Scorpion's Dance

Mark put his keys in the ignition and started the car, and Miranda looked at him in consternation. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Car’s cold,’ he said. ‘We’ll warm up the engine, then we’ll talk.’

‘But Mark …’

She bit into her lower lip anxiously, and he gave her a derisive stare. ‘What’s the matter? Think I’m too drunk to drive or something?’

She sighed. ‘Frankly, yes.’

Mark shook his head. ‘You worry too much. I know exactly what I’m doing.’

Miranda wished she could be sure. Staring out of the frosted window, she wondered where Lady Sanders thought they had gone. Perhaps she would send Jaime to look for them. Jaime! Miranda’s lips tightened. How she would like to see him humiliated just once in his life!

Mark had stopped at the traffic lights and was looking at her in the light cast by the street lamps. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said, as if he had just realised the fact, and she forced a faint smile although her lips felt stiff and unresponsive.

Then the lights changed and they were moving again, faster now as the outskirts of the town were left behind them, and the open road invited greater speed. Miranda fastened the safety belt and gripped the seat tightly with her fingers. She would not ask him to slow down, she told herself fiercely. If he killed them both now, she would at least have the satisfaction of knowing that Lady Sanders had not won. She felt curiously fatalistic, and it was almost a shock to see the lights of the village ahead of them and to know that they had arrived safely.

‘Wh-where are we going?’ she ventured, speaking for the first time when he drove past the turning to the Hall, and he heaved a half regretful sigh.

‘You’ll see,’ he said, and slowed to a standstill before the cottage he had bought for her mother.

Miranda caught her breath. ‘Here?’

‘Why not? It’s mine, isn’t it?’

‘Well, yes, but—’

‘The decorators have been here all day. The place is bound to be warm. It’s as good a place as any to talk, isn’t it?’

Miranda made no reply, and he thrust open his door and climbed out. As she joined him, she wondered how many pairs of curtains twitched as their owners espied the visitors to the cottage, and she cringed at the thought of her mother being regaled with the information.

Inside, as he had said, it was warm, and there was the pungent odour of new paint. Central heating had been installed, and the radiators still retained an atom of heat. But it was the gas fire in the living room which really dispelled the draughts, and illuminated the shadowy corners of the room. Mark had not put on the light as there were no curtains as yet at the windows, but the firelight was enough.

Two planks were fixed horizontally between two pairs of steps and the painters had spread the planks with an old piece of carpeting they had found to make a seat. Mark sat down on the planks and beckoned to Miranda to join him. She looked doubtfully at her cream gown and then at the grubby carpeting. Obviously it would stain, but if Mark was prepared to risk it, so must she.

‘So,’ he said, turning sideways to look at her. ‘Here we are.’

‘Yes.’ She sought about desperately for some way to begin this. ‘Mark, I want you to know—’

She broke off suddenly when he leaned towards her and pressed his lips to the side of her neck. It was a totally unexpected caress, and her tension melted.

‘You—believe me?’ she breathed.

‘Let’s say I’m prepared to be persuaded,’ he responded, his voice thickening somewhat. ‘You can tell me first what you were doing with that half-breed cousin of mine!’

Miranda caught her breath. ‘Mark! Don’t say things like that.’

‘Why not? It’s true.’ His lower lip jutted aggressively. ‘Is that why you found him so attractive? They say women like that sort of thing!’

Miranda sighed. ‘Mark! I’ve told you what happened. I felt faint and—and Mr Knevett suggested I stepped outside for a few minutes, that’s all.’

‘All?’ Mark’s lips curled even as his fingers probed the nape of her neck before sliding down to linger suggestively on the swelling mounds of her breasts. ‘And what did you do while you were—outside?’

‘Nothing!’ Miranda’s unease returned in full measure. ‘What do you think we did? What could we do?’

‘I could think of a lot of things,’ replied Mark with a sneer. ‘This, for instance,’ and he slid his hand inside the neckline of her gown to cup the rounded softness of her breast.

Miranda froze. His hand inside her gown aroused nothing but a feeling of distaste inside her, and the derisive twisting of his mouth revealed that he was aware of her revulsion.

‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded, leaning towards her. ‘Don’t you like me to touch you? Don’t you want me to see how desirable you are?’

