The Loving Slave

by Margaret Pargeter

  Her work completed, she sat down on a bale of straw, still undecided what to do. Earlier, at the house, Quentin had called after her that he would look in later and, for all Richard had hinted otherwise, he always kept his word. Wearily she frowned, leaning back on the straw, feeling drowsy, but she didn't remember falling asleep.

  Her dreams were disturbed and she moaned softly, then opened her eyes to find Quentin shaking her roughly, as if her sleep had been deeper than she thought.

  'Gina, wake up!' he was saying curtly. 'Are you all right? You shouldn't be here at this time of night.'

  'Quentin?' she murmured, confused by sleep, blinking up at him.

  'Come on, Gina, pull yourself together!'

  The impatience in his voice, getting through to her at last, hurt, though she was used to it. Unexpectedly, for she never wept if she could help it, her eyes filled with tears. 'I waited for you,' she whispered, 'to tell you about Hector.'

  'You needn't have. Richard rang. He told me all I need to know.'

  That didn't sound good. Alarm flitted through her, but because he crouched over her she was unable to move. The eyes she raised to his were wide and drenched with tears, remarkably beautiful, as was the full curve of her trembling mouth with its short, endearingly childish upper lip.

  Whether Quentin was moved by her tears or something else, she never knew, but his voice softened. 'Don't cry, Gina girl. It's not important.'

  She tried to speak, but her voice choked and she was unable to continue. Her tears flowed faster and she put a hand to her eyes. It was a childish gesture and it seemed to be his undoing. With a gentle murmur he pulled her into his arms and began stroking her hair.

  'Gina…' Suddenly he bent his head and kissed her, lightly and affectionately, his mouth just touching hers, yet there was a very pleasurable sensation. Frowning, he drew back, his eyes on her face. Gina heard his breathing roughen, but was barely conscious of it, as something was affecting her, too.

  Another tear slid down her hot cheek, leaving a mark. Quentin frowned, his own momentary surprise forgotten in the face of her continuing distress. 'Don't,' he mut­tered, drawing her closer, instinctively protective.

  The feeling was there again. As her slight body clung to his it was there, spreading through them, a fire, one which threatened to burn. Abruptly, as if regretting his former impulse, he put her from him.

  'I'll see you home, Gina.' He didn't look at her. 'You're upset about Hector, but he'll be much better tomorrow, you'll see.'

  'Yes, of course.' Gina, wide awake now, jumped to her feet. Her limbs seemed stricken by a curious weakness and she wondered why. Clumsily she stumbled. 'I can see myself home, Quentin. There's no need for you to come.'

  'Did you have a coat?' He was viewing her thin shirt doubtfully.

  'No,' she gave Hector a last caress, happy to see the big horse was taking some notice of her again. 'It's not rain­ing, is it?'

  'No,' Quentin closed the stable door, 'but it's cold.'

  'Goodnight,' she smiled at him briefly through the darkness.

  'I said, Gina, I would see you home.'

  Her heart sank. When Quentin spoke like that she never argued. He had changed, she noticed, into jeans and a black sweater—she couldn't even suggest he would ruin his clothes. Oh, well, it was dark. With any luck the darkness would hide what she didn't want him to see, and he wouldn't come farther than the door. Men like Quen­tin never stepped inside tumbledown cottages, and he would be in a hurry to get back to his guests.

  So she deluded herself. The path through the woods was rough, but it was Quentin who stumbled, not Gina. She heard the terse expletives he rasped under his breath. She wanted to tell him there wasn't really room to walk two abreast, but a certain dread she could put no name to kept her silent. She had a terrible feeling that some­thing dreadful was about to happen.

  At the cottage she halted. 'I can manage now, Quen­tin.' For the first time since he had kissed her she met his eyes. 'Your—guests will be wondering what's become of you.'

  'Let them,' he replied brusquely. 'I'll see you inside. There's no light?'

  Stubbornly she didn't move. 'My father will be in bed. It—it might disturb him if he hears voices.'

