Dawn shuddered again, and he laughed, placing his hand once again on her elbow. ‘Come along, I think our Grant has much better taste than to interrupt us on our tour!’
He led her down the corridor through another locked door—this one surprisingly spacious and tastefully decorated with Victorian furnishings. There was a four-postered, canopied bed, embroidered rugs, velvet chaise-lounges, claw-footed tables and bureaux that showed no sign of dust in the candlelight. ‘This was my grandparents’ room,’ Byron explained, allowing the door to swing closed behind them and setting the candle on the table beside the bed. ‘We still keep it cleaned and dusted, though lord knows why. I expect because so many generations of Boyds were conceived, born, and died here.’
‘Why ... it’s very nice.’ Dawn went over to the bed and lightly touched the popcorn knit counterpane. ‘I don’t know why you want to keep it locked up. It’s a charming example of almost-contemporary castle life.’
‘We have to reserve some right to privacy, don’t we?’
He had stepped close to her while she examined the intricate work in the crisp white bedcover, and now as she looked up to respond to his question she felt his arms slip about her, found his face very close to hers, and there was no mistaking the intent in his eyes. Though her senses rose to meet it gladly, with a trembling of her limbs and a pounding of her heart, she placed one hand against his chest, half in protest, half in question, searching his eyes for an answer she did not really expect to find. ‘Byron...’
‘Hush,’ he whispered, and he was kissing her.
There was no denying the sensations that made her go weak in his arms, no fighting the response which rose from some sensuous core deep within her and would not be quelled until she was pressing him close, grasping at his shoulders, stroking his hair, opening her mouth to his and still yearning for more.
His fingers had unloosed the pins which bound up her hair, and now it tumbled over her shoulders and down her back, wild in its freedom, yielding to his touch as every other part of her was eager to do. Reverently, Byron lifted a strand, his fingers maddeningly light against the silk which covered her breast, and lifted it to his lips. ‘Beautiful hair,’ he murmured huskily, kissing it. ‘Bedroom hair. Always wear it this way for me, my maddening, irresistible little sylph ... My fairy princess ... You’ve caught me in your spell and I’ll never be free of you ... never...’
His lips came down on hers again, and she, too, was caught in the spell. The candlelight and the majestic room whirled and receded around her, and it was with no resistance or surprise that she felt herself being lowered gently to the bed.
Then his face was above hers, his lips occasionally sweeping to brush her eyelid or her cheeks or the tip of her nose, his fingers patiently and swiftly working the buttons of her blouse. Her breath was coming with difficulty, her throat was clogged with the pounding of her heart, and every point of her was on fire, but she grasped his hand weakly. ‘No, Byron...’ she whispered. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going to make love to you,’ he answered her softly, and kissed her lips lightly. ‘For this one night, Dawn, you’re going to learn to trust enough to give yourself completely...’
‘Please, don’t—’
The blouse was undone, and he pushed it back gently from her shoulders, gazing for a moment in silent adoration at her in the candlelight. ‘Darling,’ he whispered, ‘you’re beautiful.’ He bent down to kiss one breast lightly, and she shivered with the sensation and the pain of mounting desire which pulled against her own instincts for self-preservation, too long ingrained to be subdued now. Then he placed his hand beneath her left breast, firm against the rapid, intense vibrations of her heart, and insisted, ‘Tell me the truth, Dawn. Tell me you don’t want me.’
She almost sobbed. Every fibre of her being wanted him, every cell of her brain, every throbbing pulse, every half-dreamed memory and unplanned flight of imagination combined to scream her desire for him ... But she wanted him for ever, not just one night.
Forcefully, she gathered the two parts of her shirt together, pushed away from him, and sat up. ‘No,’ she managed tightly. And again, ‘No!’
She felt the bed shift with his weight, and without turning knew that he sat on the other side, his back to her. There was an endless, intense silence, broken only by the sounds of her own staccato breathing, filled with the pain of broken promises and what-might-have-been, the ache of desire which would never know its ultimate ... Then Byron spoke to the wall opposite.
‘What,’ he said deeply, fiercely, ‘do you want from a man, Dawn?’
Somehow she found her voice. ‘Foreverness,’ she managed, in only a half-whisper. ‘Security, and ... foreverness.’
He stood abruptly. ‘Not much!’
He stalked to her side of the bed and bent to pick up the candle. Its light reflected a face that was cold and angry and utterly remote. It was the face of a man who feels cheated because he is unprepared to pay the price.
Dawn forced strength into her legs and followed him across the room, her fingers woodenly and clumsily buttoning the blouse which revealed her shame. And as the sturdy wooden door closed behind them she was aware of a new and awful sadness. When one night was all that was offered, perhaps it was better, in the end, than nothing at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The relationship was back to an impersonal, business-as-usual one between Dawn and Byron. Once made and so humiliatingly rejected, to attempt to move it on to a different level would not be repeated. Dawn kept assuring herself she had done the right thing, but inside her sense of self-doubt was growing. To have submitted to him on those terms would have proved him right—that she was the type of girl capable of seeking and taking romance in the form of a quick, casual affair in a faraway land, expecting and offering nothing more. It was respect for her own self-image which would never allow her to believe that about herself. But in another way, she had already proven Byron right: She had led him on, her instincts had betrayed her—he must have known from the moment that door closed behind them how she felt. And once again, at the last moment, she had backed away, withholding promises. She could understand his fury, and disgust with her, and was grateful to him for not allowing it to show. That was his own self-respect.
