The Loving Slave

by Margaret Pargeter

  'I don't want you running after me,' Gina tried to assert with dignity. 'All I want is to be left alone for a few minutes, while I get dressed.'

  'The bathroom's next door, but I've had orders to stay with you until you get dressed, then take you downstairs,' Myra shrugged. 'You're such a skinny little thing, Cook says she'll have to fatten you up if you're to work for Mrs Hurst.'

  Gina had thought there must have been some mistake when Myra had talked of her working for Quentin's mother. Now she knew it must be true. Flinging back the bedclothes, no longer caring much that she was naked, she cried fiercely, 'I shan't be working for Mrs Hurst, or anyone else around here. I'm going straight downstairs to see Quentin!'

  'You are?' Myra began to perk up. 'Then I'll leave you to it, or he'll be accusing me of egging you on. And I don't want the blame for anything, not if he's in the same mood as he was in last night.'

  'Don't worry, it hasn't anything to do with you,' Gina made an effort to control her impulsive temper. 'I just want to tell him I'm going.'

  'Okay, okay!' Myra was already halfway through the door. 'I've done my bit.' Spitefully she paused. 'Better you than me. And, if you've any appetite left after His Nibs is finished with you, breakfast's ready in the kit­chen.'

  Gina's short burst of anger gave her the strength to throw on her clothes, after Myra had gone, and rush downstairs. She did spare another puzzled glance for the gracious comfort of the bedroom, but, otherwise, she didn't even pause to do more than run a careless comb through her heavy mop of red hair. It wasn't until she was halfway downstairs that she stopped to think. It was only then, when she gave it a chance, that everything came rushing back and she slid to an apprehensive halt, incredulous that she could have forgotten. Then, with a despairing gasp, she sat down where she stood, slumped against the beautifully carved stair rail, while her spirits sank with her small bare feet into the thick carpet be­neath her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WHEN Gina woke up her mind had been a blank, with reality clouded, but now the events of the night were be­ginning to return so clearly that she recoiled, wishing she were back in her dream world again.

  It seemed impossible that she could have forgotten the conversation she had had with Quentin, after she had come round to find him sitting by her bed. On opening her eyes, she had wondered hazily where she was and why he was there. When she had remembered properly she had concluded that he must be waiting to make sure she was still in one piece, after the way he had attacked her. Whether he had been worried about her or not, he hadn't said, but the hate in her green eyes must have assured him he hadn't done any fatal damage.

  He had made her drink something peculiarly obnoxi­ous. She had suspected it was poison, although if it had been it couldn't have worked, because she was still alive this morning. The mixture he had given her must have been responsible for her brief lapse of memory, though. Otherwise, wouldn't she have recalled the awful things he had thrown at her before now?

  There had been no one else around—the house quiet and sleeping, only the clock, far down in the hall, chim­ing out the hour of one. Gina had no idea if it had been Quentin who had put her to bed. She had felt warm and comfortable, disinclined to ask questions and curiously resentful that he should be sitting beside her, reminding her painfully that, for all he might appear concerned, she had no real place in his life.

  Then, suddenly, as he put down the glass he had held for her, they had been quarrelling fiercely, about almost everything. Furiously she had tackled him about the sta­bles, the horses, the cottage and her right to stay there, if she pleased. Free of his mother's restrictive presence, Gina had argued until her breath came in gasps and her eyes filled with angry tears, but to no avail.

  Like a man made of steel, Quentin had worn her down, battering her with indisputable facts until she had realised she was beaten. She might have known this from the start, but she had been bolstered by the incredibly foolish hope that she might bluff him into submission. The boot, unfortunately, had been on the other foot. Bit­terly, Gina reflected how she was the one who had been forced to give in—in a welter of humiliation. Quentin had held all the cards, she just didn't have a chance. In the end, fearing she had said too much and, by doing so, had merely strengthened his resolve to send her away, she had buried her pride and humbly begged to be allowed to stay, promising meekly to do anything he asked.

