His mouth was touching hers, his body tense with the desire he had controlled with such difficulty, and she could deny him nothing. She swayed against him, her body heavy and sensuous against his, and he carried her in his arms towards his bed.
It reminded her of when he had carried her over the threshold into his house… but this was a very different kind of threshold they were crossing, and there was no turning back.
She didn’t remember the moment when Ran turned down the gas-light until there was just a soft popping sound from the lamps. Nor quite how she came to be without her clothes until she became aware of the sudden release of the restricting garments and felt the erotic sensation of cool air on her flesh.
And then the coolness was replaced by warmth. Ran Wainwright’s warmth, bringing her back to life again, releasing all the tension and hurt, and reminding her that she was a woman with a woman’s needs…
She could see his dark shape over her, and wanted him with a fierceness that obliterated all else. There was a time for gentle love-making, and a time for every animal instinct to be aroused. And they had waited too long for this…
With a small cry, Morwen welcomed him into her body, exalting in pleasure from that very first touch. He moved slowly against her, and she felt every pore ripple in response as the hunger within her matched his.
Her fingers dug deep into his shoulders, revelling in the powerfully hard-muscled flesh. And as if sensing her needs perfectly, they moved rhythmically together, pleasure mounting higher and higher until Morwen felt they must almost reach the stars. And finally all conscious sensation merged into a state of exquisite unreality as they soared towards the peak as one.
* * *
Ran still lay against her, and Morwen buried her head into his neck, feeling the dampness of his exertions. It was impossible to describe how she felt, yet she wanted to imprint it on her memory, so that during the darkest days she could remember exactly how it felt to be so loved…
As if thinking her silence might be due to remorse now, Ran turned his head towards hers, and his voice was soft against her cheek.
‘You still belong to Ben, Morwen. But now a little part of you will always belong to me, even if it’s all I can ever have. This night will be my talisman.’
She felt her throat thicken. It was her husband who was the Cornishman, and Ben with whom she shared the affinity of her race, yet this stranger from across the sea reached into her soul like no other man ever had or ever could. She touched her lips to his, knowing it was goodbye, and her voice was husky-soft.
‘And mine too, my love. Our talisman, and our sweet memory of all we can ever have.’
She couldn’t say it any plainer. She needed to get away from him now, to be alone and to come to terms with what she had done. She was an adulteress… yet the word had no meaning. She was a woman who was loved and cherished, and that love must remain a secret for all time.
‘Ran, I’m going to my own room now,’ she said in a low voice, praying that he wouldn’t expect her to stay. To spend the night in his arms was a dream she wouldn’t allow, and he moved away from her at once. He put her long cloak around her shoulders for modesty’s sake. The sweet incongruity of his thoughtfulness after all they had been to one another, made her eyes prickle.
He opened the door between their rooms and lit the gas-light. It threw soft shadows around the room, and silhouetted Ran’s nakedness, and Morwen felt a wave of tenderness rush over her that this strong and powerful man should be hers. Whatever happened in the future, for those wild sweet moments, he had been hers and she his, and that was irreversible.
‘Until tomorrow, my dearest.’ He ran his finger gently down her cheek, then turned quickly back to his own room. Morwen stared blindly at the closed door for a second before the sudden sting of tears overwhelmed her.
Chapter Ten
Daniel Gorran looked at the sheets of figures in front of him with growing alarm. As accountant for Killigrew Clay, he had become used to the fluctuations of the clay industry, the periodic dip in prices, the falling off of demand, and then the sudden bursts of prosperity. The last few years had been good ones, regardless of all the grievances of the clayworkers. Gorran brushed them aside. Clayworkers were notoriously temperamental, and arguments were only to be expected from such men.
Once the turmoil over the railway tracks had been put to rights, and the route redirected after the court case that had so nearly been disastrous for Ben Killigrew, it should all have been plain sailing for Killigrew Clay. But it definitely wasn’t, and the sooner the man looked to his business affairs, the better.