‘Mark, this has gone far enough—’

‘No, damn you, it hasn’t,’ he snapped violently. ‘Not half far enough!’

With a muffled exclamation his arms were around her, forcing her back on the planks until her shoulder blades were digging painfully into the wood. Then he threw himself upon her, his lips wet and slippery against the shrinking coldness of her flesh.

Miranda was so shocked that for minutes she could do nothing but lie there. Then, as his intentions became clear to her, she began to struggle desperately, digging her nails into his arms, fighting in any way she could to escape his revolting caresses. He was no longer the gentle man she had imagined him to be, but a drink-crazed beast who cared for nothing but his own sexual appeasement.

And she was no match for him. Slender though he was, he had no difficulty in overcoming her frantic efforts to evade him, and tears were streaming down her face when she heard his groan of defeat. Not understanding, she was too shocked and shaking to move when he rolled off her, buttoning his clothes and muttering to himself in tones of distress.

Blinking, hardly capable of coherent thought, she propped herself up on one elbow, staring at him through the wild disorder of her hair. Holding the bodice of her gown together with trembling fingers, she thought at first he had come to his senses, but the ravaged face he turned to her disabused her of that fact.

‘M-Mark!’ she got out unsteadily, but his face just contorted more savagely.

‘Don’t speak to me!’ He spat the words at her. ‘Don’t speak to me!’

Miranda pushed back her hair with an unsteady hand and got to her feet. ‘Mark, you’re drunk—’

‘Drunk, am I?’ He lurched a step towards her, and then shaking his head, he stared broodingly down at the floor.

‘Drunk! Huh, that’s a laugh! God, I wish I was!’

Miranda was trying to understand what he was saying, but her mind wouldn’t work very well. Yet common sense told her that something had happened to bring Mark to his senses, and she desperately wanted to find some good in this awful mess.

‘Mark, you’ll feel better in the morning—’

‘Will I? Will I?’ He glared at her. ‘What do you know about it? What do you know about anything?’ His breathing had quickened again, and as she watched him she saw to her astonishment that there were tears in his eyes.

It was a revealing moment, and compassion swept over her, dispelling the revulsion she had felt for him. ‘Mark, let me help you—’

‘You! Help me?’ His laugh was bitter. ‘I don’t need your help. I don’t want you. I don’t need you. I never did. Don’t you understand, I don’t need anyone!’ And with a muttered oath he flung himself across the room and out the door.

Miranda stared after him blankly, not immediately comprehending the import of what he was saying. But suddenly she knew, suddenly she guessed why he had not finished what he had started. He couldn’t! That was what was eating him up. He couldn’t love anyone.

She turned back to the fire, her hands pressed to her mouth, and as she did so she heard the sound of the sports car starting up outside. With a cry, she turned and darted to the door. He couldn’t go! He couldn’t leave her here like this, without even a coat to cover her torn gown.

But he had. The tail lights of the sports car were already disappearing into the light mist which had fallen when she reached the door, and she stood there watching them until they disappeared from sight. Then she turned and went back into the cottage.

There was no phone, so she could not even ring her mother to ask someone to come and get her. But equally, she could not spend the night here. Apart from anything else, her mother would worry about her, and besides, she wanted to get home, to close the door of her own room and shake away the horrifying implications of the night’s revelations.

She turned out the gas fire, and running combing hands through her hair, walked to the door. The freezing air made her hesitate, and on impulse she went back and gathered up the piece of carpeting to hold like a cloak about her shoulders. Her dress was light, and therefore noticeable, but she couldn’t help that. It was a quarter of a mile to the turn off to the Hall, and another half to the Hall itself.

Miranda had scarcely gone two hundred yards, however, when the headlights of a car picked her up, and she bent her head in agony, praying it was no one she knew. The village attracted a fair number of evening commuters to its two public houses, and it was after closing time.

The car slowed, but she hurried on determinedly, aware of the dangers of a casual pick-up, but when a window was rolled down and a harsh voice said: ‘Miranda!’ she was forced to turn and look.

The car, a red Daimler, was familiar to her. It belonged to Lady Sanders. But Mark’s mother was not driving, she was not even in the car. Jaime Knevett was behind the wheel.

