Witching Hour. Sara Craven

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      ‘We’d put you in the East Wing,’ she mumbled.

      Lyall lifted a sardonic brow. ‘I understood all guests were allowed a choice.’

      Morgana shrugged again. ‘The same rule would have applied.’ She took a deep breath, forcing the words to her lips. ‘After all, they’re all your rooms—now.’

      ‘Yes, they are, aren’t they?’ he said silkily. ‘It’s just as well I decided to stay in Truro instead. I don’t think you’d have like my choice, Morgan le Fay.’

      For a moment she looked at him uncomprehendingly, then as realisation dawned, an angry flush invaded her cheeks.

      ‘That wouldn’t matter,’ she said untruthfully. ‘As I shall have to move out eventually anyway, it may as well be sooner than later.’

      He laughed, his eyes going over her in one swift, sensuous appraisal. ‘Who said anything about moving out?’

      Her flush deepened. ‘How dare you?’ she stormed.

      ‘Oh, I dare,’ he said. ‘When you get to know me better, you’ll be amazed how much I dare.’

      ‘I haven’t the slightest wish to know you better. I only wish I’d never had to meet you at all.’

      ‘I gathered that when I heard you casting your spell on the moor,’ he said mockingly. ‘Also when I overheard you bemoaning the fact that you had to share a roof with me. I enjoy a challenge, and it occurred to me that it might be amusing to persuade you to share far more than just my roof.’

      ‘You’re out of your mind,’ she said bitingly. ‘Or perhaps your unexpected inheritance has gone to your head. It’s the house and its contents which belong to you. I don’t.’

      He said very gently, ‘But you will, Morgan le Fay. You will. Because in spite of your little spells and maledictions, I’m here, and I intend to stay.’

      He took one quick stride forward and pulled her into his arms, his mouth stifling her instinctive cry of protest on her lips. There was no mercy in his kiss, nothing exploratory or tentative, just an immediate hungry demand, which, against her will, against all her instincts aroused an eventual, shaming response. And at once he let her go, as if her capitulation had been all he’d been waiting for.

      Morgana shrank back against the wall, her hand going up to cover her bruised mouth, too furious to speak, too shocked to know what to say. And the worst of it was that Lyall was smiling at her.

      ‘You bastard!’ she choked eventually.

      ‘From what you tell me, I come from a long line of them,’ he said coolly. ‘But I’m glad to know that you’re not the downtrodden sort. I’ll see you tomorrow, Morgana.’

      ‘I’ll see you in hell!’ she raged.

      His mouth twisted. ‘Hell’s only the flip side of Paradise. Sometimes it’s hard to differentiate between the two, as you may find, my little witch.’

      She whirled past him, into her room, and slammed the door. She leaned back against the panels, her breathing quick and shallow, her small breasts rising and falling as if she’d been running.

      She didn’t know whether to scream, or burst into tears, and was sorely tempted to do both, because it was just as she’d feared. Lyall might at this moment be on his way to Truro, but this room was filled with him. She could close her eyes, and blot out his image, but that couldn’t destroy the taste of him, the scent, the feel of his body against her own.

      For as long as she stayed in this house, she knew she would never be alone again, and the knowledge made her tremble.

       CHAPTER THREE

      MORGANA was still lying on her bed staring sightlessly up at the ceiling almost an hour later when there was a knock at the door, and her mother popped an apologetic head into the room.

      ‘Darling, are you all right? It’s almost time for dinner. Are you coming down?’

      Morgana forced a smile. ‘I don’t think so. I—I’m not really very hungry, and Rob is picking me up later. We’ll probably go to the Polzion Arms and I can grab a sandwich there.’

      ‘You’re probably more than wise.’ said Mrs Pentreath with a little sigh. ‘Elsa’s behaving very oddly, and she won’t even discuss whether there’s going to be a pudding. I suppose if all else fails we can open some tinned fruit.’ She paused. ‘Well, what did you think of him? Really, he seemed very pleasant.’

      ‘That’s hardly the word I would use.’ Morgana swung herself to the floor and walked across to the dressing table.

      ‘Well, darling, it’s hardly any wonder. You were extremely rude to him. I was very dubious about allowing you to show him round, but Miss Meakins was being extremely difficult—most inquisitive, and so carping about all sorts of little things which she’s never mentioned before, and all done for effect, I’m convinced. So I was really grateful to Mr Pentreath when he made a tactful exit.’ She hesitated. ‘Did he give you any kind of hint—about his intentions, I mean?’

      Morgana, brushing her hair, had an insane desire to burst into hysterical laughter.

      She said gently, ‘No, love. At least, not in the way that you mean. I don’t know what his plans are.’

      Mrs Pentreath sighed again. ‘He’s coming back tomorrow, so I’ve no doubt he’ll tell us then. I’ve invited him to lunch, and told Elsa to get a couple of ducks out of the freezer.’

      ‘I don’t think you’ll soften his heart with our brand of gastronomic delights.’ Morgana said drily. ‘He has an expense account air about him.’

      ‘Well, I must say I liked him much better than I expected to.’ Mrs Pentreath’s voice was slightly defensive. ‘He isn’t a bit like his late father—or what I remember of him at least. He must take after his mother’s side of the family. I wonder who Giles did marry?’

      ‘Does it matter?’ Morgana wearily replaced her brush on the dressing table. ‘It would have been far better for us if he’d remained a bachelor.’

      ‘I wonder if Lyall himself is married?’ mused her mother. ‘Did he mention a wife, or a fiancée?’

      On the contrary, Morgana thought bleakly, but that doesn’t mean with his kind that neither of those ladies exists.

      Aloud she said, ‘We didn’t really talk about personal things. He wanted to see the house, and learn something about the family history. I told him about Giles the Wrecker.’

      ‘That’s a terrible story,’ Mrs Pentreath said indignantly. ‘I’ve never believed one word of it.’

      ‘Yet you believe that old Josiah was a smuggler.’ Morgana shook her head affectionately.

      ‘Well, smuggling is different,’ Mrs Pentreath excused herself. ‘In those days, simply everyone did it. It was quite respectable.’

      ‘Tell СКАЧАТЬ