Wild Enchantress

Jared summoned a porter to take the suitcases, aware of her watching him as he did so. He wondered what she was thinking and was disconcerted when she said: ‘It was kind of you to invite me here, but it wasn't necessary. Daddy was always far too protective. I can look after myself.'

‘Can you?’ Jared's tone was dry. ‘Well, I'm sorry, but I felt unable to carry out your father's wishes at several thousand miles’ distance.'

‘I'm surprised you wanted to,’ she murmured, preceding him out into the brilliant sunshine, and again forestalled his retort by adding: ‘Gosh, isn't it hot! It was raining when we left London.'

The convertible waited in the shade, and Jared had the porter stow her cases in the back, handed him a generous tip, and then swung open the passenger side door for Catherine to get in. He could not help but appreciate the long slender limbs exhibited as she drew her legs into the vehicle, and the perfume she was wearing rose up from the hollow between her breasts. Slamming the door, he walked round and levered himself in beside her, reaching for a cheroot before starting the engine.

‘Is it far to your house, Jared?’ she inquired, as he inhaled the aromatic fumes deep into his lungs, and he was not pleased by her casual use of his name. When her father had introduced them six years ago, he had been Mr Royal, and somehow he had expected that.

‘About twenty miles,’ he replied shortly, his tone indicative of his mood.

For a few moments there was silence, broken only by the whine of a jet engine overhead, and the sound of laughter across the parking area. Then she said with quiet deliberation: ‘Why did you bring me out here, Jared? It's obvious you don't really want me.'

Jared took the cheroot out of his mouth before his teeth crushed it flat. ‘Have I given you that impression?'

She looked amused, and that annoyed him even more. ‘You know you have,’ she said. ‘You've never even said hello, let alone asked me what kind of a journey I had! What's wrong? Haven't you forgiven me for embarrassing you all those years ago?'

‘You didn't embarrass me, Miss Fulton.'

‘Cat! And yes, I did. I'm sorry. But you were the first man I ever really fell for. I know I was a precocious little beast, but I have grown up a lot since then.'

‘It's really not important.'

‘So why are you so uptight?'

‘I'm not—uptight. Whatever that means!'

‘You must know. Barbados can't be that out of touch.'

‘I don't consider it out of touch at all.'

She gave him a sidelong glance. ‘You think I do.'

‘Vegetating—isn't that what you said?'

She laughed. ‘Oh, no! That got back to you.’ She shook her head. ‘That was Tony. He said that, not me.'

‘Tony?’ he queried.

‘Mmm. Tony Bainbridge. A—friend.'

‘Boy-friend?'

‘Well, as he is male…’ She looked amused and Jared ground out the remains of his cheroot in the ashtray.

‘The reason why you didn't want to come out here, one presumes,’ he commented coldly, and she sighed.

‘You do sound pompous,’ she said ruefully. ‘I didn't think you would be—being an artist and all.'

‘I am not an artist!’ he retorted grimly. ‘I'm a painter. Don't confuse me with your genuine be-smocked eccentric!'

‘I wouldn't do that,’ she assured him, and he leant forward to start the ignition with a vicious flick of his wrist. She had succeeded in putting hm on the defensive and he didn't like it.

They covered several miles without conversation. She seemed content to stare out of the side of the car at the neat hedges they were passing, at the smooth winding road which might have been in England had it not been for the little wobbling donkey carts with their loads of bananas and grapefruit, mangoes and avocados, the dark skins of the people, and cane in the fields instead of corn. Occasionally a white-painted windmill appeared, its sails turning in the breeze which fanned their faces and tangled Catherine's hair. Here and there were cottage gardens bright with flowers of every kind—lilies and begonias, fuchsias, rose mallows, red hibiscus or the exotic petals of the moonflower. It was an exciting and colourful scene, and as the road meandered towards the coast, they came within sight and sound of the Atlantic breakers rolling in to plunging headlands and wild and lovely beaches. The further north they drove, the more spectacular the scenery became and eventually Catherine had to comment upon it.

‘It reminds me of Brittany,’ she said, leaning forward in her seat to get a better view. ‘I had a holiday there when I was about seventeen. Have you ever been to France, Jared?'

He shook his head. ‘No.'

