Witching Hour. Sara Craven

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      Morgana spun round, her hand going to her mouth to stifle an involuntary scream, and found herself caught, transfixed like a butterfly to a cork, in the merciless, all-encompassing beam of a powerful torch.

       CHAPTER TWO

      HER heart hammering, Morgana stared back, lifting her chin defiantly. She didn’t recognise the voice. Low-pitched and resonant, with a trace of an unfamiliar accent, it struck no chord in her memory. And she couldn’t see him either, although she had the impression that he was tall.

      She wondered why she hadn’t heard him approach, but supposed it had been partly because of the noise of the wind, and principally, because she had been so totally absorbed in what she was doing. All of which he had observed, judging by his opening remark. She felt the blood rush into her face with embarrassment, and her temper rising at the same time as she visualised him skulking up through the bracken, deliberately not using his torch, giving her no hint that she was no longer alone until it was too late, and she had made a complete and utter fool of herself.

      She demanded sharply, ‘Do you enjoy spying?’

      ‘Not particularly, although I must confess it can be most instructive,’ he said. ‘And it’s not every day one gets the paces. But isn’t it a little early for this sort of thing? I always understood the witching hour was midnight.’

      There was a trace of amusement in his voice which he wasn’t at all concerned to hide, and it stung.

      She said stiffly, ‘I am not a witch.’

      ‘I think that’s just as well.’ The laughter was open now. ‘I don’t think you’d be very good at it. That stone’s supposed to rock, isn’t it?’

      ‘How did you know that?’

      ‘From a book I bought in the village. I hope you didn’t think it was a closely guarded secret.’

      ‘No, no, of course not.’ The fright he had given her, and her own anger, had knocked her slightly off balance, and she hated the way he kept her trapped in the damned beam of light, so that he could see her, but she could know nothing about him, except that impression of height.

      Her voice sharpened. ‘Did your book also tell you that this is private land?’

      It was only a technicality, and no one at Polzion House had ever dreamed of debarring any of the interested tourists from visiting the stone, but there was something about this man that flicked her on the raw, that made her want to put him down—to make him feel small in his turn. It was abominable the way he had stood there in the darkness and watched her, and listened, and then added insult to injury by laughing at her.

      He said slowly, ‘Is it now? And do you think the owner would mind?’

      ‘We don’t like trespassers round here—intruders.’

      ‘I was always told the Cornish were very hospitable. And as for intruding, actually I was here before you. I was standing back so I could look at the stone from a distance when you appeared out of nowhere and began your incantations.’

      ‘I had every reason to believe I would be alone,’ she said coldly. ‘And do you think you could switch off that spotlight of yours—always supposing you have seen all that you want,’ she added with icy sarcasm.

      The torch remained on. He said, ‘Tell me something—are you always so prickly? Even in that weird cloak with your hair all over your face, you’re an attractive girl. You must have had men look at you before this.’

      ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘But I’ve always been able to look at them too. The present situation is a little too one-sided for my taste.’

      He said, ‘But easily remedied.’ The torch beam swung up and away from her and she saw him properly for the first time. He was tall, his face thin, with prominent cheekbones, a high-bridged nose and firm mouth and chin. And his hair was fair, lighter altogether than Rob’s, and longer too, reaching almost to the collar of the black leather coat he was wearing.

      Morgana thought, ‘A fair man—but it can’t be … it couldn’t be! I don’t believe it.’

      As if he could read her thoughts, he began to smile, deep laugh lines appearing beside his mouth.

      ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

      She wanted to ask, ‘Who are you?’ but the words wouldn’t come. Then the torch snapped off, and there was only the darkness and the howl of the wind, and the tall dimly seen figure who said quietly, ‘And perhaps you have, at that.’

      He was coming towards her, and she recoiled involuntarily, her hands flying up in front of her to keep him away. Then she stumbled against a clump of grass and went flying.

      ‘Dear God!’ The torch flicked on again, as she lay there, winded and humiliated, and he bent towards her pulling her up, his voice abrupt as he asked, ‘Have you hurt yourself? Are you all right?’

      ‘I’m fine.’ She’d twisted her ankle slightly and it hurt enough to make her wince when she put her weight on it, but she wasn’t going admit it. She didn’t want him to touch her again. He’d put his hands under her arms and lifted her as if she was a child, and she’d hated it.

      He said harshly, ‘When I said you’d seen a ghost, I wasn’t trying to frighten you. There was no need for you to leap away like that. What I meant was that I thought I possibly reminded you of someone.’

      Morgana could have said quite truthfully, ‘You remind me of a number of people. You remind me of at least half the portraits hanging in the long gallery at home, except that they’re all dark, and you’re fair.’ But she remained silent because there was still an outside chance it might all be a coincidence, and she could be wrong. Under her breath, she prayed that she was wrong.

      He said sharply, ‘Well?’

      She shrugged. ‘I don’t spend my life looking for chance resemblances to people I know in local tourists. We have too many of them.’

      ‘I wasn’t talking about chance, and I think you know it.’ His hand gripped her arm, bruising her flesh, and she said with ice in her voice, ‘Would you let go of me, please?’

      ‘When you’ve answered a few simple questions. For starters, what’s your name?’

      ‘If this is a new version of the pick-up, then I’m not impressed,’ she shot at him.

      ‘I’m tempted to make a very different impression on you.’ His voice slowed to a drawl, but now he didn’t sound amused at all. The torchlight was on her face again, and his hand moved from her arm to grip her chin. She wanted to pull away, but she wasn’t sure she could evade his grasp, and it would be another humiliation to struggle and lose. So she remained very still, making her eyes blank, enduring his scrutiny.

      At last he said slowly, ‘I’m Lyall Pentreath. And unless I miss my guess, you’re my cousin Morgana.’

      ‘Brilliantly deduced,’ she said huskily. ‘And what are we supposed to do now—shake hands?’

      ‘I think СКАЧАТЬ