The castle was a flurry of activity for the festival to be held at the end of the week. Workmen began at the break of day, building tables and digging roasting pits in the courtyard. A score of girls from the village were hired to clean the castle from top to bottom, and every day from dawn to dusk each corner was filled with the delicious smells of baking bread and a myriad delightful sweets.
Dawn had a sudden stab of poignant longing for what the castle must be like at Christmas; the towering fir tree, the ancient yule log, the warm, spicy smells, all the villagers gathering to pass the wassail bowl and sing their traditional songs. She knew that when the seasons turned and Park Avenue was bright with tinsel and lights and screaming traffic, part of her would be here, beside the huge roaring fire, listening to the laughter and the chattering of strange tongues, and looking for Byron’s face.
She tried to pitch in and help Maggie as much as she could, in return for her hospitality. The only remaining pictures she planned to take were of the festival,, and of the construction site if the murky sky ever cleared enough to allow the kind of shot she had in mind, and so, except for the typing of her notes, her work was all but completed. And she did enjoy working with the other girls in the huge, stone-floored kitchen, putting her hands into dough and getting, flour smeared on her face and feeling she really belonged.
‘This couldn’t have been more perfectly timed,’ confided Maggie one afternoon as they worked side by side at the cutting board, chopping dried fruit. ‘Hilary is leaving for the mainland the day after the festival, and Byron has to make a decision before then. I’m hoping that, on a night traditional for its good will and high spirits, he might be moved at the last minute to change his mind.’
Dawn enquir
ed, ‘Why does he have to make a decision before she leaves?’
‘Thomas Mann has a contract that’s re-negotiable every year—and it expires on Thursday night. I know it’s rather unusual to have a partnership under those terms, but over the years it’s become more of a tradition than anything else, the renewal. This year I don’t think Byron is planning to renew.’
Dawn ventured, ‘Vernon thinks it would be a mistake—from a business standpoint.’
‘Oh, it would,’ agreed Maggie. ‘It would mean a tremendous financial loss, not to mention the physical burden it would place on Byron. He really can’t handle everything by himself. It’s too much for any one man.’
Dawn could not help but wonder at the type of man who would make such a sacrifice for the sake of principle.
‘Oh, dear!’ Maggie looked up suddenly. ‘I almost forgot. The workmen needed Byron to show them where to put the torch stands before they can go any further. Would you mind finding him, dear, and telling him? I believe he might still be in his office with Vernon.’
‘Sure thing.’ Dawn wiped her hands on a towel and steeled herself for the first face-to-face encounter she had had with Byron since that rainy night in the tower room.
The door to his office was open, so she did not have to make the decision as to whether to interrupt and risk his wrath. As she peeped cautiously inside, she saw him leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk, strumming the guitar lightly. Vernon was in a chair beside the desk, half facing the door, and busy with a pocket calculator, but he saw her first. ‘Oh, Dawn.’ He greeted her with a smile. ‘You wanted to see Byron? Don’t mind me; we’ve finished. Come on in.’
She stepped inside, and Byron placed the guitar beside the desk, swinging his feet down, leaning forward in the chair and looking at her. ‘Maggie said—’ She began, and almost forgot her message. Something about torches. ‘Maggie said the workmen need you to tell them where to put the torch holders. They can’t go any further until you do.’
‘Oh, what a bore!’ He leaned back in the chair and half-closed his eyes. ‘Vernon, you go. You remember where they were last year, and besides, I’m expecting Hilary at any moment.’
Hilary. That was a shock. Dawn said, a little stiffly, ‘Well, if you’re expecting someone I won’t keep you...’
‘Was there something else?’ He lifted an eyebrow curiously.
‘No.’ She turned. ‘Nothing else.’
Vernon said, ‘Nice seeing you again, Dawn,’ as he passed, and she started to make her own escape just as she heard Byron’s voice again.
‘Hilary is coming over to pick up some papers ... the up-to-date accounts, the final figures her father will need to wind up his part of the partnership.’
She did not know why he should bother explaining to her, but she half-turned, and managed vaguely, ‘Oh.’ Then, ‘So you’ve definitely made up your mind.’
He eyed her frankly. ‘You don’t approve, do you?’
On the verge of answering, she retreated. ‘It’s really none of my business,’ she began.
‘There are a great many things in this castle which are none of your business,’ he returned caustically, ‘but you manage to have an opinion on them nonetheless. So let me hear it.’
Stung, she replied, ‘As a matter of fact, I do think you’re acting rather childish.’
He lifted a cool eyebrow. ‘Childish, is it?’