She studied his unsmiling profile. ‘This—visit isn't going to be much fun if you persist in treating me like some kind of pariah. Look, can't we at least be civil with one another? I know my father would have wanted it that way.'

At the mention of her father, Jared felt a twinge of remorse. Glancing sideways at her, he saw how her eyes had darkened with remembered grief, and he felt a moment's sympathy.

‘I liked your father,’ he said quietly. ‘He was a fine man. I met him in my final year at Oxford. Your mother was alive in those days.'

‘Oh, Mummy. Yes.’ Catherine sank back in her seat. ‘I seem to have been singularly unlucky with my parents. Mummy dying in that car accident, and now Daddy…'

Her voice trailed away, and Jared's fingers tightened on the wheel. ‘Then it's just as well you can take care of yourself, isn't it?'

His words, not entirely intended to sound ironic, came out that way, and for once she was stung by them. ‘That's exactly the kind of remark you would make, isn't it?’ she demanded. ‘Just because you once got a great deal of satisfaction out of putting me down, you can't resist repeating the experiment, can you?'

‘My dear girl—'

‘I'm not your dear girl! Oh, how I wish Daddy had never written that letter. I don't know what possessed him to do so. I don't need your guardianship. I was quite happy in London—having a good time—'

‘With Tony!’ he inserted dryly, and she gave him an angry stare.

‘Yes, with Tony. Why not with Tony—or with anyone else, for that matter?'

Jared's expression was contemptuous after this outburst. ‘I'm beginning to understand why your father was so concerned about you,’ he drawled.

‘Oh, are you?’ Her eyes challenged his, dark lashes giving them a sooty outline. She examined his face with frank appraisal, and then she said: ‘You've got cat's eyes, do you know that? You should have been called Kit, or Christian, so they could have abbreviated your name. With your looks you could easily have been a pirate. What a pity your character doesn't match your appearance!'

‘I was not aware you were talking about me. It's obvious. Your father was afraid some man would—would—'

‘—put me in the family way? Make me marry him so that he could get his hands on my fortune and I could save my good name? How old-fashioned, Mr Royal,’ she taunted. ‘Haven't you heard of the pill? And besides, you don't imagine being pregnant would force me to marry anyone, do you?'

Jared's jaw clenched. ‘Easy to say, Miss Fulton, when the need doesn't arise!'

Her hands balled together in her lap. ‘How do you know?’ she demanded scathingly. ‘What makes you so sure I'm not pregnant at this moment?'

Jared dragged his eyes away from the road to stare at her, disbelief vying with the recollection of his first sight of her in that loose, flowing garment at the airport. His eyes narrowed, tawny slits between lashes thicker, but not as long, as her own. ‘And are you?’ he inquired coldly.

Catherine pressed her lips together, deepening colour darkening the soft velvety skin of her cheeks. ‘I—yes,’ she answered. ‘Yes, I am. What are you going to do about it?'

CHAPTER TWO

Now why had she said that?

Catherine could hardly believe she had allowed the words to pass her lips. What possible satisfaction could she hope to gain from such an announcement? How silly to allow him to get under her skin to that extent! It wasn't true. And how angry Tony would be if he ever found out.

And yet she couldn't help but smile at Jared's grim profile as he endeavoured to concentrate his attention on the traffic in the face of her outrageous statement. A small sigh escaped her as she considered how much she had wanted to see him again. Ever since he had come to the Open Day at her boarding school with her father, his image had lingered in her mind, accompanied by that tantalising memory of his reactions to her amateurish attempt to attract his attention.

All the girls had been envious of her attractive visitor. He had worn a denim suit, she remembered, and the closer-fitting styles of those days had accentuated the narrowness of his hips. In any event, she had been pleased to be taking part in the tennis tournament, which meant she had been able to wear a hip-length tennis dress which drew attention to the already curving length of her legs. When her match was over, she had joined her father and his friend for tea, and in the busy marquee it had not been difficult to find an occasion to press herself close to Jared Royal's lean, hard body. That he had swiftly detached himself from her with a few well-chosen words of rebuke had not been able to dispose of the fact that for a brief instant his body had responded to hers. She had not seen him again, but when she learned of her father's letter, she had not been entirely opposed to coming out here and meeting him again. She had thought he might well have forgotten that incident which she remembered so vividly, but it seemed he had not. And what was more, he was judging her present behaviour on one single reckless act. She squared her shoulders. Well, now he had something to justify his opinion of her.

