The Colour Of Midnight

It was difficult to imagine the man who lived in this house and wore those clothes backpacking around the world. She flicked a swift glance at his face. The angular features and straight mouth spoke of strength and uncompromising purpose. No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t envisage him as a carefree youth.

Her gaze dropped to her teacup as she was undermined by a sense of dislocation, a shifting of the foundations. Nick Peveril, with his impassive face and deliberate, guarded composure, bore no resemblance at all to the man of whom Stella had written so ecstatically.

When he spoke again Minerva’s cup rattled in its saucer. Watch what you’re doing, she scolded herself, setting it down on the table by her chair.

‘How long are you home for?’ he asked.

‘A month.’ A substantial bonus meant she could afford a lazy summer, but her plans for the future were going to need money, so it would join the rest of her savings.

‘And then what? Stella seemed to think that you intended to settle permanently here sooner or later.’

She shrugged. ‘One of these days I’m going to come back and open my own restaurant, but for the moment I like my life. I’ve been offered a job in the British Virgin Islands with an expatriate family.’

When he smiled one corner of his mouth lifted higher than the other. ‘You’ll be able to work on your tan,’ he said lightly. Something flickered in the frosty brilliance of his eyes.

It made her distinctly uneasy. In a voice that could have starched a dozen tablecloths, she said, ‘The hole in the ozone layer has put an end to roasting in the sun, but I’m looking forward to it. I believe it’s extraordinarily beautiful there.’ Before she had time to wonder whether it was sensible, she added, ‘Stella and I used to promise each other that one day we’d go to the Caribbean and drink rum and play in a steel band.’

‘She wouldn’t have liked it, unless you stayed in a luxury hotel. For some strange reason I expected you to look like her,’ he said, pale eyes opaque. ‘Stupid, I know. You don’t share even a parent in common, do you?’

‘No, we’re a blended family. Stella and I were no relation at all, really, which is why she was beautiful and I’m not.’

The minute she said it she knew it was a mistake. It sounded like a cheap appeal for compliments. She opened her mouth to qualify the statement, then closed it firmly.

‘Yes, she was,’ he said. ‘But you’re very attractive too, as I’m sure you know.’

He wasn’t so crass as to look her over, but an undertone in the enigmatic voice made her aware that he had noticed the long, coltish legs in her jeans, the gentle curves of her breasts, and the indentation of her narrow waist.

A kind of outrage, mingled with a suspicious warmth, sent colour scudding through her white skin. Not for the first time she wished she had Stella’s even tan. For her stepsister a blush had merely been a slight deepening of the apricot skin over her cheekbones; for Minerva it was an embarrassing betrayal.

She strove for objectivity. Men did notice women—it was a simple fact of life. They enjoyed with their eyes. Women did, too.

After all, she had observed that because his mouth was intriguingly lop-sided each rare smile hinted of wryness. She’d registered the thick black lashes and dark brows surrounding those amazingly limpid, guarded eyes, and now that his hair was drying she’d realised it was the colour of manuka honey, a warm, rich amber with golden highlights set there by the northern sun.

She was unreservedly grateful when Mrs Borrows came too quickly in through the door, her face unnaturally disciplined. ‘Nick—oh, Nick! Murray’s just rung,’ she said without preamble, her voice breaking on the last word. ‘Things are not going right. He—he thinks I should come down. As s-soon as I can.’

With the smooth speed Minerva had noticed before Nick got to his feet and went across to the housekeeper, sliding an unselfconscious arm around her shoulders, holding her while she fought for control.

‘Pack your bag,’ he ordered, ‘and I’ll get you to the airport in time to catch the afternoon plane to Auckland. I’ll organise a flight through to Christchurch.’

‘I can’t go,’ she said in muffled tones into his chest.

‘Why not?’

‘The dinner party you’re giving on Saturday night for those Brazilians. This isn’t Auckland, Nick, you can’t just get in caterers, and there’s no one here who could help you out with the cooking. Jillian’s not—’

‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong. Providentially, Minerva is a professional cook,’ he said calmly, silver eyes lancing across to where Minerva sat, frozen with dismay as she realised the implications. ‘She’ll be more than happy to stay and see to it that our South American guests are fed. Won’t you, Minerva?’ It was no question. The icy transparency of his gaze had hardened into a silent command.

