicitude for Lisette Fabergé’s widowed state, while she had had to cope alone with the fears of her unwanted pregnancy! Watching Lisette’s fingers curving possessively round the muscular flesh of his forearm, her eyes turned up to him in appeal, made her feel physically sick, and she slammed the car door with unwarranted force.

Immediately Lisette’s wide blue eyes switched in her direction, appraising her and dismissing her in one scornful stare. She was an attractive girl, somewhere around her own age, Charlotte guessed, but there the resemblance ended. For years Charlotte had been accustomed to dressing in styles suitable to the wife of a man with Matthew’s money while Lisette’s clothes were stained and unpressed and obviously cheap. She was not at all the chic Frenchwoman Charlotte had expected.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said indifferently, and Charlotte realised she was not French at all, but English. Then she turned back to Logan. ‘Phil swallowed one of Isabelle’s safety-pins just after you’d left, and I’ve been frantic!’

‘Was it open?’ asked Logan at once, a fleeting trace of resignation crossing his face.

‘I don’t know,’ cried Lisette, and Philippe started to cry again.

Logan crouched down beside the boy. ‘Now stop that,’ he said gently. ‘You must know whether the pin was open or not.’

Philippe sniffed. ‘It wasn’t.’

‘You’re sure about that?’ Philippe nodded, and Logan straightened again. ‘So where’s the problem?’

Lisette’s jaw trembled. ‘He didn’t tell me that!’

‘Didn’t he?’

‘No. He just ran away when I tried to catch him, and Isabelle was screaming for her tea, and—–’

‘—and you shouted at him and frightened him,’ finished Logan patiently. ‘I know.’

‘Oh, Logan, you’re so good with him!’

Charlotte turned away to stare across the stretch of sand to the water’s edge. Dear God, was there no end to her punishment? she wondered bitterly. Eleven years of living with a man she did not love should have been enough for anyone.

Fortunately, Robert was unaware of her feelings. His own thoughts lay in an entirely different direction, and it only took Philippe’s tentative indication towards the ocean to send them both charging across the sand to the water’s edge. Charlotte opened her mouth to call her son, and then closed it again when Logan spoke.