She was so absorbed with her thoughts that she hardly noticed when they turned between griffin-mounted stone gateposts, but the tall palms lining the white-gravelled driveway brought her to the realisation that they were approaching the Royal house. She glanced frustratedly at Jared. Was he not going to say anything, then? Was he so uninterested in her affairs that even the announcement that she was expecting a baby had no reaction on him?

She hunched her shoulders. But what of the rest of his family? What was she going to tell them? She knew he had a stepmother. She could just imagine her reactions to learning her guest's condition. She should never have said what she did. But it was too late now. And besides, she wanted him to believe it. It would give her the greatest pleasure to explode his myth of self-confidence at the end of her stay. And it would also be interesting to see whether he was really as hostile to her as he would have her believe.

But she had to say something, and despising the faint tremor in her voice, she said: ‘Is this your home?'

‘Yes.’ There was a certain amount of pride in his voice now. ‘Amaryllis.'

‘Amaryllis.'

Catherine said the word experimentally. It rolled off her tongue, attractively different from the names of houses back home in England. The drive curved between banks of rhododendrons, and then she saw it. Amaryllis. A wide colonial house, with white-painted shutters, and a long balcony to the first floor, running the width of the house. On the lower floor, rattan chairs were set in the shade between wooden pillars overhung with morning glory and clematis.

‘Oh…’ She could not deny the words which tumbled from her lips. ‘It's beautiful! So clean—and picturesque. It's like everyone's dream of what a plantation house should be.’ She turned to him eagerly, almost forgetting what was between them. ‘I expect you love it.'

Jared looked her way, and she was chilled by the coldness of his eyes. Amber should be warm, burnished, not pale and icily penetrating. ‘It's my home,’ he said expressionlessly.

‘But not mine,’ she burst out fiercely. ‘Is that what you're really saying?'

He shrugged, returning his attention to swinging the convertible round in an arc, bringing it to a halt beside doors which stood wide to the afternoon air. ‘I invited you to Amaryllis, Miss Fulton. I haven't forgotten that.'

The car had scarcely stopped before a woman appeared in the open doorway. Catherine, thrusting open her door and getting out of the car without waiting for his assistance, wondered if this could be Jared's stepmother. But as the woman moved further out of the shadows, she saw that she was dark-skinned, and wearing a cotton smock patterned all over with yellow sunflowers on a green background. Her hair was turning grey in places, but was still as thick as ever, and there were laughter creases beside her mouth and eyes. Catherine thought she was going to like her, and judging by the way she was being summed up, the other woman would not forget her face in a hurry.

Jared hefted Catherine's cases out of the car and then turned to the woman with a smile which left Catherine wishing he had used his charm on her. ‘Lily, this is Miss Fulton who's coming to stay with us for a while. Will you have Henry take her luggage up to her room?'

‘Yes, Mr Royal.’ Lily's dark eyes shifted to the girl. ‘Welcome to Barbados, Miz Fulton.'

‘Thank you, Lily.’ Catherine cast a slightly ironic glance in Jared's direction. It had taken a servant to say the words he should have used. ‘I'm sure I'm going to love it here.’ This last, just to show him that he could not intimidate her.

‘Where is my stepmother, Lily?'

Not by the flicker of an eyelid did Jared reveal any reaction to his guest's apparent enthusiasm, and Lily led the way into the cool, white-panelled hall of the building, indicating an archway to their right.

‘She's in the parlour, Mr Royal. She said to serve tea directly you get back from the airport. Shall I do it now?'

Jared hesitated, while Catherine admired the single crystal chandelier suspended overhead. Then he nodded, adding; ‘But bring me a beer, will you, Lily? I need a drink.'