  He had stared at her angrily, then surprisingly agreed—if like someone questioning their own sanity. 'But only if you're prepared to stay out of my sight,' he warned curtly. 'And if you're so determined to become a servant, then you'd better begin conducting yourself like one. How are you going to like eating all your meals in the kitchen, and bowing to Matthews instead of mentally pulling a face at him each time he gives you a disapprov­ing glance? And having to call me Mr Quentin, as no doubt my mother will ask you to do?'

  As he paused enigmatically, she stared at him uneasily, but it seemed he hadn't yet finished. 'I'm sorry your father died, Gina, in more ways than one. I didn't expect he would go so suddenly and I'm afraid it's upset my immediate plans for you. But as long as you keep out of my way you can stay here until you've had time to make plans of your own. However, don't come running to me for help when my mother's demands wear you out. She doesn't want a maid, she wants a slave, and never tell me I didn't warn you. And tidy yourself up. I won't have anyone on the indoor staff looking as you do. Oh, and another thing, keep away from the stables.'

  This, to Gina, seemed a worse punishment than any­thing else. 'Please,' she whispered, her face strained, her eyes huge with sudden tears, 'couldn't I just go occa­sionally, to see Hector?'

  He had turned his head away, as if the sight of her had offended him too much. 'No, you may not! And the new man has his orders.' He turned back to her, his own face taut. 'It will be no use your chasing after him as you did with Richard. Jenkins will immediately report to me.'

  'You've thought of everything, haven't you?' she had retorted hotly, unwisely discovering her vanquished pride. With tormented eyes she had looked at him, so tall and autocratic, leaning over her. 'I think,' she'd whi­spered tearfully, 'I'm beginning to hate you. I thought I was beginning to love you, but I'm glad now that I've discovered my mistake.'

  For an instant the line of his mouth went rigid, as he took in her tearful desperation, the wealth of electrical emotion between them that clearly confused her. 'Hate might be wiser for you just now,' he replied harshly, 'until you learn to grow up a bit. I doubt if you know the true meaning of love, or that you could cope with all its implications.'

  'I don't suppose you know much about it either?' Gina retorted bitterly, a pulse hammering helplessly in her throat. 'I can't imagine you ever being in love.'

  'Oh, I don't know,' he frowned darkly, his breath fanning her cheek like a threat before he drew sharply back. Coolly, as he controlled himself, his glance went over her thin arms and bosom, staying on the latter, as if held in spite of himself. 'I might surprise you one of these days.'

  'Blanche?' she sighed deeply, feeling pain.

  'Gina!' he said thickly, then paused abruptly, as though refusing to contemplate another argument. 'I'm going to leave you now,' he rose grimly to his feet, 'but don't forget what I've said. You can stay, but only if you learn to keep out of my way and tidy yourself up.'

  He had gone, closing the door quietly behind him, but with that same touch of violence she had noticed on the night by the lake, when he had held her and crushed her, as though he had little control left.

  Suddenly, as Matthews hovered in sight, Gina jumped to her feet, rushing back upstairs. She wasn't sure if Quentin was still in the house, but she could see no point in confronting him now, not when she had recalled their conversation in the bedroom. She had two options, it seemed. She could either go or stay, and, as she had no­where to go, obviously she had no real choice!

  The next few weeks passed slowly, and if in the past Gina had occasionally thought her lot a hard one, she conside
red it a lot more preferable to her life now. As Quentin had warned, his mother, though never actually unkind, made her fetch and carry for the greater part of each day. Through the night, too, the bell connecting Gina's room with hers, often rang, and Gina was forced to leave her bed and go and see what it was Mrs Hurst wanted. Usually it was nothing more than a hot drink and a little chat to while away a dark hour, but for Gina it meant lost sleep, at a time when perhaps she most needed it.

  She had managed to tidy herself up, as Quentin had insisted, but gazing in her mirror she could see no great improvement. At least it was easier to keep clean now she didn't work in the stables, and her skin was so fine it didn't seem to matter that she had no make-up. It was her hair that was as thick and long as ever, so she simply tied it back and covered it with the old-fashioned mob-cap that Mrs Hurst insisted on her wearing.

