by Sara Logan
Christina thought ruefully that Alex was telling her something less than the truth. After a short silence she looked at him. "About James," she pressed.
"I don't care to talk about him," said Alex abruptly. "As a subject of conversation, I find him excruciatingly boring—and I bet you do, too."
"B-but…"
"You're no longer interested in him, are you?" he pursued.
His question was thought-provoking, and she considered it for a long moment before she spoke again. "No, I don't think so, Alex. I trusted him and he betrayed me, and I'll never be able to trust him again. I was so hurt and stunned that he would do that to me that I'd never feel safe with him again."
Alex met her earnest gaze and slowly nodded. "I'm sure you were hurt, still do hurt, for that matter. But to love, one must have trust."
"Yes," she agreed, "and I can't bear to be deceived. About anything. There's something so low about someone who would deliberately lie to you."
For a moment Alex was very still and looked as though he were going to say something more on the subject of deceit. Then the moment passed as the waiter arrived to take their order. While Alex dealt with the waiter, Christina looked at him, wondering what he had been going to say or if she had just imagined that slight hesitation. Was there something Alex hadn't told her? Something important? No, she decided, there couldn't be. He finished the ordering and began to discuss the various athletic events they would see the next day.
As they were ending their meal he smiled and motioned toward the door. "Here come our friends," he said. "Ah, they realize we don't have any vacant chairs at our table and are going to sit down over there. Excellent. Now, do you want more coffee, or shall we take a walk? It's not full dark yet."
"Yes, let's do. It sometimes gets chilly after the sun goes down, but it's still nice out now."
Christina followed him from the table, nodding politely to James and Monica as they went past and escaped into the lobby. She had been right; it was still pleasant outside. Dusk had fallen, turning the dark green trees into deep purple shadows and shapes on the mountainside. Following the instructions of the desk clerk, Alex led her down a little graveled path, past the parking lot, around a huge pile of boulders, and out onto the mountainside. There was a small cleared area, with freshly raked gravel and an old wooden bench. They walked first to the edge and looked out over the valley. Lights were springing into being down in the valley and over on the far ridge. The air was cool but not cold and was pleasantly scented with the tang of pine.
"It's so peaceful up here," she murmured, letting him guide her back to the small bench. "This reminds me of when I came up last year with Anne. We drove down to Brown Mountain to see the lights on a beautifully clear night like this one. Doesn't the air smell fresh?"
"It does," agreed Alex, turning slightly on the bench to look at her. "Where was friend James last year? I'm surprised he let you out of his sight."
"Oh, he was delayed and didn't get up here until late Friday night. Business, he said," she explained, and then she wondered if that was really what had delayed him. Suddenly, she didn't care anymore.
Alex's arm lay along the back of the bench, and Christina was suddenly very aware of his nearness. He did exert a very strong magnetism. Even when he was relaxed, one couldn't help but be aware of the power, the strength of the man. Christina looked up at him and felt very small and insignificant.
"What are the lights you mentioned?" he asked.
"Oh, what? Oh, the Brown Mountain lights. It's a smaller mountain a short distance from here. At about dark, on any clear night, you can watch these mysterious lights rising from the crest of the ridge. No one knows what they are or when they started. People have been reporting them and puzzling over them for more than a hundred years. There are several stories about how they began, most of them spooky."
He laughed. "It would be hard to spook a Scot. Our country is full of haunted glens, and every castle worth its salt has at least one ghost in residence." As he spoke he casually put his arm around her shoulders. "Getting chilly out here," he explained, as if he needed an excuse to touch her, and then he went on to ask, "What ghostly story do you know about those lights?"
Christina was so acutely aware of that warm hand and arm around her shoulders that she didn't answer.
"Chris? I say, are you there?"
"Yes—yes, of course. A-about the lights. Oh, one I remember goes like this. A mountain man had a quarrel with his wife, back about a hundred years or more, and he killed her in anger. He took her body up to Brown Mountain, which was then, and is now, uninhabited, and buried it up on the ridge. That very night the lights began. People around the area saw them, puzzled over them, and finally went up thereto investigate."
"And found the poor woman's body," Alex said with relish.
"Right. The man was arrested and hanged for murder. Since then, on clear nights, you can see the lights rise from the ridge." She glanced up to catch an amused expression on his face. "Really, Alex! I'm not making it up. We've often driven over there and watched them."
"Do you think we could see them tonight?"
"We should be able to. It's nice and clear. Why? Do you want to try it?"
"Is it far? I wouldn't want to tire you out."
"No, not far. Come on; we'd better go right away if we want to get near the place."
Alex offered her his hand to help her up from the bench, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world that he should continue holding her hand until they reached the car. She could sense that he was very skeptical and she almost laughed. He would find out she wasn't exaggerating! They drove in silence to the overlook that offered the best view of Brown Mountain. As she had predicted, there were a dozen or more cars drawn up along the side of the road and people were already scattered around the clearing.
"This is Jonas Ridge, named after I have no idea whom. It gives the best view of the mountain and the lights. Come on; there's room for us over there."
