She started to rise, but then stopped in mid-motion at the sound of voices and motion—unaccountably very close, and getting closer, having apparently materialised out of nowhere.
‘It was very foolish of you, Hilary, to have followed me here.’ It was Byron’s voice, clipped, authoritative; he was obviously keeping his temper under control with great difficulty. ‘I thought I made it quite clear this evening that we have nothing to discuss.’
Wildly, Dawn looked about her. Her position was well shielded by the hedges, but it offered the disadvantage of limiting her range of vision as well, so that the couple might stumble upon her at any moment without warning, and there was no place to hide. How had they got here so quickly? Where had they come from? Then she remembered viewing from one of the upstairs windows a small building which might have been a garage, towards the back, and naturally Byron would take the short cut through the garden to reach the nearest entrance. The bulk of the castle itself would have hidden the sounds from her until they were almost upon her. She shrank down and tried to make herself invisible. Of all the unimagined horrors, to be discovered by the two of them, sitting here in her nightgown—eavesdropping!
‘And I thought I made it quite clear that I wouldn’t let you out of my sight tonight until we got this thing straightened out!’ A woman’s voice now, perhaps not quite as angry, but every bit as determined. Her tone was well-bred and sophisticated, despite the rapid rush of words, faintly hinting of the refinement of an English finishing school. Dawn could almost form a mental picture of her, and then swiftly reprimanded herself for it. But she could not help listening.
‘Since when,’ he asked dryly, ‘did you become a woman of your word?’
A pause, and then the low drawl, ‘I think I just remembered what I dislike most about you, darling.’
‘Good. Then perhaps you also remember why I find it necessary to sever all aspects of our relationship—permanently.’
‘You’re overbearing, domineering, selfish and completely impossible to love. But you’re a damn good businessman and I can’t stand by and watch you—’
‘If it pains you so, I suggest you don’t watch. Allow your father to sign over his interest to me and we can all wash our hands of one another for good.’
‘You expect people to be wind-up toys!’ Hilary cried. ‘You’re so used to being lord and master—so full of nonsensical tradition about being ruler of the island—you think you can control people’s emotions. You tried to make me into something I wasn’t, and when it didn’t work you expected—’
‘All I ever expected from you,’ Byron returned coldly, ‘was fidelity.’
‘That,’ she retaliated sharply, ‘was too much. If you consider the circumstances...’
He laughed bitterly. ‘Ah, yes, the circumstances. It’s no use, Hilary. You can stand here and justify and rationalise and offer excuses until we’re both old and grey and none of them will change what has happened. I only hope that poor old Marcus never realises what a bad bargain he’s got, and that the next time you decide to go to bed with another man, you’ll at least have the courtesy not to brag to your fiancé about it!’
There was the sharp report of flesh against flesh, cracking through the stillness like a shot. Dawn winced and jumped, and then, as the echoes died away, she could hear the sounds of breathing so close it seemed they were directly above her, on the other side of the hedge. He said in a low voice. ‘I think that appropriately concludes a very inappropriate conversation. Goodnight, Hilary.’
In a moment there was the sound of light, rapid, retreating footsteps, and then silence. Dawn waited in frozen stillness, hardly daring to breathe, until she heard a second pair of footsteps on the path beside her, moving past her, abruptly disappearing as though Byron had stepped on to the grass as the shortest route to the house.
With a sigh of relief, she rose and moved out of her hiding place—directly into his path.
He towered over her, his eyes two dark, glittering slits, the moonlight just bright enough to show the dark splash of colour across one side of his face which her hand had left, the sound of his breathing, over-loud and a little uneven, reaching her easily across the distance of a few feet which separated them. At some point during the evening he had removed his tie and unbuttoned his collar, and she could see the little beads of perspiration gleaming on the tuft of dark hair at his throat; every muscle in his body seemed to be coiled with tension, ready to spring.
‘So,’ he said, very softly, ‘the fairy-spy is at it again.’
She tried not to shrink back, and defended hotly, ‘If you would only let me explain ... I came down here to take some pictures, and by the time I heard your voices you were on me ... I couldn’t very well step out from the hedges without it looking as though—as though—’
‘As though you were spying,’ he supplied with deceptive mildness. ‘Which is, of course, exactly what you were doing.’
‘I was not! I thought the garden was empty! I came to take pictures—’
He looked around him, hands outspread. ‘Without a camera?’
Triumphantly, she marched back to the bench and produced the evidence.
Still, only a light, knowing smile altered his features as he moved around her to lounge casually on the bench. ‘Well, in lieu of photographs, did you learn anything interesting?’
‘I told you—’
Byron waved a hand negligently. ‘Never mind what you told me. The point is...’ His voice dropped in tone, the glow in his eyes was as gentle as the moonlight as they swept over her. ‘Here we are alone in a moonlit garden, and you’ve so very thoughtfully dressed the part ... And I have decided to forgive your eavesdropping and your impertinence. It’s a night for romance, Dawn.’
She was suddenly acutely aware of the night breeze billowing the filmy nightgown around her, and the way his bright eyes did not miss a detail. Every sense was alerted for what might happen next while every instinct warned her not to stay to find out. She said stiffly, ‘I’m going inside.’