Gorran frowned, comparing the Ben Killigrew of old with the one he had met briefly in the town that morning. A different man now, he acknowledged, not only in demeanour and appearance but, Gorran suspected, in habits as well. He gave a small sigh, remembering the eager young man who had come home from his London college and decided that his birthright was worth fighting for after all. And Gorran realized that it was since this latest return from London that Ben seemed to have changed so much.
‘What can you expect?’ Doctor Pender had commented recently, when they met socially. ‘The boy suffered a painful attack, and he won’t thank the villains for the loss of his good looks. He’ll have that ugly scar down his face for the rest of his life.’
However long that life was to be, he added silently. The grim letter from the hospital consultant was a private matter that he was bound to honour, but the knowledge of Ben Killigrew’s heart condition weighed heavily on his mind. He turned the conversation quickly.
‘I thought we were having a friendly game of backgammon,’ he reminded Daniel Gorran. ‘Though I confess your parlour’s so warm I’m nearer to sleeping than playing. I think I shall have to retire to my bed soon, Daniel.’
‘One more glass of porter then,’ Gorran suggested. ‘We both seem to have lost our appetite for the game tonight.’
Backgammon was harmless enough. As he poured the drinks, Gorran’s thoughts kept returning to Ben Killigrew, and wondering if his pursuits were as harmless. There were rumours in the town. When Ben first came home from London he had kept very much to himself, and since the activities of the so-called scaggies had been silent, he hadn’t bothered to go to the clayworkers more than once or twice.
But Christmas had come and gone and another year had begun, and with it, Ben Killigrew had asserted his presence in the town in a different way, acting quite the dandy. That was fine enough, as long as he didn’t ignore his business. It would never have done in old Charles Killigrew’s day. A man needed to know the state of his finances if nothing else, and when Ben Killigrew was acquainted with his, he would need to think seriously. Gorran hoped too, that Ben’s home-life would improve. He didn’t know the truth of it, of course, but there had been stories about that too…
* * *
Morwen went through a mixture of emotions after her brief stay in London. She had lain with a man other than her husband, and it had been the most wonderful experience of her life… the thoughts rushed at her, shaming her one minute, filling her with joy the next. She was too honest to deny the pleasure of Ran’s love-making, too honest not to admit that she wanted it to happen again… but that was where the dream ended. She was Ben’s wife, and her loyalties were to him.
But that was all. She dreaded the thought of moving back into the bedroom with him now, where she had once been so determined. She would be living a lie to pretend a passion for a man who had changed so dramatically.
His attackers had done more than they realized, she thought bitterly. They had put fear into Ben. She sensed it every time one of the children knocked him playfully, and his arms went up to guard himself. He was afraid of the wounds re-opening, especially the jagged cut on his face, and he was afraid of his heart condition. She’d told him briefly that she and Ran knew the truth, and from then on none of them mentioned it again.
Because of the fear, he made no mention of his wife resuming marital relations with h
im. By day they got along tolerably well, but at night they remained apart.
* * *
Some weeks after Ben returned home, he had been urgently summoned to Gorran’s chambers on a business matter, and Mrs Horn had brought a note to Morwen, holding it away from her as though her fingers were fire-tongs and she held something abominable.
‘This was pushed under the kitchen door, Mrs Killigrew,’ she said with a sniff. ‘It’s addressed to you, but I suspect ’tis some rubbish, and if ’ee don’t want to read it, I’d burn it straight away—’
‘Thank you, Mrs Horn,’ Morwen said, with a smile. The woman had a fierce concern for her mistress’s well-being, and Morwen had had to listen to much shielded advice on powders to help her sleep and potions for reviving her spirits, that had nothing to do with Doctor Pender’s medical practice.
She took the crumpled note curiously. Her heart leapt when she saw the name on the envelope. Morwen Tremayne. No one had called her by that name for years.
