A Durable Fire

by Robyn Donald

  Silently they drove down the other side of the mountain towards an area which was a kind of plateau divided by narrow streams and bounded on two sides by steep hills which fell away to wider valleys, one with Te Nawe homestead in it, the other an area of dairy farms. The third side was cliffs three hundred feet high, so Kyle informed her laconically as they joined the County road, here not in much better shape than the farm track. After a short distance they left it again for the paddocks on the other side of the road, still part of Te Nawe.

  ‘A very important part,’ said Kyle, stopping the Land Rover on a long narrow strip of what appeared to be mown grass. ‘This is the airstrip. All of Te Nawe is fertilised from here. The building contains the storage bins for the fertiliser. Coming?’

  ‘How far away are the cliffs?’

  He looked at her. ‘Just across the paddock. Be careful, they go straight down.’

  They did, too, and three hundred feet of red rock was a long drop down to the sea that crawled at the base. Arminel took one look, thankful for the wires which prevented the animals from falling over. Slowly, hands in her pockets, she walked along the fence, admiring the stark efficiency of post and wire. Not beautiful but oh, how efficient! Below and to one side the sea glittered like a promise. In the summer it would lose the bright cold radiance of winter, become a deeper, softer colour. But she would never see it.

  A gull wailed plaintively like a lost soul but high above in the bright sky a lark sang, the cascade of sound ecstatic in the cool, bright air.

  I’m like the gull, she thought scornfully, a lost soul. For it seemed that her whole conception of herself was wrong. Practical, with plenty of common sense—she had always been rather proud of her common sense. Yet she had behaved like a wanton idiot up there on Te Nawe, throwing her concept of her personality to the winds by acting so wildly out of character. She was afraid and bewildered and shocked by the depths of passion she had discovered in herself. It was like suddenly discovering another person living inside your body. Terrifying. Yet she was not surprised. Somehow, some primitive part of her had immediately recognised that basic magnetism and been afraid of it. When her eyes first rested on Kyle’s arrogant face her body had accepted him as a lover, mindlessly, without any conscious awareness of attraction. What she had taken to be dislike was now revealed as the pull of desire, deep-seated, the simple call of woman to man signalling submission and availability.

  He had known it. Where her innocence had tried to convince her that the sparks they struck from each other were caused by distrust his wider experience had recognised the chemistry for what it was.

  I shall never be so innocent again, Arminel thought wearily, hunching her shoulders against the wind. For until those explosive minutes in Kyle’s arms she had always thought that attraction and liking went together. Now she knew that one could despise and fear someone, yet still feel a hungry rapture at their touch.

  It must never happen again, she vowed, turning back to the airstrip. Never again. Because what her subconscious was telling her, however mutedly, was that she could become addicted to the fiery tide of sensation he invoked in her. And he was a hard man; to be at his mercy would be to know misery indeed.

  As she walked across the short, damp grass she realised that Kyle was watching her. The dogs lay quietly in the shade of the Land Rover, tails thumping gently as she approached; one snapped at a fly, then looked absurdly disgusted at its failure to catch the insect.

  ‘Have some coffee,’ said Kyle as she came up to him.

  How could he behave as though nothing had happened?

  Probably because for him nothing had. No doubt he was accustomed to making love; his experience certainly showed. That sudden uprush of desire would be nothing new to him. No, she was just another nubile, willing woman, she decided savagely as she accepted a mug of coffee from him, and the reason that thought hurt was because—well, because she wasn’t. Such abandon was totally foreign to her nature.

  When they arrived back after a silent trip Davina Rattray was there, ensconced on the verandah with Rhys and Mrs Beringer. And when Kyle greeted her with a kiss it was obvious that although pleasantly fluttered by his masculine attraction, her whole being was bent on Rhys. Not that Rhys seemed to mind. In spite of his declaration that she did nothing to him he treated her with a friendly affection which must have infuriated her.