It was his only concession to the tension between them, but Catherine felt unreasonably triumphant as she accompanied him along a cool corridor and into a high-ceilinged sitting room. Her first impressions were of veined marble tiles which reflected the turquoise silk curtains moving gently at the open windows, and deep coral-coloured sofas, bright with cushions in shades of blue, green and turquoise. A woman was reclining on one of the sofas, but at their entrance, she swung her legs to the floor and got to her feet. She was small and slender, elegant in an ankle-length hostess gown made of some chiffon-like material, its burnished autumn shades toning with the reddish lights in her hair. Was this Jared's stepmother? Catherine guessed it was, but she must surely have been years younger than his father.

Jared performed the introductions, calling his stepmother Mrs Royal, and Catherine Miss Fulton. The older woman was weighing her up very thoroughly, and Catherine wondered at that slightly speculative look in her eyes. Then she said, with more warmth than her stepson had shown:

‘I think we can dispose of the formalities, don't you, Catherine? That is your name, isn't it? And mine is Elizabeth.'

Catherine couldn't resist darting a glance at Jared's face to see how he was taking this, but he had turned away, ostensibly glancing through several letters laid on a silver salver set on a lacquered cabinet.

‘Oh, please do,’ she answered now, her nerves tightening a little when she contemplated what this woman's reaction might be if Jared turned round and told her their guest was apparently pregnant. But no, he wouldn't do that. If he did choose to tell his stepmother, it would be at some time when she was not present, when the revelation would not embarrass him.

‘Did you have a good journey?'

Elizabeth seated herself on the sofa again and patted the seat beside her, indicating that Catherine should join her. Catherine went to do so, the heat beginning to cause her some discomfort as little trickles of sweat ran down her breasts on to her flat stomach.

‘I don't really like flying,’ she confessed, aware as she did so that Elizabeth wasn't really paying her a lot of attention. She continually glanced over her shoulder at Jared, and although he continued to ignore them both, Catherine felt the undercurrents in the air. ‘Do you?’ she finished, and Elizabeth was forced to reply.

‘I—why, I don't mind.’ She glanced round at Jared again. ‘Darling, did you order tea? I told Lily—'

Jared half turned and looked up. ‘Yes.’ His gaze flicked to Catherine. ‘Perhaps—perhaps our guest might prefer to take tea in her room.'

Catherine put her shoulder bag firmly down on the floor at her feet. ‘I'm fine,’ she said, aware of his antipathy. ‘I'm in no hurry to—wash my hands.’ She paused, looking about her. ‘What a beautiful house this is.'

‘Do you like it?’ Elizabeth successfully hid any feelings she had regarding her stepson's behaviour. ‘It was built almost a hundred years ago.'

‘I adore old houses.’ Catherine smiled. ‘I live in a very functional flat, and—and when Daddy was alive, I was always trying to persuade him to buy a house.'

‘Well, in six months you'll be able to buy one for yourself,’ remarked Jared offensively, but she chose to ignore him.

‘Have you lived here long, Mrs—er—Elizabeth?'

‘Twelve years.’ Was there the faintest hesitation before her reply? ‘I married Jared's father twelve years ago. Unfortunately, two years ago he died.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Yes.’ Elizabeth looked suitably nostalgic for a moment. Then she shook her head. ‘Of course, he was a lot older than I am.'

‘Of course.'

Catherine caught the inner side of her lower lip between her teeth. There was something about Elizabeth Royal which she didn't altogether like. She didn't know what it was exactly. The woman had been perfectly civil to her. But somehow she felt she preferred Jared's open antagonism to his stepmother's restrained politeness. She was relieved when the squeal of trolley wheels heralded the arrival of tea, but she couldn't suppress the depressing realisation of how long six months could seem.

The tea service was Crown Derby, and between bite-sized sandwiches and several cups of the strong, heavily sweetened beverage she seemed to prefer, Elizabeth kept up a steady inquisition: Did Catherine live in London? Had she always done so? Did she have her own flat? Had she many boy-friends?

This latter question was delivered with a coy glance at Jared, who was standing with his back to the open french windows, feet slightly apart, drinking beer from the can despite his stepmother's protests. Catherine was tempted to make some outrageous reply, but a glimpse of his brooding malevolence changed her mind.

‘I have—boy-friends,’ she conceded slowly. ‘I have girl friends, too.'

‘But isn't there someone, some particular boy…'

Elizabeth's voice trailed away and she sat regarding her expectantly. Catherine guessed to what she was referring. When news of her father's letter had first reached her, she had made Tony an excuse for wanting to remain in London. And indeed, he had not wanted her to come to Barbados.