Yet in an instant, the sight of it could make her revert to being Morwen Tremayne, bal maiden at Killigrew Clay, who dared to think a boss’s son could marry her. Her hands trembled as she pulled the piece of paper out of the envelope, glad that the children were away from the house and that she was quite alone. As though the walls had eyes and were watching to see her reaction…
The words were written in large capitals with no beginning and no end to the message, nor any signature. Morwen’s eyes blurred as she read it swiftly:
IF YOU DON’T WANT YOUR HUSBAND TO KNOW WHAT WENT ON AT YOUR FANCY-MAN’S NEW HOUSE AFTER TRURO FAIR, BRING FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS TO THE BEACH THIS AFTERNOON. LEAVE IT IN A BAG UNDER A ROCK AT THE FOOT OF THE STEPS AND DON’T WAIT.
Morwen gasped in horror and fury. She crushed the note in her hand, and then opened it out to read it again, as if the words weren’t already imprinted in her brain. Her mouth was dry as dust, her heart pounded so hard it made her feel faint. Truro Fair was a few months past, and since then the children had always accompanied her when they went to Ran’s house, now nearing completion and ready for the furniture to be installed.
And nothing had happened there after Truro Fair, nothing that could warrant this piece of filth! The brief kiss had been innocent… but what had happened in a small hotel in London was not so innocent, and the guilt of it all made her shake all over. She stared at the note again, remembering the strange feeling at Ran’s house that day, that someone was waiting and watching… someone wanted money, and had discovered a way of getting it… but she had no money!
Morwen’s head began to throb. She was Killigrew’s lady, but she never concerned herself with money. There was no need. When she wanted something she went to Ben and he gave it to her. How could she possibly get hold of five hundred pounds!
The sounds of the children returning from their morning lessons startled her. How long she had stood there, completely disorientated, she didn’t know. She sped along to Ben’s study, the one place in the house they never entered unless invited, and closed the door behind her. She leaned against it, closing her eyes, more frightened than she had ever been in her life.
Blackmail was a criminal offence and should be reported, but how could she report this without Ben learning of it? In his present mood, he was capable of believing anything, and she was afraid of what a scene might provoke. If it brought on a heart attack and killed him, her guilt would be even more paramount.
She felt trapped. Already in her mind was the insidious thought that somehow the blackmailer must be paid. She had no choice. To save herself and to save Ben. She tried to think logically, but the demand outweighed all other considerations, and it must be met. But how?
She stared around the study as if hunted, her eyes taking in the sight of the long boxes on one of the wall-shelves. Ben kept money in those boxes. How much or how little, Morwen didn’t know. But she could find out… her fingers were all thumbs as she took the boxes down.
‘My God!’ she whispered, minutes later. She was stunned. The boxes were stuffed with money, more than Morwen had ever seen. There must be several thousand pounds here in old bank-notes. Her heart thudded wildly. If she took some from each box, Ben would never miss them, she thought desperately. Before she could think of the consequences, Morwen had begun counting, taking exactly the five hundred pounds demanded and not a note more.
She was shaking even more violently when she left the study. She was a thief, but if Ben’s money was also hers, then she believed her action was justified. It was to save Ben pain, she told herself over and over.
Luncheon with the children seemed endless. They squabbled and she was short-tempered, and very conscious of the money now hidden in her room in a small leather bag.
‘When will we see Uncle Ran, Mama?’ Charlotte pouted. ‘You always send us to bed before he comes home. He spends so much time at his other house or at his new office in Truro or his works, and Papa’s always so grumpy with us—’
‘You’d be grumpy if you looked like an ape!’ Justin sniggered.
‘Justin, that’s a wicked thing to say,’ Morwen snapped at him, silently agreeing with the children that Ran spent a great deal more time away from Killigrew House now than before he had taken her to London. ‘Your father was badly hurt, and his face will heal in time, and he does not look like an ape!’
‘He’s not so nice-looking though,’ Primmy sighed, very much at a romantic stage of adolescence. ‘The girls at my school always thought he was so handsome, and now they look away whenever I mention him.’