  She was a pretty little thing, with glossy nut-brown curls and enormous dark eyes above a ripe, curving mouth. Her pleasant, deep voice was at odds with her breathless, little-girl looks, and she spoke with the same accent as Mrs Beringer, one obviously taught at girls’ boarding schools, because neither of the men produced those rather affected vowel sounds.

  Arminel, whose foster-parents had been English with a fussy attitude towards speech, was glad that they had insisted that the children in their care speak well. Still raw from the morning’s traumatic events, she was sourly pleased that at least the Beringers couldn’t use her accent as a weapon in the war they fought with her.

  Davina was charming. Even when she and her hostess and Kyle were discussing a book Arminel had vaguely heard of, and Davina asked, ‘What did you think of it, Arminel?’ she was sweet.

  Even sweeter when Arminel said that she hadn’t read it.

  ‘Well, we had to read the classics at school,’ Davina said, ‘and very boring I found them, too. But this is different, being one of the few I’ve enjoyed.’

  Yes, she was charming, in spite of the fact that between them all they managed to make Arminel aware of the great gaps in her education. Of course she had always intended to do something about the fact that she knew little of her cultural heritage, but somehow the years spent earning a living had got in the way.

  Laziness, she told herself, and vowed that when she got back home she would settle down to a steady diet of self-improvement. It was one thing she could salvage from this holiday.

  ‘Of course Australians are very sporting, aren’t they?’ said Davina, for all the world as though she was discussing the physical characteristics of some rare type of wild animal. ‘What sports do you play, Arminel?’

  ‘None with any degree of skill. Just the usual ones; I swim and surf and I play tennis.’ Arminel deliberately underplayed her expertise.

  ‘Oh, lovely! Have you seen the tennis court here? And the swimming pool?’

  At Arminel’s negative answer she said, ‘Why, we must have a game tonight. We could play mixed doubles. Unless Rhys is too tired, of course.’

  This was apparently a joke, because Rhys leaned over the table and pulled one of the curls at her temple, growling, ‘Watch it, kiddo!’

  Davina laughed and Arminel looked up, her eyes unwillingly held by Kyle’s. She read there cold satisfaction. You see, he pointed out without words, how suited they are to each other.

  And he was right. However reluctant Rhys was to admit it, the sweet ebullient Davina was ideal for him. She would adore him so fervently that he would never again feel the chill of comparison with his brother and together they would glide happily through life.

  How strange that Arminel should be so calmly viewing his marriage to another when until yesterday she had been almost sure that she loved him!

  She refused to admit to herself why her attitude was so detached.

  When afternoon drew on towards evening they played mixed doubles as Davina wanted, she and Rhys against Kyle and Arminel, who defeated them with almost contemptuous ease.

  ‘Well played,’ said Rhys, but his expression was sullen as he dropped an arm about Arminel’s shoulders. ‘That’s a powerful backhand you’ve got there, my sweet.’

  He didn’t like being beaten. ‘I practise it,’ Arminel said lightly. ‘When life gets too much for me I go out and smash tennis balls into a wall. It’s very satisfying.’

  He chuckled and bent to whisper in her ear, ‘Next time play with me. Davina’s almost in the rabbit class!’

  Which was unfair, as his own serve had let his partner down rather bad
ly.

  Kyle and Davina followed them in. Fancifully Arminel was sure that she could feel two pairs of eyes boring into the back of her head, but the displeasure in Mrs Beringer’s eyes was no flash of fancy.

  It was an awkward situation. Arminel couldn’t prevent herself from feeling sorry for Davina, whose pansy-brown eyes filled with hurt whenever they rested on Rhys, which was most of the time. But she was sympathetic to Rhys, too. His mother was using totally unfair tactics to pressure him into an engagement for which he wasn’t yet ready. Surely the older woman could see that if she took a leaf out of Kyle’s book and left them strictly alone Rhys would probably come to realise just how much he liked Davina.

  They were going entirely the wrong way about things, Davina and Mrs Beringer. Arminel wished rather desperately that she hadn’t let herself be talked into this stupid charade. It was distinctly wearing on the nerves, acting the scarlet woman. And if Rhys really felt no more than affection for Davina why couldn’t he summon up the strength to tell his mother so and demand that she stop this harassment which must only lead to grief for someone?