  Mrs Hurst hadn't said anything about wages, while she was training, but she did get her board and her clothes. Her clothes consisted of several of Mrs Hurst's cast-off dresses, some unworn, which Mrs Worth obligingly al­tered to fit Gina's more petite figure. The result was far from flattering because Mrs Worth was no great needle­woman, but Gina decided they were better than nothing and, as Mrs Hurst pointed out, the material was good.

  Mrs Hurst often sighed over her, with the air of one sore tried, but Gina forced herself to endure her disparag­ing comments silently. It was much the same in the kit­chen, where Myra and Jean took a delight in tormenting her. They were apparently jealous of the smart bedroom she had been given and wouldn't listen when Gina in­sisted she was there just so she could be near Mrs Hurst during the night. They considered she should have been at the back of the house with the rest of the staff, and their spiteful remarks often made Gina miserable.

  So did Miss Edgar's—when Miss Edgar came across her one day in the gardens. Mrs Hurst, who was suffering from one of her migraines, had gone to lie down, which meant that for a while Gina was free. Unable to resist the temptation, she had gone to sit by the lovely fountain in the rose garden. She was well aware she shouldn't be there, but as it was Saturday and the gardener wasn't around, she didn't think anyone else would notice. She rarely ever saw Quentin, and if she did it was usually at a distance.

  This Saturday, however, just as Gina was beginning to relax by the fountain pool, she was startled to see him coming round the nearest corner with Blanche Edgar. Before Gina could retreat they were pausing beside her, Blanche with a frown.

  'Whatever is your little stable girl doing here, darling?' she pretended to stare at Gina more closely. 'It is your stable girl, isn't it? I thought you had a man now?'

  'Yes, I have,' Quentin's voice was cold, but no colder than his eyes, as they rested on Gina. 'Gina still works here, though, as a kind of personal assistant to my mother.'

  'So that's how she comes to be taking her ease in your garden?' Blanche's laughter came, lightly malicious. 'Do you think your mother's being wise, Quentin? I do see her point, but I shouldn't have advised her to employ an untrained girl.'

  'Don't worry,' he took her arm, drawing her away abruptly, 'Gina knows her place.'

  Gina felt she was certainly learning it, but she often found it far from easy. Why had she imagined it would be easy? Once she had thought nothing would be too dif­ficult, if only she could stay at Briarly beside Quentin. Now she wasn't so sure. As she sat by the fountain, watching him slip an arm through Blanche's, as they walked away from her across the lawns, she knew she must leave. Unfortunately she didn't know where to begin—how to go about it. Without money it might be impossible to go anywhere. Yet how could she stay here and endure the mysterious but terrible pain which attacked her heart, each time she saw Quentin with Miss Edgar?

  It was inevitable that such unhappiness should make her restless, and one night, after settling Mrs Hurst in bed with a book and a cup of hot tea, she decided to risk Quentin's wrath and go down to the stables. He had gone for a short walk after dinner. She knew of this, because Mrs Hurst had told her. Now he was in his study and it was unlikely that he would go out again.

  Somehow Gina didn't care all that much if he did. It was a risk she was prepared to take. She had a sudden longing to see Hector and the other horses, to get away from the house for even a short time. Once, when she had gone to the stables in daylight, the new groom had looked extremely uncomfortable and had refused to say more than a few words to her. She didn't think he had men­tioned her visit to Quentin, but rather than get him into trouble, she hadn't gone again.

  The moon shone so brightly, she wished she hadn't chosen a night when it was full. She still had a stable key, which she had kept hold of deliberately, and using it she quickly unlocked the door. Hector, recognising her im­mediately, whinnied loudly with excitement.

  'Hello, boy,' she whispered, hushing him anxiously, 'Hi! Don't make such a noise, unless you want to wake everyone up.'

  'I told you not to come here, Gina!' Quentin's voice cut through the shadows behind her, as she stood with her arms around Hector's neck.

  She almost died from shock and her slight body tensed. Swiftly she turned to the dark height of him as he ap­proached her. 'I—I thought you were in the study?' she faltered.

  'Apparently I'm not,' he retorted sarcastically. 'If I'd known you intended sneaking down here, I might have been more obliging.' Grimly he held out his hand. 'I'll have that key, Gina, if you don't mind.'