His raking gaze swept her dishevelled appearance, and even in the shadowed street lights she knew she must present a ragged figure. She was reminded of that other occasion when he had seen her torn and bedraggled, and she thought with a rising sense of fury that indirectly he was again the cause of her distress.

‘Get in!’ he said, but she just returned his stare, determined not to be beholden to him for anything. ‘I said—get in!’ he repeated forcefully, and telling herself it was because she was cold and the Hall was still a good distance away and not anything to do with the bleak fury in his eyes, she complied. Gathering her mist-dampened skirts about her, she huddled into the seat beside him, and he leant across her to slam the door with controlled violence.

‘Now,’ he said, his profile hard in the gloomy light, ‘what in God’s name has been going on?’

Miranda cast him a sidelong glance. ‘I’d like to go home,’ she said pointedly, but he ignored her, tossing the disreputable piece of carpet into the back and shrugging out of his own jacket to wrap it about her shoulders. Miranda wanted to protest that she needed nothing from him, but the jacket was so blessedly warm and soft after the scrubby pile of the carpeting that she gave in without argument.

‘If we have to stay here all night, you’re going to tell me where you’ve been,’ he intoned grimly, and she had the feeling he meant it.

‘Don’t you know?’ she demanded, drawing an unsteady breath. ‘Or didn’t your imagination stretch that far?’

‘What do you mean?’

Miranda’s composure was slipping. She didn’t want to sit here discussing what had happened with him. It was still too raw, too vulnerable, and to consider breaking down in front of him was too frightful to be borne.

‘Please,’ she said tremulously, ‘I want to go home. Can’t you restrain your curiosity until the morning? I’m sure Mark will be only too happy to regale you with the details!’

‘Mark?’ His heavy black brows drew together. ‘Mark is responsible for—this?’

His fingers flicked the tangled strands of hair that clung to the mohair of his jacket, but she flinched away from his touch with the nervous mobility of fear. Immediately his eyes narrowed, and uncaring of prying eyes, he switched on the interior light and saw what the masking shadows had concealed. Miranda’s face was pale and haunted, and there were bruises around her throat, just visible above the encompassing shoulders of his jacket. Wordlessly, he tugged the jacket out of her resisting grasp and spread the lapels to reveal the scratches on her arms, and the torn material of the bodice of her dress. Miranda spread her arms crosswise over her breasts, but she had the feeling he was not seeing her as a woman at all, but as the victim of some sexual attack.

With a savage oath, he wrapped the jacket around her again and switched out the light. Then he drew several deep breaths before saying quite calmly: ‘I’ll kill him!’

‘No!’ Somehow from the depths of her being, Miranda managed to articulate the words. ‘It’s not what you think. He … didn’t. That is … he tried to, but … he didn’t.’

Jaime rested his forehead against the steering wheel. ‘Where is he now?’

Miranda shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You mean he just left you? He put you out of the car …’

‘Oh, no, no!’ Miranda had never felt so weary in her life. ‘We … went to the cottage. Mark … he bought my mother a cottage, you see. Back there.’ She gestured feebly. ‘We went there.’

‘But he left you?’

‘Yes.’ She gulped despairingly. ‘Can I go home now?’

He straightened, flexing his shoulders. ‘In a moment. There’s one more thing.’

‘What?’

‘Why did you assume that I might know what had been going on?’

Miranda sighed. ‘Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you didn’t.’

Jaime’s mouth was a thin line. ‘Nevertheless, I think I deserve an explanation.’

‘Oh, can’t it wait?’

‘No.’

Miranda shifted restlessly. ‘Why should I give you explanations? You’re on their side, not mine.’

‘I am not on any side,’ he declared coldly. ‘And what is all this talk of sides? You’re marrying Mark, aren’t you? You’ll marry him anyway, whatever he’s done.’

Miranda gasped at the callousness in his voice. ‘Why should you assume that?’ she demanded, but he merely shook his head.

‘I’ll take you home,’ he said, starting the motor. ‘Perhaps we’ll find your fiancé is there, waiting to make amends.’