‘It’s what a person is inside that’s important, not what he looks like,’ Albert stated. Morwen threw him a grateful glance. Albert was becoming very dear to her. Sam’s second son was so like Matt in his gentle ways… the resemblance struck her again.
‘And what do you say, Walter, since everyone else has joined in this debate?’ Morwen challenged the eldest boy.
Walter shrugged. ‘I dare say Albert’s right for a change,’ he said, to a cat-call of cheers. ‘Justin’s an idiot as usual, and I’m going back to school.’
Walter the diplomat, Morwen thought, as he ducked away from his youngest brother’s swipe. He would do well at Killigrew Clay, given the opportunity…
For once the thought of it didn’t fill her with nostalgia. Not with the memory of the anonymous letter so vivid in her mind, and the sickeningly uneasy certainty about the writer. Whose image had haunted her ever since she thought she saw his face floating like a spectre at Truro Fair? Who would address her after all these years as Morwen Tremayne? Who else but the one person she loathed more than anyone else in the world? She prayed that she was wrong, but knew instinctively that she was not. And yet, in one way, she hoped it would be him. Because through all the turmoil in her mind, Morwen had one trump card to play that would send him out of her life for ever.
January was sticky and mild, with none of the cold snow that plagued up-country England, and the house was stuffy and airless. She informed Mrs Horn that if any callers arrived, she was out riding. The housekeeper would assume that Morwen intended visiting her mother or taking a gallop on the moors. Instead of which, when the mare was saddled, Morwen turned her towards the shore, the bag of money safely fastened inside her cloak.
The sands were virginal at that time of year, the expanse of ocean like a rippling sheet of cold steel. But the soft breeze at sea-level was bracing, and for ten minutes Morwen raced the mare along the sands, feeling the exhilaration of it, and almost able to forget why she had come. If the hidden watcher was frustrated by her apparent inattention to his demands so much the better. She was perfectly sure he was there somewhere among the rocks or caves.
‘Whoa there, Sheba,’ she breathed at last to the mare, reining her to a halt near the sandy steps carved into the cliffs. ‘It’s time for the pretence to end.’
She slid from the mare’s back and took the bag from her cloak, making it obvious. No one was visible. Her hands shook as she placed it in a crevice in the rocks, lo
oked around as if fearfully for a moment and then remounted, racing the mare back the way she had come, up and over the cliffs until the sound of hoof-beats would be lost to anyone below. Then she tethered Sheba to a stump and crept carefully down one of the many well-worn footpaths to the beach below.
A heavily-set man was already bending over the fissure at the foot of the steps, retrieving the leather bag. Morwen moved swiftly from her vantage point behind an outcrop of rock, giving him no chance to get away.
‘Jude Pascoe.’ She spoke his name, and her voice throbbed with all the hatred she had ever felt for Ben’s cousin. He turned with a start, his eyes narrowing as he saw her, his already-florid face flushing a duller red.
‘So you twigged who it was, did you, Morwen Tremayne?’ He leered, recovering himself at once, and stuffing the leather bag inside his jacket.
‘My name is Morwen Killigrew, and has been for the past fifteen years,’ she snapped.
‘Oh, ah. Well, you’re still no more than a miserable bal maiden to me, though you were always a comely wench, I remember.’
‘You remember that, do ’ee?’ The grammatical slip incensed her even more, and so did the fact that Jude Pascoe was grinningly aware of it. ‘Perhaps you remember another bal maiden at Truro Fair and afterwards—’
Jude laughed coarsely now.
‘Am I supposed to recall one wench among so many? But she does come to mind,’ he nodded carelessly. ‘Connie or Celia, or some such name, was it? A pretty wench with bedding eyes and a fine way o’ teasing a man—’
‘She’s dead,’ Morwen said baldly, unable to bear the sudden reminiscence in this lout’s eyes. He said nothing for a minute, and then he spoke more sharply, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
Family Ties Page 13