Minerva’s brain closed down. She didn’t want to stay here! But of course she nodded. And when she saw Mrs Borrows lift her head to look at her with dawning hope she knew she couldn’t have refused.

‘Yes, I can do it,’ she said.

‘Are you sure?’ The housekeeper was obviously trying hard to be convinced.

Minerva nodded. ‘Tell me what you’ve organised and I guarantee I’ll have it on the table at the right time and cooked properly,’ she promised, her tone revealing such complete confidence that Mrs Borrows relaxed.

Yet she still hesitated. ‘It doesn’t seem right,’ she said, looking from Minerva’s face to Nick’s.

He said calmly, ‘Helen, Minerva is family.’

Minerva smiled. ‘That’s what families are for,’ she supplied. ‘Coming to the rescue. Don’t worry about it, I’ll be glad to help out.’

This was the right note to take. Her voice quivering, the housekeeper said, ‘Oh, thank you. I’ll get a bag packed,’ and hurried from the room.

Half an hour later they were seated in a large green Range Rover, travelling at a fair pace down the road Minerva had inched up so short a time before. Mrs Borrows was giving Minerva instructions, instructions Minerva didn’t need. However, she sat through them, asking questions when it seemed the older woman had run out. For the next two and a half hours until the housekeeper got to Christchurch she’d have nothing to do but worry; Minerva’s questions at least kept her mind occupied now.

Although the rain had eased again, the road was still slippery enough for the Range Rover to skid. That it didn’t was due to the skill of the man driving. Minerva, inclined to be a nervous passenger with a driver she didn’t know, soon gave up keeping her eye on the road ahead. Nick Peveril knew what he was doing.

They were ten minutes late, but the plane waited. Probably even large jumbo jets would wait for this man.

After a hasty goodbye Mrs Borrows ran across to the little aircraft and the door was swung shut behind her.

‘Hello, Nick,’ a laughing feminine voice said from behind. ‘The baby arrived, has it?’

He turned. ‘On its way,’ he said, that powerfully attractive smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

The woman was one Genevieve Chatswood, thirtyish, smart in jeans and a Liberty print shirt with a navy woollen jersey over it, her slim feet in boots. As Nick made the introductions she eyed Minerva with cool but unmistakable interest.

‘Oh. Stella’s sister? You don’t look much alike.’

‘We were stepsisters,’ Minerva explained, trying to hide the note of resignation in her voice. ‘Her mother married my father.’

After a dismissive look Genevieve transferred her attention to the man beside her. Frowning, she asked, ‘Nick, if Mrs Borrows has had to go, what are you doing for Saturday night?’

‘Ah, that’s where the light hand of serendipity comes in,’ he said blandly. ‘Minerva will deal with it all. She’s a professional chef.’

‘How—fortunate,’ Genevieve said, her voice cooling rapidly. ‘Do you plan to stay long, Minerva?’

‘No.’ Minerva left it at that. She wasn’t going to answer questions from someone who had no right to ask them.

Nick said evenly, ‘Minerva is on holiday in the north. I hope to persuade her to stay on for a few days after the dinner.’ His enigmatic gaze rested a moment on Minerva’s shuttered face.

Genevieve’s green eyes narrowed a second, then opened wide. She flashed a smile at Nick. ‘Well, if you need any help, let me know, won’t you? I’d be quite happy to act as hostess for you again.’ The dazzling smile dimmed noticeably when it was transferred to Minerva. ‘I’d better go. I’ve just put ten boxes of orchids on the plane for Auckland; I’ve got to pick another fifty boxes to catch the flight to Japan tomorrow. See you Saturday!’

She strode away, confident, sure of her attraction and her competence. Minerva watched her departure thoughtfully. Genevieve Chatswood had lost no time in staking her claim. If that was the sort of woman Kerikeri bred, it was no wonder Stella had found it difficult to make friends.

Since knowing Stella she had learned to feel sorry for beautiful people. They never knew whether they were admired for their looks or for themselves.

Not that the man who walked with an easy, effortless gait around the front of the Range Rover seemed to suffer any such problems. Resenting quite irrationally that air of complete and invincible confidence, Minerva hid a cynical little smile as she fastened her seatbelt. Nick Peveril looked like a Regency buck, with all the type’s fabled pride and hauteur and air of self-contained assurance, as well as the elegance and savoir faire.