But Mark was not at the Hall. Only Lady Sanders awaited them, pacing impatiently about the polished floor, and gasping in horror when she saw Miranda’s dishevelled appearance. Miranda had not wanted to confront her future mother-in-law like this. She had wanted to slip round the side of the building and let herself in through the kitchen as she had always done. But Jaime’s hard fingers around her wrist had prevented this, and her strength was too depleted to put up much of a struggle.

‘My God, what’s happened!’ Lady Sanders grasped her shoulder, and then dropped her hand aghast when Miranda winced painfully. ‘There’s been an accident, hasn’t there?’ Her eyes lifted to her nephew’s face. ‘Jaime … tell me! Tell me! Where’s Mark?’

Unhurriedly, Jaime unfastened the studs at his wrists, and folded back his cuffs. ‘I thought you might know that, Aunt Lydia,’ he remarked levelly. ‘I haven’t seen him.’

‘You haven’t? But …’ Lady Sanders gestured towards Miranda. ‘Then how …’ She broke off to moisten her upper lip with her tongue. ‘Miranda! Where is my son?’

Miranda wished the floor would open up and swallow her. She had had just about enough, and she swayed on to her heels. ‘Mark … Mark left me at the cottage,’ she was beginning, when Jaime interrupted her.

‘Don’t you want to know how Miranda got into this condition?’ he inquired, the mildness of his tone belying the glitter of his eyes, but Lady Sanders was in no state to look for hidden meanings.

‘I … well, of course,’ she said agitatedly. ‘If it has any bearing on the matter.’

‘Oh, it has bearing on the matter,’ retorted Jaime tautly. ‘Believe me!’

At last, his aunt seemed to gauge the tenor of his mood, and took a moment to give him her full attention. ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘What happened?’

Jaime’s nostrils flared. ‘Your son did this,’ he said coldly. ‘Your son attempted to rape his own fiancée! Now why do you suppose he did that?’

Lady Sanders gasped, one hand going automatically to her throat. ‘You can’t be serious!’

‘Oh, but I am,’ declared Jaime heavily, and Miranda felt Lady Sanders’ eyes going over her with almost tangible distaste.

‘How do you know?’ Mark’s mother countered swiftly. ‘Who told you that? You said you hadn’t seen Mark.’

‘Miranda told me—’

‘Oh, please …’ Miranda began to protest again, but they both ignored her.

‘So you’d take her word against the word of my son,’ Lady Sanders was saying now, and Jaime swore violently.

‘We don’t have any word but Miranda’s,’ he retorted. ‘But you don’t imagine she did this to herself, do you?’ and with forceful fingers he plucked his jacket from her shoulders.

It was like a scene from some Victorian melodrama, thought Miranda, an hysterical sob rising in her throat. Behold, the villain’s perfidy! Will wicked Sir Jasper win the day? The difficulty was in deciding who was the wicked Sir Jasper. Was it Mark, the victim of his own inadequacies? Or was it Lady Sanders, whose overriding ambition for her son blinded her to his faults? Or could it possibly be Jaime Knevett, whose motives were as enigmatic as he was? Miranda was too tired to figure it out.

Lady Sanders plucked with nervous fingers at the diamond necklace circling her throat. ‘That still doesn’t explain where Mark has gone, does it? What was this Miranda said about the cottage?’

‘We went to the cottage,’ said Miranda dully. ‘My mother’s cottage. There—there was a scene. Mark left. Afterwards, Mr Knevett found me walking back to the Hall.’

‘How convenient!’ Lady Sanders’ voice was taut with malice, but her nephew intervened.

‘Convenient?’ he asked. ‘Convenient for whom?’

‘Oh, Jaime!’ Lady Sanders waved away his questioning. ‘Don’t get involved in all this.’

‘But I am involved,’ he insisted harshly. ‘However, I do believe no useful purpose is being served by standing here arguing about it. I suggest we allow Miranda to go to bed. She looks—exhausted. We can talk again in the morning.’

‘But what about Mark?’ cried Lady Sanders, aghast. ‘Aren’t you going to look for him?’

‘If you want me to, of course I will,’ he replied gravely. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll escort Miranda to her part of the house.’

‘That’s not necessary—’ Miranda began, but he ignored her, dropping his coat about her shoulders again and urging her forward with his hand in the small of her back.

Miranda was glad to escape from the accusation in Mark’s mother’s eyes. It had been a long evening, a strange evening, and one she never hoped to repeat. But it wasn’t over yet.