She turned to go and was stopped by his hand, lightly capturing one long strand of her silvery hair. ‘Your hair,’ he said softly, ‘is magnificent.’ She turned, and was surprised to see that the light in his eyes had deepened to something almost like amazement as he examined the strand of hair in the moonlight, his fingers turning and separating it, opening it to his delicate, almost worshipful scrutiny. His voice was low and husky, as though he spoke secret thoughts out loud, and this time there could be no doubt about the sincerity of his compliment. ‘One of nature’s wonders. Like wheat and flax growing together in the sun, blended by the wind ... You should always wear it that way.’
Dawn smiled uncertainly, and then his other hand came forward, threading through her hair at the temples, lifting it and watching it fall like a fluttering veil over her shoulders. His eyes were so dark, so mesmerising with that strange, intent light in their depths, that Dawn hardly felt the pressure that tilted her head back even as it drew her face closer to his. Only the sudden wild beating of her heart told her what was happening as he bent his head and she felt once again the touch of his lips upon hers.
As before, his kiss began with a promise, a delicate foretelling of pleasures to come. And it was that promise that captured Dawn, exposing her hidden vulnerabilities and brushing across the chords of passion with deceptive gentleness, lulling her into the security that the danger could be controlled, telling her the pleasure was worth the risk. But this time the kiss deepened with swift intent before she knew what was happening, before she had a chance to guard her emotions or her instincts against the unexpected response Byron was evoking. His arms closed around her with crushing strength, gathering her soft form into his hard one, his lips parted hers in deepening exploration and she melted against him, helpless to stop him or to resist, helpless to do anything but let the flare of electrified senses rule her head.
‘Dawn,’ he murmured against her mouth. ‘Sweet Dawn ... fairy angel ...’ Strong broad
hands explored the length of her back, sweeping beneath her hair and threading through it, cupping and gathering and letting it fall again, while his lips dropped light electric kisses over her face and her neck. His breath seared her everywhere it touched, starting little flames that shivered throughout her until her own breathing was sporadic and the pounding of her heart shook her entire body. His hand drifted downwards to explore the curve of her waist through material so thin it might as well have been non-existent, then moved upwards again, ever upwards, until she felt the pressure of his palm cupping her breast.
She did not understand the wild and mind-stripping response that exploded within her, the tight yearning that built and weakened her, numbing her to everything except the aching need to draw him closer. She seemed to stop breathing altogether and she could no longer feel the painful beating of her heart. She could feel nothing but the presence of Byron, his hands upon her, and the need for him...
He whispered huskily, ‘Dawn, love ... Let’s go inside—together.’
And then she remembered. Reason returned in a sudden cold sweep as she remembered angry voices, the fury in his eyes and the tension in his muscles when he discovered her. Hilary. He had come from Hilary to her. He was using her, as a release for built-up anger or as a balm to his ego after a fight with his fiancée ... He had manipulated her with his expert sensuality and made her forget the promise she had made to herself, made her forget her purpose and her position here ... He was using her for his own needs and had no thought of her own.
She pushed him away with all the force in her rubbery muscles. ‘No!’ It was meant to sound angry and determined, it came out as something hardly above a weak whisper. She turned away quickly and crossed her arms against the sudden chilling absence of him. She was shaking, but she determined not to let him see. She lifted her small chin defiantly and stared out over the lake which suddenly seemed cold and uninviting, like a sheet of dark glass. The air was chill, and his lingering warmth clung to her like a ghost, only making her shiver more.
She felt him, tense and silent, beside her. If he even breathed she could not hear it over her desperate struggle to regulate her own breathing and to subdue the thundering of her heart. The moments stretched out endlessly, and he did not move. She wanted to scream at him to leave her alone, but she knew she did not have the strength in her legs to get up and walk away from him.
More time passed, and Byron simply sat there, saying nothing, not moving. She could feel his anger as though it were a physical thing, quiet and low and eminently dangerous. At last she could stand it no longer. She made herself stand. She turned to go.
His voice was unexpectedly quiet behind her. ‘How old are you, Dawn?’
She responded automatically, turning in some surprise, ‘Twenty-five.’ The steadiness of her voice amazed her. She was still shaking inside.
He rose, but made no move to approach her. His face was shadowed and his voice unreadable. ‘I’m thirty-four, and I ask you to take the advice of someone older and wiser. Don’t run around half-dressed in misty gardens looking to strike a romantic pose. These games men and women play—too often we find we no longer have control over how they will end.’
Dawn stood there a moment longer, speechless and uncertain. Then she caught up her skirts and went quickly back towards the castle. At that moment she did not know who she trusted less— Byron Boyd, or herself.
In the draughty foyer she stood for a moment, letting the stillness cool her cheeks and penetrate her tangled emotions. She did not know whether she should be insulted or angry, flattered or afraid. In fact, she did not know anything at all.
At last, hearing a far-away clock chime midnight, she turned towards the staircase she and Byron had used that afternoon. Something told her strongly it was too late for playing it safe tonight.