Perhaps he was too—too intense, too shut in on himself to have stepped from the pages of a Georgette Heyer novel. He was certainly a complex man, not a hearty, extroverted son of the soil.

However, he chose his accoutrements to fit his place in society. The Range Rover was exactly the right vehicle for the seriously rich pastoral aristocrat, and Spanish Castle the right setting. It was a pity the horse wasn’t black; it should rear all over the place, and be called Satan, or Demon, or Devil, and only ever be rideable by the lord of the house, but in spite of that it had looked the part perfectly.

Of course, the dog should be an aristocrat—a wolfhound, or some kind of hunting, shooting and fishing dog, instead of a black and white sheepdog. But it had added the right touch. You couldn’t have everything.

And in spite of his glacial demeanour, Nick made her more aware of her femininity than any other man since Paul Penn had seduced her when she was nineteen.

Which had to signal danger. Minerva looked straight ahead as he got in and switched on the engine.

Five silent minutes later he remarked casually, ‘You won’t have to do any of the housework. Helen has help three days a week from the wife of one of the stockmen. Just concentrate on the cooking.’

‘Oh, I’ll probably be able to manage a few light duties,’ she said, hiding the amusement in her tone with mildness.

He smiled. It was like the sun breaking through storm clouds. Lop-sided, slightly twisted it might be, but the fundamental detachment that seemed to be an integral part of his personality was temporarily in retreat when he smiled.

Her stomach clenched. When the armour he imposed over his emotions was breached he was gorgeous.

No wonder Stella had tumbled headlong into love with him. The thought sent a faint feeling of nausea through Minerva, as though by responding to that inscrutable, remote charm she had been disloyal to her stepsister.

Resting her head on the back of the seat, Minerva stared with unseeing, half-closed eyes at the rain-swept countryside, brooding yet again over Stella’s actions, wondering sickly what had driven her to take her own life.

There had been no reason for her to be depressed. She had had everything to live for; a husband she adored, a future that was shiny and sweet with the promise of happiness. She had been popular and loved, with an infectious, sparkling gaiety that attracted as much attention as her sultry, exotic beauty.

It was impossible to imagine Stella saving pills, stealing them from her mother and the housekeeper, hoarding them away in some horrible kind of squirrel’s cache until she had garnered enough to snuff out her life. She’d waited until Nick had gone away for three days, then swallowed them deliberately, carefully, until they were all gone. It was appalling, hideous, yet she had done it, and left them all bewildered.

The housekeeper had found her the next morning. That must have been Helen Borrows. No wonder she had looked so horrified when Minerva told her she was Mrs Peveril’s sister.

‘Suicide while the balance of her mind was disturbed’ had been the verdict at the inquest. Like Ruth, Minerva found this impossible to credit.

Stella had been so bright, so buoyantly high-spirited, so carefree as she flitted through her life. Oh, there had been moods. Stella’s glums, the family had called them, and joined in an unspoken conspiracy to jolly her out of them. But they had never been particularly intense.

At the inquest Mrs Borrows had said that she hadn’t noticed any signs of depression in the new Mrs Peveril, except that she seemed to be homesick and unable to settle in Northland. She had assumed it was because she didn’t like living in the country. Some people didn’t.

True enough. Yet Stella had seemed so in love with Nick that she would have lived anywhere just to be with him.

Admittedly, Stella hadn’t exactly had much staying power when it came to men. Had that swift, fierce, passion burned out so quickly?

No, her adoring, almost awed love for Nick had resounded through her letters. Yet something had gone wrong. The last communication Minerva had received had been written three months before her stepsister killed herself. By then her letters had become oddly remote, a mere record of events, as though Stella had been trying to hide her real feelings behind the words.

Minerva bit her lip. Meeting Nick, seeing Spanish Castle with her own eyes, had only added to the mystery.

CHAPTER TWO

IN SILENCE they finished the drive back to the homestead. Nick parked the Range Rover in a garage which formed one side of a courtyard at the rear of the house. More flowers and a bed of herbs filled the corners of the courtyard. Like the rest of Spanish Castle it was picture-perfect.

‘There’s room for your car next door,’ he said, and took her through into a double garage, one side of which was taken up by a large Mercedes-Benz saloon.