‘Yes,’ she continued imperviously, ‘childish. I’ve never believed in allowing—emotions to get in the way of business, and I think you’re too smart to let something like this cloud your judgment. In the first place, your personal life should be entirely separate from your business life. And in the second, I think what you’re really doing is trying to punish Hilary for what she did to you. Of course the only two people you’re really hurting are the innocent parties—yourself, and Thomas Mann. That,’ she finished, proud of her courage, ‘is childish.’
He drawled, ‘I ask for an opinion, and I get a lecture. Thank you, Miss Morrison.’ And suddenly his eyes strayed over her shoulder. ‘Good afternoon.’ Dawn turned to meet Hilary, stunning in a green wool sheath dress with an amber chiffon scarf fastened at her throat with a topaz pin. The colours flattered her smooth red hair and her green catlike eyes, and she moved past Dawn with a light laugh and a look which made her feel as though she was one of the village girls hired to do the house. ‘What have they done, my dear,’ she said, her eyes raking her up and down in amusement, ‘hired you out as kitchen help?’
Dawn was aware of the apron she had forgotten to remove over her flour-dusted jeans, and she blushed. Then Byron explained, an undertone of amusement in his voice, ‘You have a streak of flour across your nose,’ and the flush became scarlet.
She said, with what she hoped was a modicum of dignity, ‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go—wash my face,’ and fled the room wretchedly.
She wondered if Hilary had been standing there long enough to hear Dawn’s own hot defence of her. That would make her humiliation complete.
She went back miserably to help Maggie in the kitchen, and they watched the work in the courtyard from the large window, open against the heat from the ovens. It was another grey, misty day, the mountains and even the tops of trees in the distance were obscured by clouds, and Dawn wondered, ‘What happens if it rains?’
‘Oh,’ Maggie replied cheerfully, ‘that won’t dampen anyone’s spirits one bit. We’ll have canopies rigged to be raised at a moment’s notice, and of course there’s plenty of room in the castle for those who are afraid they’ll melt! Actually, we usually do have a shower or two every festival; it doesn’t spoil a thing. They say it’s very romantic, under the canopies, with the rain beating down.’ Her glance carried a suggestion of a message, but it was quickly gone as she turned to place a tray of pastries in the oven.
‘You know,’ she continued, scooping out a large lump of dough on to the flour-covered board and beginning to knead it vigorously, ‘that the festival had its origins in a pagan love ritual.’
Dawn shook her head and regarded her with interest.
‘Oh, sure. It’s part of the vernal equinox—of course, you’ll notice it’s held later now, purely for climactical reasons, I suspect!—and the vernal equinox, or first day of spring, is traditionally associated with fertility, both of the land and the human race. I don’t want to scare you off by suggesting orgies on the lawn, or anything of the sort, but romance is definitely in the air. They say the birth rate goes up twenty per cent nine months to the day after the Spring Festival...’ She chuckled. ‘I don’t know. I do know that a girl is more likely to be proposed to that night than any other of the year—and many’s the happy life that began under a canopy on the lawn of Falkone’s Acres. Which reminds me.’ She looked up, ‘we’ll have to see what we can do about getting you a costume.’
‘Costume?’ parroted Dawn, her mind already racing ahead with some dread to a night filled with romance and she, alone, on the outside looking in.
‘Oh, yes, indeed. We all dress in costumes. Heaven knows how it got started, because no one remembers ever seeing anything like them ever worn on the island ... I suspect Druid origins, although that’s pretty far-fetched. They’re a lot like togas, for men and women, but so colourful and romantic ... well, you’ll just have to wait and see. We’ll find something really spectacular for you. With your figure and long hair you’ll look like something that stepped right out of the pages of a fairy book.’
Through the kitchen window, Dawn watched Hilary cross the yard towards the garage, a manilla portfolio under her arm. Well, thought Dawn in some surprise, that didn’t take long! She looked vainly for some sign of Byron, and started guiltily at the sound of his voice behind her.
‘Don’t bother about Dawn’s costume, Mags,’ he said, and then turned to her. ‘If you think you can tear yourself away from here for a minute,’ he said crisply, ‘I’d like to talk to you.’
With an awful tightening in her chest and a sinking
in the pit of her stomach, Dawn washed her hands and dried them, remembering to take off the apron and to check her face for smudges in the reflection of the window. He was going to ask her to leave, now, today. She had finally gone too far, and he was going to ask her to leave.
She followed him dully out of the kitchen and into the empty corridor. He said abruptly, ‘You’ve about finished with your work, haven’t you?’
It was terrible, this physical hold he had on her. The way merely being in his presence could set her stomach to churning and her hands to trembling; his dark eyes, even when they were cold, as they were now, compelling her to come closer, making her want to touch. Would she never forget the way his arms felt around her, his warm breath on her neck, the powerful swell and tightening of his muscles ... would she always long for it to be that way again?
She answered, nervously, ‘Yes ... almost. There’s still the festival, which I think is very important ... I would really like to stay for the festival.’ But she would not beg.
He looked surprised. ‘And why shouldn’t you? You’re not scheduled to leave until Sunday, are you?’
‘No,’ she answered, confused. ‘But just now, when you told Maggie not to bother ... I thought you might want me to leave sooner.’
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