  Childishly she put it behind her back, clasping it tightly in her hands. 'I'm sorry, Quentin—I mean Mr Quentin,' she refused stubbornly, 'I—your father gave it to me, but I promise I won't use it often.' Her voice shook a little, at what she knew was illogical defiance, but she forced a harder note into it. 'I have to come here sometimes to see the horses, you know that!'

  Ignoring the mute appeal in her eyes, he replied curtly, 'It would be better for you if you stayed away.'

  She shrugged, keeping a tight hold of the key, hoping he would forget it. 'I can't see how, but I suppose, now that I've broken the rules, you'll want me to leave?'

  'Leave?'

  'Briarly.'

  'Oh, I see,' he sighed. Gina heard it clearly and won­dered why he sounded so restive. 'Well, you'll have to, one day soon. You can't stay here indefinitely.'

  She knew that, yet she couldn't admit he was right. Turning her head, she rested it against Hector, leaning on his strength. 'Your mother likes having me around. She would miss me.'

  'Naturally,' he said dryly. 'She finds it extremely plea­sant to have you running after her continually, but it can't go on.'

  'Why can't it, Quentin?'

  'For heaven's sake, grow up, Gina,' he glared at her, his eyes glinting. 'You know you're wasting your time, your life here, as well as being a perfect pest. As soon as I get something sorted out…'

  'You said that two weeks ago,' she interrupted.

  'So what? These things take time,' he snapped. 'And I've more important things to think about.'

  'Blanche, I suppose?' Gina was aware she was being impertinent, but his coldness provoked her.

  'Perhaps,' he said.

  'I suppose you're going to marry her?'

  'I could do worse,' he agreed.

  Wounded by this, and the grimness of his voice, she hung her head, feeling the sharpness of pain all over. It was a beautiful midsummer's evening, the air soft and heady with the scent of roses from the distant gardens, but she felt too dejected to appreciate such things. All she could think of was Quentin and Blanche.

  'Gina!' he spoke her name on a note of exasperation. 'You'd better go to bed, but first give me that key.'

  'No!' She had used it for years—she could never give it to him. It was all she had left to remind her of all the years she had spent here. To part with it would be like parting with a piece of herself. 'No!' she exclaimed again, trying to dodge around him.

  He caught hold of her, to try and take it from her by force, his face hard and angry, and she was aware of the lean, muscular body wrestling with hers. Then he see
med to forget all about the key, as his hands tightened on her waist, as she fell against him with a strangled cry of indig­nation.

  'Give me what I want,' he whispered hoarsely.

  'The key?' Her voice was muffled, and she could feel her heart hammering against her ribs, filling her ears with the same thunder she had heard by the lake.

  'Yes, Gina!' He slid a hand through the tangled mass of her hair and she knew vaguely that the key wasn't im­portant any more, though it was what they both talked about. His hand pressed against the nape of her neck and with a sigh she pressed closer against him. He lowered his head as she raised hers, their movements, like clockwork, fitting together. Their lips touched, gently at first, then clung hungrily.

  The pressure of his mouth was hard and cool. She couldn't understand how it could light such fires within her. Against his chest, her small but perfect breasts grew taut, while, contrarily, every bone in her body melted. She seemed to be flowing into him, her senses reeling as his hands and mouth moved insistently over her, in a way she remembered, then were suddenly, dramatically still.

  As his mouth left hers Quentin lifted his head and she heard the harshness, the rejection in the breath he drew, moments before he thrust her away.

  She felt him shaking, yet he glared down at her with hate in his eyes. 'What's the matter?' she asked.

  'Nothing's the matter,' he ground out savagely, 'but there soon might be if you don't get out of my sight.'

  'Very well,' her voice trembled. 'Don't think I'll not be glad to. And I'll promise not to tell Miss Edgar.'

  'Blanche?' he muttered. 'What in the hell has she to do with it?'

  'That's not a question you should be asking me. I'm only the girl you can't wait to get rid of. She's the one who'll be here to stay, remember?'

  'Gina…!' he groaned, but she didn't wait to hear more. The key was still in her possession and while Quen­tin's mind was on other things she escaped. That he was momentarily distracted provided a chance which seemed too good to waste.