He opened the roller doors and watched while she drove Ruth’s small car-about-town into the space next to the aristocrat. Once out, she unlocked the boot.

Looking what he was, a man so sure of his position in the world that he had no need to prove himself, a man accustomed to command, he extended an imperative hand. Well, he was stronger than she. With a mental shrug, Minerva passed him the pack that had accompanied her around the globe; in his leanly elegant hands it seemed a battered, cheap thing.

‘This used to be a jumble of rooms,’ he said, leading her through a door into an airy passageway that looked on to the courtyard. ‘It’s now garages and offices and mud-room. This doorway leads into the house proper.’

Up three steps, another wide hall stretched in front of them. He opened a door halfway down. ‘Here’s the kitchen,’ he said.

It was superb. Checking it out with an authoritative eye, Minerva saw that it had been newly renovated and set up for entertaining. Not just the occasional dinner party, either. The French range had enough capacity to feed a hundred, and there was a big old wood range too, crackling softly to itself and giving off a very pleasant heat. Clearly she’d found the source of the unexpected warmth throughout the house.

‘Do you think you can manage the stoves?’ Nick asked.

‘No problem,’ Minerva said reassuringly, trying to project a brisk, businesslike manner.

Of course her hair chose that moment to slip from its knot at the back of her head and slither down her back. Nick’s gaze followed its downward passage until it reached her waist. Beneath the thick fringe of his lashes his eyes gleamed suddenly, something in that hooded scrutiny setting Minerva’s cheeks aflame.

Turning away, she caught the fine, flyaway mass in two hands and ruthlessly anchored it in a knot at the back of her head, forcing the combs into the slippery, silky strands.

So much for her effort to be composed and matter-of-fact!

‘I’ve cooked on everything from a campfire to a hotel range,’ she told him firmly, trying to regain ground.

‘Of course.’ The cool eyes scanned her flushed, averted face. His uneven smile held more than a hint of mockery. ‘You don’t look like my idea of a chef.’

‘Because I haven’t got a white hat on? I only wear one in hotel kitchens.’ Retreating behind a mask of expertise, she asked crisply, ‘What foods do you dislike?’

‘None. I’ll eat anything you put in front of me provided it isn’t too sweet.’ He glanced at the thin watch on his strong wrist. ‘We’ll talk about my tastes later, after I’ve shown you the rest of the house and your room.’

A large tabby cat strolled casually in through the door, looked around with the air of one at home, then headed straight for him.

‘This is Penelope,’ he said, bending down to scratch her in exactly the right place behind her ears. ‘Her official job is to keep any mice down.’

Minerva liked cats. This one, with its ineffable air of sleek self-respect, gave the huge kitchen a friendly, comfortable air. Purring, Penelope displayed herself sinuously about Nick’s ankles, then, when he stood up, leapt gracefully on to a stool and looked expectantly at Minerva.

She laughed softly. ‘Wait until dinner,’ she said. ‘And if I ever see you on the bench—watch it.’

The cat gave her a disgusted stare, yawned ostentatiously and settled down to wash its ears.

‘Don’t you like cats?’ Nick asked.

‘Love them, but with a cat it’s always wise to establish right at the beginning who’s boss. Penelope and I will get on very well, don’t worry.’ She stroked the blunt head, asking, ‘What’s your dog’s name? The one you were carrying on your horse?’

‘Rusty.’

Minerva’s brows shot up. ‘That’s funny. I’d have bet money on him being black and white, without a speck of brown.’

‘And you’d have won. I didn’t name him,’ he said, that half-smile softening his features.

‘Who did?’

‘The man who bred him. I’ve always assumed he was colourblind.’

‘Does he come inside?’ she asked. ‘Rusty, I mean.’

His eyebrows lifted. ‘No, he’s a farm dog.’

So farm dogs were not pets. You learn something new every day, she told herself.

‘I used to have a Labrador who did come inside,’ he said, ‘but Stella didn’t like dogs, so when he died I didn’t get another.’

There was a chilling lack of emotion in his tone, in his face, when he said his dead wife’s name. It was as though she meant nothing to him. Or perhaps, Minerva thought slowly, as though he still couldn’t bear to think of it, as though the only way he could cope was to tamp the emotions down.

‘And what is the horse’s name?’ she asked quickly.

His brows lifted but he said readily enough, ‘Silver Demon.’