Jaime opened the door and accompanied her along the corridor towards the kitchens. But Miranda halted so far along, and turning to him said stiffly: ‘There’s really no need to come any further. I shall be quite all right now.’

In the dim illumination of wall-lights, his face was curiously shadowed, giving it an almost malevolent cast. His eyes seemed deeper set, heavy-lidded, the flaring hollows of his nostrils expelling the heat of his body upon her. She felt suddenly uneasy, apprehensive of the future and she could not dismiss her fears as fancies. She had the overpowering conviction that nothing was ever going to be the same again.

‘Will your mother be up?’ he asked now, and she shivered to dispel the chill that had wrapped itself about her.

‘Perhaps,’ she answered. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Will you explain?’

Miranda bent her head helplessly. ‘I don’t know.’

She heard his harsh intake of breath. ‘You should,’ he said. ‘Then perhaps your mother can bring you to your senses!’

Her head jerked up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I think you know.’ His eyes were cold, glittering black diamonds in the muted light. ‘You can’t marry Mark now. Not after what’s happened. Not considering what might be to come. I don’t think even becoming mistress of the Hall is worth that, do you, Miranda?’

She gasped. ‘You think I’m marrying him for his money?’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘No!’

‘Oh, come on. You’re not telling me you love that little punk! After what’s happened?’

Miranda’s breasts rose and fell in her agitation, and her fingers holding his jacket in place trembled. She wanted to tear it off and throw it at his feet and trample on it, but the desire to retain her dignity was stronger.

‘You’re his cousin!’ she declared. ‘How can you speak of him like that?’

Jaime’s mouth curled. ‘Our relationship is remote, thank God! Do you think I want to be associated with someone who does this?’

Miranda’s breathing was harsh. ‘He—he didn’t mean it.’ If he did, she didn’t want to admit it. ‘He was drunk—enraged! His mother saw to that.’

‘You’re making excuses for him,’ exclaimed Jaime contemptuously. ‘My God! You’re just like her, aren’t you? His mother! She’s made excuses for him all his life! Well, I wish you well of each other. You deserve everything you get!’

Miranda didn’t know why, but she wanted to crumple up and die. She despised Mark, she didn’t love him. And she despised herself for defending him. But she hated Jaime for making her see herself for what she was.

He was turning away from her in disgust when a low groan reached them. It seemed to come from the kitchen, and with a cry Miranda whirled around and sped along the remaining length of the corridor to where a light was filtering through a crack in the kitchen door. She burst into the room with Jaime right behind her, and then stopped dead at the sight that greeted her stunned eyes.

Her mother was lying on the floor in front of the fire. Mercifully, she had not fallen into the flames, but the flags beneath the polythene tiles were hard and at first Miranda thought she had knocked herself unconscious. But then she saw how one side of her mother’s face had twisted, and spittle was dribbling out of the corner of her mouth.

The sound Miranda made was a kind of choking gulp in her throat, and then Jaime cannoned into her, unable to prevent himself when she stopped so abruptly. The hard warmth of his body dispelled her momentary paralysis, and on shaking legs she moved across the room to kneel down beside Mrs Gresham. But Jaime was there before her, brushing past her and bending to his knees, taking her mother’s wrist between his fingers, probing the rolling sockets of her eyes for any sign of life.

At first Miranda wanted to protest, but then she remembered that he had told her he was a doctor, and she sat back on her heels, staring at him mutely, beseeching him to tell her what was wrong.

‘It looks like a stroke,’ he was saying grimly, when the door behind them burst open again to admit Lady Sanders. But not the Lady Sanders they had left in the hall. This woman was wild-eyed and tearful, lips quivering, hands trembling, a shaking mass of desperation. Grief-stricken fingers tore her handkerchief to shreds, as she cried: ‘Jaime! Jaime! Where are you? Oh, God, Jaime, it’s Mark! Mark! A policeman’s just been to the door. He’s dead, Jaime, he’s dead! Oh, God, what am I going to do?’

She held out her hands towards him, but Miranda who, like Jaime, had got to her feet as Lady Sanders entered the room, reached him first as she sank into a dead faint for the first time in her life.

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