  When, outside her bedroom door, she asked him this he sighed. ‘You wouldn’t realise, but it’s hard to tell your mother where to get off. She loves me and I don’t like to hurt her feelings. I’ve always been her favourite. Kyle’s too self-contained; he was Dad’s son. She relies on me for affection. She and Kyle don’t have anything in common, but until all this blew up she and I were the best of friends.’

  As she opened her lips to protest he kissed her. ‘Don’t scold me, Arminel, I’ve had enough.’

  Which was all very well, but didn’t he realise just how blatantly he was using her as a shield between his mother and himself? No, she thought, he wouldn’t. Rhys was not accustomed to questioning his own actions; he was not at all aware of the many excuses the brain could manufacture to hide the less pleasant results of our actions from ourselves.

  ‘I don’t like hurting people,’ she mumbled, avoiding his questing mouth. ‘This—this act of ours is upsetting your mother and hurting Davina. She’s a sweet little thing. . .’

  ‘Oh, hell, that’s what makes it so hard,’ he groaned. ‘She looks at me with those great big brown eyes and I feel like a heel. But how can I marry her if I don’t love her? It’s you I want.’

  ‘You promised—’

  ‘I know.’ He accepted her quick withdrawal, but his eyes were very bright and challenging, as they surveyed her worried face. ‘But don’t forget that I want you, Arminel, and I’m not giving up, not for Mum, not for Davina, not for big brother. I’m going to keep telling you that until you believe me. And then I’m going to persuade you to love me, too. You did at Surfers, you can here. I know that you hate this situation, you’re so frank and open that it must go against the grain, but honestly, if we just jog quietly along everything will work out fine in the end.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Unfortunately for Rhys’s blithe confidence things didn’t happen that way. The following days revealed that Davina’s arrival on the scene had hardened Mrs Beringer’s attitude towards her other guest. She was never again openly rude to her, but she let no chance slip by to make Arminel feel an outsider.

  And for all her sweetness and charm Davina was a woman fighting for her man; Arminel had to admit that it would be expecting superhuman restraint to hope that the girl would not follow her hostess’s lead.

  Probably life would have been easier if she could dislike the younger girl, but she could not. Each day that went past only increased her conviction that Davina was the perfect girl for Rhys.

  Arminel could not rid herself of the suspicion that Rhys was rather enjoying himself flaunting his beautiful girl-friend in the teeth of his mother and his brother. No doubt it was good for his ego to drop a light kiss on her mouth when they met and parted, to let his hand linger on her arm, to sit beside her in the evenings and talk to her in a low, intimate voice.

  Several times she had almost made up her mind to leave. It was the only sensible thing to do, to get out and let them fight it out amongst themselves. She told herself that the reason why she stayed was because Rhys was not strong enough to stand up to them all. Sometimes she almost convinced herself that this was so.

  But in the night when sleep refused to come she knew who it was who filled her mind with forbidden thoughts and her body with an aching hunger of frustration.

  Kyle was busy. In spite of his mother’s protests he spent many of his evenings in his study and the very modern, well-equipped office next door to it. During the time he was with the family he flirted lightly with Davina, viewed his brother with a grim mockery which should have made Rhys exceedingly uneasy, and allowed no emotion to show in his eyes and voice when he spoke to Arminel.

  But always between them was an awareness, spine-tingling, unseen as electricity yet more potent than a high tension current. He rarely touched her, but wherever his eyes rested, on her mouth, on the tiny betrayal in her throat, on the gentle curves of her breast, there was a sudden warmth as though he caressed her there. Every pulse in her body came painfully alive and she had to stop herself from dreaming erotic, impossible dreams. While she was awake she remained in control of her brain, but in sleep the subconscious is free, and often she woke, shocked, at the explicit nature of her dreams, her body tormented by instincts and needs she had never before experienced.