Something in her expression must have given her away, because an answering amusement glimmered in his eyes. ‘I didn’t name him, either. Pretentious, isn’t it?’

‘It suits him,’ she said solemnly, smoothing the soft fur behind Penelope’s ears to hide the flutter that smile set up somewhere in the region of her heart.

He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t. Although he’s a stallion he’s as placid as a gelding, which is why he’s here. We don’t breed horses at Spanish Castle, so there’s no place for a temperamental stallion, or mare, for that matter; this is a working station.’ He paused, then added without expression, ‘He doesn’t come inside, either.’

When Minerva laughed he watched her with an arrested expression, almost as though a laughing woman was a novelty. The amusement died in her throat. Abruptly, Nick turned towards the door. Answering the unspoken summons, she left Penelope in charge and followed him from the kitchen.

‘I’ll take you round the ground floor first,’ he said, ‘so you know your way about, then I’ll show you your room.’

The homestead was magnificent, furniture and fabric and the house itself combining to make a harmonious whole. The last room they went into was a splendid dining-room where an eighteenth-century mahogany table was set off perfectly by buttercup-coloured walls and a huge painting that should have been incongruous, a modern South American acrylic of the jungle. Yet the lush, almost naïve picture set off the big room and its elegant, traditional furniture with style and wit.

Gazing around, Minerva asked, ‘Who decorated the house? It’s brilliant.’

‘My mother.’

Was his mother still alive? Yes, Stella had written of a tall, charming woman who had married again. ‘She has great talent.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Although most of the furniture was in the house, she re-organised the place to within an inch of its life as well as choosing the colours and the materials. In her day it wasn’t done for a young woman to have a career, but she’d have been a success as a decorator. She lives in Singapore now with her second husband, and is having the time of her life redoing his house and garden.’

The stairs led to a passage lit by an arched window above the staircase and a large double-hung window at the other end of the house. More pictures were displayed along the walls, some by artists Minerva thought she recognised, some unknown, but all chosen with discernment and the passion of the true connoisseur.

‘Did your mother collect the pictures?’ she asked, looking at one particularly impressive oil of a woman on the beach.

‘Some. My grandparents and great-grandparents bought some, and I’ve added to them.’

‘They have...’ Struggling for a way to express her feelings, she could only say lamely, ‘They seem to go to together, to make up a whole.’

‘Perhaps because we’ve only ever bought what we really like,’ he said.

Her room, just around the corner from the stairs, was surprisingly large, with a four-poster bed against one wall and a small door opposite. Going over to the bed, Nick turned down the spread.

‘It’s not made up,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you do it now.’

‘I’ll do it,’ she said swiftly. It was ridiculous, but she didn’t want him making the bed with her. ‘Where’s the linen cupboard?’

He nodded towards a massive French armoire on one wall. ‘In there. Are you sure? I do know how to make a bed.’

Minerva’s smile was hurried. ‘I’m sure you can, but honestly, it’s no trouble.’

‘All right. The bathroom is through the door beside it,’ he said. ‘Let me know if there’s anything else you want.’

Minerva looked away. The ripple of taut muscle as he swung her pack on to a chair set uneasy excitement singing through her. ‘I will,’ she said. ‘What time do you have dinner?’

‘Seven-thirty. I think Helen has left a sort of menu.’

‘Yes.’

He said without emotion, ‘Thank you for stepping into the breach. Helen was frantic to get to her daughter, but she wouldn’t have left me in the lurch.’

‘That’s loyalty,’ Minerva said slowly. Was the housekeeper devoted enough to answer a lawyer who asked questions about the relationship between husband and wife with, if not lies, at least a bending of the truth that favoured her employer?

After all, it would be pragmatic of her to be generous in her interpretation of the situation, even a little biased. Not only did Nick own Spanish Castle, he had interests in other businesses, mostly concerned with the agricultural and pastoral sector, including one extremely successful one he’d set up himself. Irritated by the lack of decent software for agricultural use, he had designed his own, marketed it, and now headed a firm which was expanding its exports by a quantum leap each year.

So he was clever, a creative thinker and an astute businessman as well as part of New Zealand’s landed gentry. The Peveril name was one to reckon with in the north. Nick was a local grandee, a power in the country. And he was kind; his concern for Mrs Borrows hadn’t been assumed.