CHAPTER FOUR
Maggie had told her that breakfast was served buffet-style in the family dining room from seven until nine. She made only one wrong turn on her way down, but quickly discovered her mistake and retraced her steps by following the scents of methane chafing dishes and fresh coffee.
There was a young man there before her, blond, small of frame, and perhaps in his late twenties. He was serving himself from the sideboard of covered dishes, and when Dawn came in he looked up with a pleasant smile. ‘Hello. You must be the young lady from the magazine.’ He set aside his plate and extended his hand. ‘I’m Vernon Marshall.’
She took his hand and returned his smile. ‘Dawn Morrison.’
‘Maggie has gone into town shopping, and she said I was to keep you company until Byron got back. The coffee is especially in your honour. Shall I pour you some?’
‘Yes, please.’ She accepted the cup and added, ‘I imagine there’s a great deal of traffic back and forth to Oban. Do you use the ferry, or a private boat?’
He laughed a little, shaking his head. ‘Neither. The island is really quite self-sufficient. There’s a very adequate little village of shops and businesses, and it’s considered something of a slap in the face to the island’s reputation for a native to go to the mainland for anything other than the sheerest necessary business.’
‘I only arrived yesterday,’ she explained. 'I know very little about the island.’ She took her coffee cup and started for the table.
‘What,’ he protested, ‘aren’t you going to eat anything?’
‘I’m not much for breakfast,’ she admitted.
‘Oh, but you’ll be starving before midday if you don’t. There’s something about the air here that really works on a fellow’s appetite. Come, there’s bacon and kidneys and eggs—or chops if you prefer. No? Then you must at least try one of these honey-cakes. They’re the main reason I came to the island four years ago and have had no desire to leave since.’
She let him place not one, but two, of the large, puffy, deliciously fragrant rolls on a plate for her, along with a generous scoop of creamy white butter. ‘You’re not a native, then?’
He shook his head, grinning, as he gestured her to precede him to the table. ‘Can’t you tell? London. I worked for Byron’s solicitors there until I heard he needed someone to manage his clerical affairs at the plant. Naturally, I jumped at the chance.’
Dawn sat down and bit into the soft golden crust of the roll and its exotic sweetness melted in her mouth. ‘Umm,’ she murmured, ‘this is delicious!’
‘Aren’t they just? The recipe is an island secret. I told Byron if he manufactured those instead of whisky he would double his profits. He didn’t think it was very funny.’
Dawn could imagine that. She had not discovered a sense of humour to be one of Byron’s most striking attributes.
‘This,’ she told him beginning on the second roll, ‘will be a definite selling point to my readers. It’s worth the fare just to taste one!’
He grinned in approval, as though she had just been accepted into some exclusive club. ‘I expect this entire venture will be a big boost for business all over the island. I wouldn’t be surprised if the gross income didn’t double overnight—and I think sometimes that’s the only reason Byron has gone along with the idea.’
Dawn was surprised. ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘Well, naturally, he feels responsible for the residents here. Everyone, in one way or another, owes their existence to Falkone’s Distillery. When times are bad, he sees them through. When times are good, he shares the profits—rather like they did in the old days, when everyone on the island would take shelter behind the castle walls during an invasion.’
‘I see,’ she murmured, and sipped her coffee. Philanthropy was another attribute she would not have credited Byron with.
‘I really think Falkone’s Acres has a lot to offer as a holiday spot,’ Vernon continued enthusiastically. ‘Where else could you find so many different things in such a small area?’ In a motion, he moved his chair closer to hers and began tracing an outline of the island on the tablecloth with his finger. She bent her head close
to his to follow the pattern of a rough triangular crease in the linen. ‘Of course, we’re surrounded by a core of mountains, some of them climbable, and there are even a few brave enough to attempt some rough Nordic skiing in season. And at the base are those gorgeous lochs and streams practically crawling with fish. Here and there ...’ He made X’s to the north and west. ‘Are primeval forests which are a botanist’s heaven, and of course, here, the castle with all its history and romance. And less than a mile away is the village, with a grocery and a chemist’s and a cleaners—really all the conveniences of modern life. And it has a certain charm of its own, you know, with the cobbled streets and brightly painted shop fronts. There are definitely possibilities there for souvenir shops and maybe a guest house or two of its own.’
‘I’ll bet you have to fight Byron on that one,’ she said, and he grinned.
‘Tooth and nail,’ he answered, and they laughed together softly as though over some shared secret.
‘Well, I see the two of you are enjoying a nice cosy chat. Perhaps I shouldn’t interrupt.’
Byron had entered the room, and his eyes passed from one to the other of them with a dark glance which made Dawn move away self-consciously. He made her feel like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, and she resented it.
‘Hello, Byron,’ said Vernon cheerfully. ‘I was just telling Dawn a little about the island.’
Byron went over to the sideboard and poured himself a cup of tea. ‘Then perhaps you’ve found the perfect guide, Dawn,’ he said, turning to view them over the rim of his cup. ‘I’m sure touring the island must be high on your list of priorities ... especially if it’s in the company of a knowledgeable and—amiable companion.’
Falkone's Promise Page 5