Wild Enchantress

‘You know what I mean!'

Jared regarded her without emotion. ‘Ought you to—well, swim at all in your—condition?'

Catherine expelled her breath on a sigh. ‘Of course. Lots of women swim until they're seven or eight months. And—and I'm still measuring my pregnancy in weeks, not months!'

Jared's expression darkened. ‘Then I suggest you have Sylvester—he's the chauffeur—take you down to the beach later on this morning.'

Catherine looked up at him frustratedly. ‘You still haven't told me where you're going.'

‘No, I haven't.'

‘I want to come, too.'

‘What?’ For once she seemed to have succeeded in getting under his skin. ‘Miss Fulton, I don't know what kind of society you've been mixing in in England, but out here a girl waits to be invited before encumbering some man with her company!'

‘Really?’ Catherine managed to sound bored. ‘Well, you invited me out to Barbados, Mr Royal, and I think it's up to you to entertain me! Hmm?'

Jared looked furious, and just in case he suddenly decided to fling himself on to the motor-bike and ride off, Catherine swung her leg across the machine and perched herself precariously on the back.

‘Get off that bike!’ Jared glared at her, but she just put on her sweetest smile. ‘You're not about to tell me that pregnant women do that until they're seven or eight months!'

‘No,’ Catherine conceded, flicking a butterfly with exotic crimson and black colouring away from her face, ‘but it won't do me any harm—providing you take it easy.'

Jared moved his head slowly from side to side. ‘Do you want me to drag you off?'

‘Oh, would you do that?’ she exclaimed disbelievingly. ‘To an expectant mother?'

Jared looked angrier than ever, but he made no attempt to shift her, and Catherine realised she was enjoying this. It was stimulating and exciting, provoking him like this, but perhaps not entirely fair. Feeling a need to justify herself, she said appealingly:

‘Please, Jared! Don't be mean. Let me come with you.'

‘You can't.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because I'm going to the beach—'

‘I knew you were!’ she exclaimed triumphantly.

‘—across the fields!'

Catherine frowned. ‘I don't understand.'

‘Look, it's five miles round by road. It's less than half that distance across the paddock.'

‘I see.’ Catherine drew her lower lip between her teeth. The idea of riding across the bumpy turf on the motor-bike sounded like fun, but it was something she could not undertake without exploding the myth of her phoney pregnancy.

‘So—will you get off the bike?'

Jared looked grim, but she wouldn't give in that easily. ‘Couldn't we—couldn't you take the road for once?’ she suggested hopefully.

‘No, I—’ Jared broke off to regard her dourly for a moment. Then he gave a heavy sigh. ‘All right, Miss Fulton, you win. I'll take you to the beach—but in the convertible.'

‘Oh, no!’ Catherine had been looking forward to riding on a motor-bike again. She had had one once, when she was sixteen.

‘Oh, yes. Come on.’ He was impatient now, holding out a hand to assist her to dismount, which she took with ill grace. ‘Don't be surprised if you haven't woken up the whole household.'

But she hadn't, and when they drove away from the garages, only old Sylvester saw them leave. It was marvellous, feeling the cool air in their faces, and Catherine found she was actually looking forward to this hour alone with her reluctant escort.

Jared parked the car on a headland overlooking a wild and beautiful stretch of beach, the sand bleached white by the sun, where the surf came thundering in from the reef. But when she would have got out of the car, he stopped her, saying: ‘You can't swim here. This is Flintlock. I come surfing here.'

‘Is this where you were heading this morning?'

He nodded, and would have started the engine again, only she stopped him, her slim fingers curving round his wrist. ‘Don't,’ she said, withdrawing her hand when he turned to look at her. ‘I've done some surfing. Not a lot, but some—in Cornwall. That's the southernmost corner of England.'

‘I know where Cornwall is,’ he said dryly.

‘Oh! Oh, well, then. Why can't we try it now? I'm willing.'

Jared's eyes dropped pointedly to her stomach. ‘Are you?'

‘Yes, of course.’ She sighed, colouring in spite of herself. ‘I've told you, it's months and months away. I don't intend doing anything reckless. But I don't want to spoil your—your pleasure.'

‘Haven't you done that already?’ he countered, and she glared at him.

‘Well? Have I?'

His eyes probed hers for a long disturbing moment, and then he thrust open his door and climbed out. ‘I'll let you know,’ he replied enigmatically.

There were steps down to the beach, and Jared went ahead, glancing round from time to time to assure himself that she was all right. Catherine couldn't help feeling touched by this involuntary display of concern on her behalf, although she guessed he would have done the same for anybody.

Halfway down, they came in sight of a low beach house, set in the lee of the cliffs and not visible from above. It stood on supports, a couple of feet above the sand, and as they came down the last of the steps Jared said: ‘This is mine. I work here sometimes. And it's useful as a retreat!’ this last with a meaning glance in her direction.

Catherine tossed back her hair, and walked across the sand, kicking off her sandals and carrying them. She climbed the shallow steps to the shaded verandah and looked in through the sand-dusted windows.

Jared seemed to hesitate, and then he said: ‘The door isn't locked. You can go in, if you want to.'

Catherine looked round at him, could read no hidden menace in his expression, and turned the handle of the door. Inside, there was a faint smell of oil paints and canvas, and looking round the room she could see why. There was a stove in one corner, for heating on cooler days, she presumed, a couple of squashy leather chairs which were worn in places, a low table, cupboards for storing things, and a cooker, sink and refrigerator. But in every available space there were stacks of canvases, strewn haphazardly around the walls, and propped against an easel which leaned drunkenly against one of the chairs.

She stood just inside the door looking about her, and Jared came to support himself against the jamb, regarding her without evident hostility for once. ‘Well?’ he said, making it a question. ‘Are you appalled at the mess?'

Catherine half turned towards him. ‘Why should I be? I expect you work very well here.'

He frowned. ‘Why do you say that?'

‘I don't know.’ She shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘It's the disorder, I suppose. I read something once, I don't remember where—in one of those trendy journals, I think—and it said something about order being without inspiration. That creating anything—artistic, in disciplined surroundings, is like mining for diamonds in a velvet-lined box.'

Jared straightened, his lips twisting-mockingly. ‘How very apt! And how perceptive of you to remember it.'