  When Kyle was near she was nervous and wary. She managed to avoid watching him, but her skin acted as her eyes, telling her exactly where he was in the room.

  He knew, of course. Or rather, he too was subjected to this acute physical desire. He made a better job of hiding it, but she often felt the impact of his eyes on her and the tension which throbbed between them was so tangible that she wondered why the others couldn’t see it.

  It was not so bad during the days. They were filled with activity. The homestead needed care, there were expeditions over the station and down to the long ocean beach. Plenty of people visited Te Nawe and they led the busy social life of any country district.

  The weather was capricious, but as the weeks went by and the glorious flowers on the magnolias were replaced by the ardent green of the new leaves the lengthening days grew warmer. In the orchard behind the house apple trees displayed their red-tipped blossom to the sky and citrus began to bloom, the sweet perfume floating on the quiet air.

  One day Arminel wandered beneath the peach trees accompanied by Smitty the cat. Mrs Beringer and Davina had gone to play golf and she was revelling in her solitude. Never before had she been so hemmed in by people; in spite of the size of the homestead she was beginning to feel claustrophobic.

  She was alien to Te Nawe and its owners. That fact was only too obvious. Even Rhys sometimes seemed astonished at her lack of knowledge of the things they discussed. Like most proud people Arminel hated being forced on to the defensive. But the values she had were not theirs; it seemed strange to her that Davina should find a job totally irrelevant to her way of life, whereas the skills that Arminel was proud of, her efficiency, her ability to run an office, were worth nothing to them.

  The sound of her name was an intrusion. Frowning, she turned, slitting her eyes against the sunlight. Rhys had said nothing—but no, this wasn’t Rhys.

  At Kyle’s approach she stopped beside a big grapefruit tree studded with large golden globes of fruit and waited, her expression wary.

  ‘Come on,’ he said smoothly.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’m going to give you your first riding lesson.’

  Her teeth clamped momentarily on to her bottom lip. ‘I—well, I’m not—’

  ‘Oh, stop dithering,’ he said impatiently. Reaching out a hand, he took hers and began to walk off between the rows of trees, dragging her with him as though she weighed nothing.

  His hand was warm and strong and merciless. For an instant Arminel pulled back, but a jerk that almost hauled her off her feet changed her mind about resisting. Or perhaps it was the excitement that
submerged common sense to the flaring hunger which licked through her body at his touch.

  Beyond the fence two horses waited. Arminel knew nothing at all about horses, but she had a good, although untutored eye for form and balance and beauty and she realised that these two were a cut above the usual station hacks. Several cuts above, in fact.

  The smaller one was a mare, glossy as a ripe chestnut with a white flash above a pair of mildly enquiring eyes. As they came up to her she twitched her ears forward and snuffled gently down her nostrils.

  ‘This,’ Kyle said casually, ‘is Tessa. As well as being beautiful she’s placid and gentle, so there’s no need for that hunted look.’

  It was not Tessa who caused that hunted look and he knew it, but Arminel followed his lead even while she wondered just why he had sought her out. It was almost an act of foolhardiness.

  ‘She looks valuable,’ she said apprehensively, trying to clear her mind of all but the prospect of riding.

  Kyle lifted an eyebrow. ‘She is valuable. Why?’

  ‘Can’t you hurt their mouths, or something? I don’t want to ruin her, or hurt her.’

  There was a quiet creak from the hinges of the gate as he pushed it open. The sun blazed suddenly blue in Arminel’s hair. The suffocating intensity of her emotions almost drowned her; without realising what she was doing she lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes so dark that all blueness had fled from them.

  For a long moment they stared at each other, Arminel searching his face in a desperate attempt to find something more than dislike and desire there.

  Roughly he turned her towards the horses, not attempting to moderate the strength in his fingers.

  ‘If you’re heavy-handed I’ll let you know,’ he said with harsh distinctness. ‘Let’s go.’

  It was as sharp a rebuff as a slap in the face, but it had the effect of bracing her. She would not beg—for anything! Especially not for gentleness and understanding which he did not possess.