  'I'd have thought he would be more disturbed not to,' he rejoined cryptically. 'If I had a child like you I'd be as worried as hell if I thought you were wandering in woods like these at this time of night.'

  'He knows I'm used to them,' she protested feebly. 'I know them like the back of my hand.'

  'I'm not impressed.' He grabbed her arm grimly. 'Are you going to ask me in or do we skip the invitation?'

  It wouldn't matter whether she invited him or not. He meant to be inside, she could tell. Bitterly she wondered why he bothered asking. Reluctantly she opened the door.

  'Where's the damned light?' Quentin let go of her arm to grope on the wall for the switch instead of following her down the passage. As she halted abruptly, he came after her, nearly tripping over her in the darkness. Again she flinched, as their bodies collided, and a peculiar feel­ing shot through her. 'We aren't on the mains,' she said.

  'Not on the mains!'

  The logs she had placed on the fire earlier gave off a faint glow and she could see him looming furiously over her, his tall, lean-hipped elegance seeming quite out of place in such shabby surroundings. With shaking hands she pushed at her untidy hair. 'We have lamps and candles.'

  'Light something, then.' His voice was alive with suppressed violence.

  She didn't want to, she wished he would leave. 'I think I'll go straight to bed, without a light,' she muttered.

  'Gina! Do as I say—and at once!'

  Finding the matches, she lit a candle, which was all there was until she could afford some more oil for the lamp. The solitary candle, stuck crookedly in the middle of a jam jar, flared into life and she stared at Quentin defiantly.

  He wasn't looking at her. His eyes were travelling swiftly around, noting the bare stone floor, the un­curtained window, the scratched, uneven surface of the table. At last he spoke. She considered he took his time. 'Where do you cook, Gina, if you have no electricity?'

  'I don't cook much, but there's the fire.'

  He merely glanced at the rusty, old-fashioned range which was clearly too old to function. 'Do you have a tap?'

  For a moment she was bewildered. 'Oh, you mean water?' she nodded eagerly. 'Yes, we have a pump at the door.'

  'A pump at the door! I see,' he said grimly. 'No wonder you never look clean.'

  Flinching from the hardness of his voice, she retorted sharply, 'Sometimes I swim in the lake.'

  She didn't feel the least embarrassed about Quentin knowing, if he had to. He saw her merely as a nuisance of a child, and, while he often blew his top at her, she seldom remembered his anger. The lake covered five acres and was private. Few people were aware of its exist­ence and fewer still ever went there. She supposed be­cause it was dark and deep, enclosed by the same woods that surrounded the cottage, on the edge of some wild heathland.

  'How do you manage in winter?'

  She wished he would stop speaking so tersely. 'I swim all the year round,' which was true, and meant she couldn't possibly not be clean! 'I never feel the cold.'

  'And your father?'

  She had to smile at the thought of her father bathing in the lake, although he once told her he'd been a good swimmer. 'I believe he makes do with the pump, at the door.' Her smile widened, in innocent amusement.

  Her smile seemed to do it. She seemed to feel, before she saw it, Quentin's sudden explosion of fury. 'It's no laughing matter, Gina!' He took hold of her, shaking her as he spoke, until sparks from his hands began hitting her unmercifully. 'It won't do,' he snapped. 'It won't do at all!'

  'Let me go, Quentin!' she cried.

  As if becoming aware of what he was doing, he stopped as abruptly as he had begun, and stood watching her, a brooding look on his face as she rubbed her sore arms.

  Illogically, s
he gasped, 'I don't know about having no electricity, but when you touch me I can feel it all over.'

  A flicker of wariness darkened his eyes and was gone. 'You deserve more than a shaking,' he rebuked her. 'Living like this and not mentioning it!'

  'Who would I mention it to?' she asked quietly, sud­denly afraid.

  For an instant he appeared nonplussed. The silence lengthened, then he said curtly, 'I realise I should have known about the condition of my own property, but I haven't been in these woods for years. My father and I didn't see eye to eye about them. I wanted them cleaned up. Not cut down,' he insisted tersely, as Gina's eyes widened, 'but you know he wouldn't hear of them being touched. God knows,' he ran an impatient hand over his thick dark hair, 'I've had problems enough over the past ten years, getting the business back on its feet. Persuading my father to retire and hand over the reins was a major operation. I had to humour him regarding the woods. It seemed the only way.'