Choosing her words carefully, she replied: ‘There is one—young man I'm rather friendly with.’ She ventured another glance at Jared, but his eyes were fixed on some point above her head. ‘His name's Tony Bainbridge. We've known one another for a couple of years.'

‘Ah.’ Elizabeth seemed relieved, and Catherine wondered about this. Was she worried in case their house-guest began taking too close an interest in her stepson? He was a most attractive—and eligible—man, after all, heir to this estate, however large or small it might be, and a successful portrait painter into the bargain. No doubt all the matrons on the island, with unmarried daughters on their hands, beat a path to his door in an effort to cultivate his attentions, so what was one unmarried female more or less? Certainly nothing for Elizabeth to concern herself about, unless she had some other motive for hoping he remained single…

At this point Catherine brought herself up short. She had absolutely no grounds for considering any such thing. Whatever his faults, she suspected that Jared Royal was an honourable man, and having an affair with his dead father's widow was hardly an honourable thing to do.

‘We must introduce you to Jared's fiancée,’ Elizabeth remarked, as if to confound Catherine's speculations, and nullify the intimacy of the look she exchanged with her stepson. ‘She's just a little older than you are, but I'm sure you'd find her good company. You could go swimming together, there's a pool out back, or the beach, and we have tennis courts—'

‘Perhaps you should let Miss Fulton get used to her new surroundings first,’ Jared interposed smoothly, and Catherine realised with a pang that he was actually making things easier for her; or so he thought! A pregnant woman might go easy on the swimming, and avoid tennis altogether.

‘Well, I love swimming,’ she murmured now, setting her empty teacup on its saucer and waving away Elizabeth's offer of more. ‘But I think perhaps Jared's right. I should settle in first.’ She looked sideways at him. ‘I'm looking forward to meeting your fiancée, though.'

And so she was. She was curious to meet the girl who had succeeded in netting such an unpredictable catch!

Elizabeth appeared to accept this. ‘As you wish. Laura—that's Jared's fiancée, by the way—Laura is coming to lunch tomorrow, so you'll meet her then. This evening there'll just be the three of us. Jared thought you might be—tired after your journey.'

Catherine wondered exactly what Jared had thought. What were his motives for bringing her out here? Had it only been a feeling of obligation to her late father which had prompted him to offer her the hospitality of his home? Or might he, like his stepmother, have other reasons?

Stifling a yawn, she realised she was tired. She had been up very early that morning, and the long flight had been singularly boring. The plane had not been full, and the seat beside hers had remained empty, but although she had been superbly comfortable, able to spread her belongings around without fear of disturbing anyone else, she had found it impossible to rest. The magazines offered by the stewardesses had failed to distract her thoughts from the anticipation of her arrival, and she had been impatient to reach her destination. But now she was here, she knew what she was up against, and within half an hour of her arrival she had placed herself in an entirely false position.

Elizabeth had apparently noticed her efforts to hide her weariness, for she gave a sympathetic smile before getting to her feet and ringing a bell on the wall by the door. A young maid appeared, and her mistress gave her instructions to show Miss Fulton to her room.

‘I'm sure you'll find everything you need, Catherine,’ she said, as her guest stood up and walked towards the door. ‘If not, Susie'—she indicated the maid—‘will attend to it. We have dinner at about eight o'clock. I should rest for a while, if I were you.'

‘Thank you.’ Catherine turned to look at both of them. Well, now Jared would have an opportunity of apprising his stepmother of the situation, or at least, what he thought was the situation. She half wished she had not been so impulsive. ‘I—thank you for inviting me here,’ she added. ‘I'm sure I'm going to—enjoy myself.'

Jared half turned to stare out of the window, and Catherine felt her hackles rise. He was so arrogant! Why should she regret anything she had said to him? It was left to his stepmother to assure her that she was very welcome, and then Susie led the way back to the hall.

A marble staircase led to a first floor gallery which circled the hall below. White panelled doors opened on to the gallery, but Susie turned left at the top of the stairs into a long panelled hallway giving access to that wing of the building. She flung open a heavy door halfway along the hall, and indicated that Catherine should precede her into the room.