Christina led the way to an empty spot near the edge and shivered slightly as the night air struck her even more forcefully than it had near the Lodge. She jumped slightly as Alex, seeing her shiver, put his arm around her shoulders, this time not so casually, and hugged her against his side. The soft wool of his blazer rubbed her cheek, and then she turned, letting herself lean against him as they looked out across the dark valley at the dark smudge of the mountain. For a short time they stood there in silence, acutely aware of the night, the darkness and each other. Other people, who waited with them, whispered softly. Then Christina stiffened.
"There," she murmured, pointing at the tiny speck of light that glimmered on the crest of the mountain. As they watched, it rose slowly, gleaming a soft yellow, drifting slightly with the wind. Then it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Before Alex could do more then mutter his surprise, another one had appeared, and another. Some were yellowish, some bluish, some rosy-hued. They came thick and fast for a short time, as if some phantom were firing off Roman candles, and then gradually the number died down until, finally, only an occasional one drifted up. Then they stopped altogether.
Christina turned, aware of his chin brushing the top of her head, and smiled up at him. "Are you a believer now? I told you I didn't make it up."
Alex surveyed the mountain thoughtfully, noticing that the other people were leaving the clearing and starting up their cars. In moments he and Christina were alone on the ridge. "I believe you," he said slowly. "It was very strange. What, exactly, do they think causes them?"
"They don't know. Some think they're wills-o'-the-wisp, which are like swamp gas or something. In fact, other than a supernatural explanation, that's the only cause they can suggest, since they've ruled out the reflection of town or car lights or things like that. My grandfather, bless his cynical heart, swears that the state hires someone to go over there every clear night and send up Roman candles—but even he doesn't believe that! They are strange, aren't they?"
"Very unexp
ected. As you are," he added. Turning her to face him, he tipped up her chin and, bending his head, lightly kissed her. It was not like the impetuous kiss in the taxi or the hotly passionate one of the night before. On the contrary, it was sweet and tender. Almost involuntarily, she found herself pulling him closer and responding to the comfort of his embrace. "A very pleasant surprise, however," he murmured, and before she could move or protest he kissed her again. This time his lips parted hers, and Christina shivered as she felt ripples of emotion run along her spine. For a long moment they clung together; then he sighed and released her. "You'll freeze out here. Come on; I'll buy you a cup of coffee."
For a moment she thought of explaining that her shiver had had nothing at all to do with the coolness of the evening. She had trembled because of the effect of his mouth on hers. But she decided it would be too difficult to make clear what she actually meant, so she said nothing. By that time he had started toward the car. Turning, he realized she wasn't following him. "Are you coming?" he called. Christina fought down the weakness afflicting her limbs and drew in a deep breath. "Alex," she began, hardly knowing how to explain. "I'm quite sure we don't n-need to… well, practice our roles for this little performance." He came back to where she stood. "Don't we? I thought it might be a good idea to get in a little practice. Besides, I enjoy kissing you." He smiled at the color that surged into her face. "We must convince James, you know."
"I know that, but—"
"And I don't see why we shouldn't enjoy our little drama a bit, do you?"
She did have a very good reason why they shouldn't indulge in this kind of practice, but couldn't bring herself to give it to him. She didn't understand herself the effect his touch was having on her nervous system and thought it would be a lot safer if he kept his distance. And, she realized in bewilderment, she wasn't even sure what these feelings meant. She just knew for certain that, in her present state, Alex Stewart was more dangerous to her peace of mind than James was or ever had been. She decided to give up trying to explain how she felt. Alex would ask questions that she might find impossible to answer. Or, on the other hand, she might find herself telling him things she didn't want him to know. So she mumbled what could be taken for agreement and followed him to the car.
"You're very quiet, Chris," he said a little later, as they sat sipping their coffee.
She looked at him and attempted to smile. "I guess I'm a little tired." She would not admit, even to herself, that she was thinking back to those moments in Alex's arms.
"Well, drink up," he ordered, "and then I suggest we call it an evening."
In a few minutes they went quietly up to their rooms, after Alex had stopped at the desk and collected the canvas bag holding the bottle of Scotch. Christina and Anne had asked for and had been placed in adjoining rooms; so Alex, using Anne's reservation, was in the room next to Christina's, a room connected to hers by a door set in the middle wall. She had noticed, when she unpacked, that the door was locked, with the key on her side of it. Somehow, safely locked or not, it was disturbing to her to know that Alex was so close.
Alex took her room key, unlocked her door, and reached around her to turn on the overhead light. Then he smiled down at her.
"I enjoyed myself very much tonight. Thank you, Chris. I'll see you early in the morning. Give me a call when you're ready and I'll meet you downstairs for breakfast."
Christina agreed and was nearly inside her room and about to shut the door when Alex caught her arm and turned her around. Before Christina could even guess at his intention, she found herself being pulled firmly into his arms and kissed. She again felt that shivery tide of emotion that had drained her resistance and left her limp and shaking earlier in the evening.