  'He loved them,' Gina smiled softly, recalling the old man's delight.

  Quentin nodded shortly.

  Secretly she studied him, from under thick, curling lashes, as he turned to pace around the kitchen. She was well aware that Quentin Hurst was a wealthy man, but that he had worked for every penny he had made. The grey at his temples vouched for this, and while it added to his air of distinction it wasn't usual in a man of his age. He worked like a slave, and it was rumoured he was fast reaping his rewards, but it had left its mark. Gone was the relaxed, more tolerant younger man Gina had known as a child, and in his place was a hard, successful tycoon, a business magnate with much less heart. He took what he wanted and was clever enough to get away with it.

  Confused, Gina continued to stare at him, not able to decide why this was becoming so clear to her now. Why she should suddenly be seeing him, not through the eyes of a child, or even a young girl, but as a woman. And while she wasn't any too sure she liked what she saw, there was something about him that drew her like a moth to a flame. The shiver of cold premonition which went through her was visible as he halted beside her and looked at her quickly.

  'You've left school, I take it?'

  'Yes. A year ago.'

  His glance sharpened. 'How old are you?'

  'Eighteen.' He was the second person to ask within hours. She couldn't think why.

  'You don't look it.' The sneer on his lips was far from flattering.

  'Well, I am.' She stared sullenly back at him.

  'Untidy, given to sulks, scarcely fit to be seen. And you wonder why I doubt you're anywhere near eighteen?' His tongue berated her harshly, without mercy. 'What are you going to do with yourself?'

  Why should Richard and he both be curious about that? Richard's query had been kinder, though. He didn't despise her as Quentin did. 'I don't want a career,' she replied hesitantly, 'if that's what you mean.'

  'It is.'

  'I look after your horses,' she reminded him, 'and my father couldn't do without me.'

  'Wait a minute!' He paused, something obviously just occurring to him. 'What are you paid? Come to that, who pays you? I don't recall seeing your name on the books, which I occasionally check.'

  'I work for the rent of the cottage,' she improvised quickly, feeling herself go cold again. Quentin's question, though she had been half expecting it for some time, had given her a shock. It was true his father had let them live here rent-free, but when she began helping in the stables he had given her a small wage as well. This had proved extremely welcome as John usually drank most of the allowance he received. Unfortunately when Mr Hurst died her wages had stopped. Of course Quentin couldn't be expected to know this, and she had known, if she told him, he would only say a free cottage was more than enough. If she complained it would provide him with an excuse to throw them out, and she could think of nothing worse than having nowhere to live. Even so, the last few months had been hard; she had often been both cold and hungry.

  'I'm going to have a word with your father,' Quentin said coldly. 'Make yourself something to eat while I'm talking to him. Have you had any dinner?'

  'I'm not hungry,' her appetite had left her, 'and John will be asleep.'

  'Then perhaps it's time he woke up!' Quentin replied enigmatically.

  'You don't understand!' Gina protested anxiously.

  'I mean to,' he returned, in the same threatening tones, as he went through the door.

  Gina knew what he would find but was helpless. No­thing would stop Quentin from crossing the narrow pas­sage to find John. Despairingly she hoped he would find John's bedroom first. It was nothing special, but it did have a carpet of sorts on the floor, while hers had nothing but bare boards.

  Minutes later Quentin was back, a tight anger on his lean face, that she didn't like. Unwittingly she shrank from him.

  'How long has your father been like this?' he asked curtly.

  She didn't pretend not to understand. 'As long as I can remember,' she answered him miserably, yet with a curi­ous stoicism. 'He's been worse lately. His health is bad.'

  'No wonder!' Quentin's voice was clipped, his eyes dangerously dark.

  'You don't understand,' she cried, looking away from him.

