Witching Hour. Sara Craven

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      ‘More business, I suppose.’ She made no attempt to hide the bitterness in her voice.

      ‘Of a sort.’

      ‘I suppose it didn’t occur that my mother and I would be waiting for you—would be worried?’

      ‘Frankly it didn’t.’ A match flared as he lit a cheroot, his hands sheltering the flame against the snatching wind, and she saw his mouth twist cynically. ‘I hardly imagined I would be the most welcome visitor the Polzion House Hotel had ever had.’

      She’d heard the edge in his voice when he mentioned the word hotel, and she made her own tone blank and a little wondering. ‘You resent the fact that the family home is now a commercial enterprise? I’d have thought as a business man yourself, you’d have been delighted.’

      ‘But then,’ he said coolly, ‘I would hardly describe that particular venture as a commercial enterprise.’

      Morgana was silent for a moment, her brain working madly. Far from lacking interest in his inheritance, it now seemed he was only too well informed. But where had he gleaned his information? she wondered. Was that where he’d been since this morning? Going round Polzion, asking questions? She flinched inwardly as she thought of some of the answers he might have been given. On the other hand, it was far more likely that he’d found out all he wanted to know through correspondence between his solicitors and Mr Trevick, who would have been been bound to be frank.

      She decided to proceed cautiously. ‘I admit we’re not the Hilton, but we make out.’

      ‘Do you really? You seem to be alone in that opinion. From what I’ve learned, the hotel seems to owe quite a lot of money to a number of people.’

      She was mortified, but she made herself reply quietly. ‘Yes—we do, unfortunately. But it’s been a bad year.’

      ‘It must have been a succession of bad years if all I’ve been told is true.’

      ‘If you want to put it that way,’ Morgana agreed, numbly hating him.

      ‘I don’t, believe me.’ His tone was dry. ‘After all—a hotel in surroundings like these. It’s hard to see how it could fail.’

      ‘In the course of your snooping, you may also have noticed that Polzion isn’t exactly Newquay,’ she said sharply. ‘I’m sorry if we haven’t come up to your expectations, but no doubt you’ll be able to figure out the reasons why at your leisure.’

      ‘Unfortunately, I don’t have that much leisure to waste.’ He sounded abrupt again. ‘I’m going to walk down to the house now, and meet your mother. Are you going to come with me, or have you got more spells to cast?’

      ‘No,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll come down with you.’ She felt chilled to the bone, and cold and sick inside.

      ‘Good. I didn’t relish the prospect of being turned into a frog as soon as I turned my back.’

      ‘I think in the circumstances,’ she said tightly, ‘a rat would be more appropriate.’

      ‘If we’re playing at animal similes, I can think of one or two that would fit you quite well too,’ he returned equably, and Morgana flushed in the darkness. After a moment’s pause he turned away and moved off down the hill, without waiting to see if she was following or not. Morgana gritted her teeth and went after him, fumbling in her cape pocket for her own torch. It couldn’t compete with the powerful beam that his flashlight was sending out, but at least it gave her an illusion of independence.

      He said over his shoulder, ‘Be careful you don’t fall.’

      ‘Thanks for the advice,’ she snapped, ‘but I do happen to know every inch of these moors.’ And remembered too late that he’d had to haul her up from the ground only a few minutes before.

      ‘Then perhaps you’d like to go first. My own acquaintanceship is only just beginning,’ he said silkily.

      ‘That,’ she snapped, as she went past him, her chin in the air, ‘is entirely your own fault.’

      She walked ahead of him as fast as she could go, determined not to stumble again or make a fool of herself in any other way, although every instinct was screaming at her to run and never stop until she reached Polzion House and safety. When she reached the road she made no attempt to wait for him to catch up with her, but simply marched along as if he had ceased to exist for her. Nor did he try and draw level, so he obviously had as little desire for her company as she had for his, she thought defiantly.

      She didn’t pause or look back until they reached the front door, and she opened it and went into the hall. Her mother was at the desk, just putting the telephone down.

      ‘That was Mr Trevick, darling. The Pentreath man is in the area—he called at the office earlier today. Where can he have got to, do you suppose?’

      ‘Here,’ Morgana said grimly, and stepped aside.

      Lyall Pentreath walked forward, and she took her first good look at him. All the impressions she had received up by the Wishing Stone—the height, the fairness—were reinforced, and more beside. His face was deeply tanned, accentuating the strong lines of nose, mouth and jaw, and his eyes were a deep and piercing blue. The black leather coat covered a roll-necked sweater in the same shade, and light grey pants, fitted closely to lean hips and long legs.

      Elizabeth Pentreath said helplessly, ‘Oh dear!’

      He said quietly and without mockery. ‘This is a difficult occasion for us both, Mrs Pentreath, and anything I say is liable to be misunderstood. I wish we could have met in different circumstances.’

      He had charm, Morgana supposed bitterly, watching her mother’s face flush slightly with pleasure as he took her hand. And the cynical lines of his mouth told her that he was quite well aware of it, and knew how to use it to its best effect. She stood and watched, and hated him for it. Hated him for the elegance of his expensive clothes and the slight drawl with which he spoke. Everything about him told of a world very remote from their own small part of the Cornish peninsula. He looked, she thought frankly, as if he’d never actually known what a hard day’s work was, never had his hands dirty in his life, and she despised him for it.

      Effete, she thought. A lady’s man. A desk-job Romeo. I bet the typing pool’s little hearts go pit-a-pat whenever he saunters through.

      Mrs Pentreath said, ‘Would you come into the drawing room? We’ve just been having tea. I’ll ask Elsa to make some fresh and …’

      He lifted a hand. ‘Not for me, thank you. I don’t really have a great deal of time.’ He glanced at the plain gold watch on his wrist. ‘I have to pick up my car and get back to Truro.’

      ‘Oh.’ Elizabeth Pentreath was taken aback. ‘Then you’re not staying? I’ve had a room prepared here for you.’

      ‘Not this time around, I’m afraid.’ His smile removed any hint of a rebuff. ‘But when my immediate plans are finalised, perhaps I can take advantage of your kind offer.’

      ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll do that.’ Morgana muttered rebelliously, and received a horrified look from her mother.

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