Then she discovered what Alex had heard and reacted to: footsteps coming down the wooden corridor, and a distinctive voice. The footsteps stopped abruptly. Christina pulled her mouth away and turned her head to see James standing in the corridor with Monica beside him. He had a look of towering rage on his face. For one long, tense moment no one moved. James stared at Christina furiously, Monica waited behind him, her hazel eyes wide and curious, and Christina shrank back against Alex.
Without even looking at the outraged man watching them, Alex turned Christina gently into her room, whispered, "Score another point for our side," and firmly shut her door. Still without a backward glance, he walked down the corridor to his own room, went in, and closed the door quietly.
Leaning limply against her door, Christina heard James mutter an angry curse and in a moment heard the door of his room slam behind him with a fearful bang. She moved wearily and sank down on the wide double bed and stared at the outer door. The slam told her James had been venting his rage on the door. He was certainly behaving badly, she thought as she got ready for bed. He obviously resented Alex's attentions to her and was ignoring Monica rather shamefully. She wondered what was in James's mind. Did he really expect her to spend the weekend at the games with no companionship at all? Would he be pleased if she trailed behind him like a little lost dog, craving any attention he saw fit to bestow on her? Well, thought Christina, not this girl! She had come to the games to have a good time and she decided again that James MacDonald would not ruin her weekend.
As for Alex, she didn't know quite what to make of him. She had found out very little from her grandfather about him. She knew that, besides being the owner of A. L. Stewart's and a Scotsman, he was in his early thirties. She had also learned that he owned the family castle and estate of Glentorrie, had a mother who grew roses, and was held in high esteem by her grandfather. To that, she thought, sliding into the wide double bed, she could add her own impressions of the man.
He was very sure of himself; he had somehow persuaded her into taking part in a charade that seemed to be growing into an increasingly large mistake, and he had a very peculiar effect on her emotions. It was the latter that most disturbed her. She still did not know why he had suggested this pretense, or why she had agreed to it. But matters would get more difficult and awkward if he continued to insist upon such warm displays of affection.
Christina tentatively touched her lips, still feeling the warmth and passion of that last kiss. He had stirred something within her that had never before been awakened, and it alarmed and confused her. Pulling the covers up to her chin, she told herself that Alex wasn't serious and she couldn't be, either. They would enjoy a little light flirting for James's benefit, and then, corns Monday, Alex would go back to Scotland and that would be that. If Gramps did sell the firm, Christina would not even go to Scotland on a buying trip, so it was unlikely she would ever see him again.
There was something chilling about that thought, and she reminded herself that she wasn't really sure she even liked Alex. She knew so little about him, yet his effect on her was undeniable. Four days ago she had been secure in the knowledge that she loved James and would soon be marrying him. Well, the wedding was off, but was it possible to turn love off as easily? If she were still in love with James—and how could she be anything else in such a short time—why did she enjoy being in Alex's arms as much as she did?
Leaving the question unanswered, Christina drifted off to sleep, hoping tomorrow would bring an answer.
Chapter Five
The heather grew in profusion, but Christina hardly noticed it as she ran wildly across the moor, knowing that it was getting closer and closer and if she did not run faster it would surely catch up with her. What was it, and how could she get away from it? If only she could run faster—but her lungs were aching and her breath came in short, painful gasps. If only she could see what pursued her—but a sudden mist obscured her vision. She looked behind her, stumbling, and the thing after her was ringing something… it frightened her. Oh, what was it?
She opened her eyes and looked around the room in confusion. It was the telephone. She groped for it and mumbled a sleepy, bewildered hello.
"Hello yourself, slugabed," answered a wide-awake, enthusiastic voice.
"Sounds exciting; but save it for breakfast. You're late! I waited as long as I dared and then decided that I'd better wake you."
"Good grief! What time is it?"
"Late. You'd better hurry."
"Give me fifteen minutes."
She hung up and jumped into the shower. She rushed through her morning routine, but before going downstairs she took the time to call home to check on her grandfather. "Bess, this is Chris. Let me speak to Grandpa."
Bess hesitated. "Er… er… he's taking a nap, Miss Chris. I don't think he slept well last night. He was complaining about it at breakfast. Do you want me to wake him?"
"Oh, no, not at all. You think he's all right, don't you?"
"He's fine," said Bess firmly. "Don't you worry about him. You go on and have a good time."
Christina hung up, but she left her room unable to shake off an odd feeling of apprehension about her grandfather.
A short time later she met Alex in the dining room with the hope that James had calmed down during the night and would not arrive in the middle of their meal and create a scene. They ate quickly, the only interruption Alex's comment when his plate arrived.
"What on earth is this? I didn't order it."
Christina grinned at the flustered waitress. "It's O.K.," she said, motioning her away and turning to the astonished Alex. "It's grits, and in the South they're usually served with breakfast whether you order them or not."
"What is grits?"
"A type of hominy, made from corn. It's really a cereal. Go ahead and taste it," she encouraged. "Anybody who can eat haggis shouldn't be squeamish about grits!"
He smiled at that and picked up his fork. "Not bad," he admitted after a moment. "Not a lot of taste to it."