  'Gina!' his harsh grasp on her shoulders conveyed his contempt without words. 'It doesn't take a genius to understand what's going on here. Your father is an alco­holic'

  CHAPTER TWO

  'YOUR father is an alcoholic,' Quentin said again.

  'He can't be!' she whispered.

  'A bad case, I should say.' He didn't spare her.

  'And I'm not clean…'

  His mouth tightened at the wild tears in her eyes. 'You've obviously not been properly brought up.'

  Gina bit her lip painfully. He could be right, but for her father's sake she had to protest. 'I'm sure it's not that. Sometimes soap is expensive.'

  'You'd be better off in a home,' he exclaimed.

  'I'm too old!' she cried, aghast that such a thing should even cross his mind. 'Quentin?' she beseeched him des­perately. 'Just leave things as they are, please! You have enough to think of without worrying about me.'

  He studied her, her thin young body, the tangled hair tied tightly back, the huge green eyes fixed on him in unwavering appeal. 'It isn't you I'm worrying about,' he said cruelly. 'I can't let you go on living here, because one of these days someone is going to start asking ques­tions, and I might easily be fined for allowing anyone to live under such conditions. Why, it's no better than a hovel!'

  'Who would start asking questions?'

  'Richard sounded much too interested this evening when he rang, although I can't think why.'

  Gina hung her head. 'I think he likes me because I like horses.'

  'Possibly.' Quentin could understand this, she saw.

  She wished she could have given him a drink. John would have enough in his room, but she shrank from that. It wasn't often she resented living the way they did, but for once she thought how nice it would have been to have been able to offer hospitality. If she had been able to offer Quentin something he might have overlooked a lot of the things that seemed to be annoying him so greatly.

  A week ago she had hung around the big house, in the hope of seeing Quentin. As usual, she had wanted to speak to him about the horses. Eventually she had crept up to the drawing-room window, to try and catch his attention. The scene inside had held her immobile for several seconds. Quentin had been there with his mother and several guests, having pre-dinner drinks. The dresses and jewellery of the women had glittered impressively against the luxurious background. Quentin, tall and darkly attractive with his broad shoulders and hard, sen­suous mouth, had been talking to a young and beautiful woman, Blanche Edgar. Gina immediately recognised her, as she often spent the weekend at Briarly and Quentin took her riding. Knowing it would be a waste of time trying to see him that evening, Gina had turned away. Blanche Edgar was sophisticated, amusing and rich, and she had all his attention.

  'I can make you a cup of tea?' she suggested un­happil
y.

  'I'm afraid you can't bribe me with that,' he refused dryly. 'I'll see you tomorrow some time, Gina. Mean­while, I'll give the whole matter of you and your father— and the cottage—some serious thought.'

  Something in his face alarmed her badly. 'I won't agree to leaving, Quentin, I'm warning you!' she stared at him defiantly.

  A flush of anger on his cheeks, he turned to the door. 'Don't ever threaten me, my child. I mightn't be much of a friend, but fight me and I'll make sure you regret it. You'd find me much worse as an enemy.'

  After Quentin left Gina was unable to settle. In the short time he had been here he had managed to make her feel extremely worried about the future, and conscious of the defects of the cottage in a way she had never been before. It was, she supposed, little more than a hovel, but it was the only home she could remember and in spite of what Quentin said, she was fond of it.

  One of the things that strangely seemed to disturb her most was his belief that she didn't wash. In a cracked mirror, in the shabby little closet she called her bedroom, she peered at her face. Across her cheek was a grubby mark, there was another on her forehead, and her hair was dull and untidy. Unhappily she compared herself with Quentin's glamorous friends and thrust the mirror quickly back in the drawer. No wonder he had been so scornful!

  Suddenly she knew she couldn't go to bed until she had got rid of all the dust Quentin so disapproved of. Tonight she was so tired she had meant to make do with the pump at the door, but the water that came out of that was often so discoloured it was impossible to wash properly. It would only take a few minutes to reach the lake, and, with the air turning suddenly warmer again, the thought of a cool dip was inviting. Something else occurred to her too; on her way back she could look in on Hector.