“My name is Annie van der Merwe.” The words came out in a stammered, schoolgirl rush.
Ebony sidled closer and he caught hold of her reins, holding the nervous animal still. His smile deepened further as he gazed down at my upturned face. “How delightful to meet you, Miss van der Merwe. I expect you will explain in due course what you are doing on my land, and even, perhaps, why you are on one of my new—and extremely expensive—horses?”
At that moment, Nicca came storming along the footpath astride a large stallion. His face was like thunder. “Annie! My God, are you mad? You little idiot!” He reined in and, momentarily forgetting to be annoyed at me, stared at my companion in astonishment. “Uther? I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow at the earliest.”
“And yet, you behold me now, brother dear. I have just been making Miss van der Merwe’s acquaintance.” Uther turned the delicious witchery of his smile back to me.
In contrast, the mention of my name brought the frown back to Nicca’s face. “I thought I made myself very clear,” he said with a decidedly dangerous note in his voice, “when I told you not to ride this horse?”
“That wasn’t what you said,” I replied, my own temper rising. “You said I was not to saddle her. And you will observe that I have not done so.”
“Don’t push me, you little hornet!” he warned furiously. “You knew what I meant and yet you deliberately flouted me—”
“Far be it from me to interrupt this exchange of pleasantries.” Uther’s voice contained a degree of unholy amusement. “But unless either of you has any objection, I would quite like to make my way to my new home? I can’t, however, because the two of you are blocking the path, you see.”
I wheeled Ebony around, and obedient now to my touch, the exhausted mare walked calmly back along the path. The Jago brothers brought their horses into step behind me. Obviously believing I was out of earshot, I heard Uther say quietly, “Say what you will, brother dear, you must admit she can ride.”
“You might not have been so tolerant had your welcome been clouded by this little stunt ending with her and an expensive horse crashing onto the rocks below these cliffs.”
“But it didn’t. So instead, can we agree that our horse thief looks bloody marvellous from this angle and reverently admire her rear view for the remainder of the ride? But tell me, brother dear, what is the story surrounding the delectable Miss van der Merwe?”
“Finty befriended her,” Nicca replied tersely. “She’s a South African, staying in Port Isaac with her brother for the summer. That’s about all I know of her, really.”
“Indeed?” The word was stretched with meaning. “And yet I cannot believe those glorious eyes, that edible mouth, those endless legs and those breasts—I predict the onset of some fairly disturbing dreams featuring those beautiful breasts—could have escaped any man’s attention, especially that of such a notable connoisseur as yourself.” The implication in the words intrigued me. I couldn’t imagine Nicca letting his guard down long enough to allow himself to be an admirer of feminine beauty. I decided Uther was being sarcastic.
“She is a bloody nuisance.” Nicca said shortly.
“But not, I take it, a family member?”
“Not at all. She is no relation of ours. Why do you ask?”
“Just an odd fancy I had. It would make things awkward if she was.”
“Things?” Nicca’s voice was unyielding.
“Oh, don’t look at me in that disapproving way, brother dear.” I noticed that there seemed to be a permanent edge of laughter in Uther’s voice. “I just thought it might behove me, as the new earl, to get to know the locals—even the summer season visitors—a little better, that’s all. As you know, I can be very friendly when I put my mind to it.”
We left behind tawny scrub and golden gorse. Hooves crunched on gravel as we rode into the dark, apple-scented tunnel of the drive. Athal House awaited us, pale, silent and eternally sad. I had a fanciful notion that demons danced behind the dark windows, then Uther turned to me and I saw an echo of my own first reaction to the house in his face. Our eyes met and held. Gold on gold. Sparkling pins and needles of anticipation fizzed through my veins. In that brief exchange, a lifetime of emotion passed between us. Mingling with sweet sunlit desire and the certainty that I would give this man kisses without number was a rich, mellow sorrow. Because my life had just changed forever.
Chapter Four
Rudi, accustomed to my whirlwind entrances, looked up in surprise as I walked slowly through the door. Taking a chair at one side of the fireplace, I sat gazing into the flames. “Annie? Has something happened? Is everything all right?”
I did not answer immediately. When I did, my voice held a new, perplexed note. “I met the new earl today,” I told him.
“He has arrived earlier than expected, then,” Rudi said as he tidied away his brushes and paints. He threw an occasional glance at my face, but remained silent, waiting for me to speak again.
I drew a deep, steadying breath. “He is Uther.”
A palette clattered to the floor and he bent to retrieve it. “Our Uther? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely certain. Everything about him is what we have seen in our imaginations for all these years. It is even his name. Rudi. He is called Uther.” I jumped up and went into our diminutive kitchen. I wasn’t much of a cook, but I had attempted to make a boeuf bourginon a few days earlier, and there was some red wine left. I sloshed it into two glasses and brought it back into the parlour. I dashed mine off quickly. It was utterly disgusting, but it drove some of the chill from my veins. “I have never done you violence before today, broer, but if you say ‘coincidence’ to me, I will punch you, I swear I will.”
He laughed. “But—liewe God, Annie!—what does this mean?”
“It means I’m mad. But at least I am not alone. I’m taking you with me.”
We sat in silence by the fire for some time before Rudi said, “There is one thing I don’t understand.”
“Only one?” I asked, quirking a brow at him.
“One that stands out above the others,” he conceded. “How old is he, Annie?”
I shrugged. “Older than Nicca obviously, since Uther is the one who has inherited the title. Maybe twenty-eight or -nine. Thirty at most. Why do you ask?”
“So that makes him seven, maybe eight, years older than us, yes? But I have been drawing him ever since I can remember, and we have both always known his name.” His brow was furrowed with concentration. I nodded, not sure in which direction his thoughts were leading him. “But, Annie, the Uther we saw has always been a man.”
I felt my jaw drop. “Yet, when we first pictured him, he would have been a child himself!” I finished the thought for him. Reaching out a hand, I took his untouched wine glass from him and drained that one, as well.
“But I suppose the fact that we know of him—and the castle, the house and the fire—all of it, is so bizarre that none of it makes any sense. There is nothing to be gained from worrying about a puzzle to which we may never find a solution,” Rudi said with a calm acceptance that amazed me. “What sort of man is he? Did you like him, Annie?”
I felt an unaccustomed blush stain my cheeks. It would be pointless to try to hide my feelings from Rudi, who knew me as well as I knew myself. “Yes,” I whispered. It was such a little, ineffective word for what I had felt when I first saw Uther Jago. With perfect clarity, I could pinpoint the exact moment it happened. When our eyes met as we gazed with exultant pride at Tenebris—that was the instant it hit me like a physical blow. I had never before and would never again want anything with the aching intensity that I wanted Uther Jago.
I knew I would have the dream that night. It was a nightmare I’d experienced since childhood, but it had grown in ferocity since our arrival in England. I was floating, spinning and falling in an eternal darkness. No sun, moon or stars invaded the gloom, yet still I sought some speck of light in that ray-less nothing. Because I wasn’t alone. But what it was that joined me in tha
t gruesome silence I never knew. It was a fearful, fiery presence, blacker than a demon’s heart and sweeter than the taste of paradise. At times it became a huge winged beast, a bird of prey or fallen angel. And it wanted me and craved something from me. Something I dared not give. But I was torn. I wanted to give myself to the darkness and allow it to cloak and devour me. The presence was bigger now, ever closer and more menacing. It called to me. A noiseless, haunting song of sorrow and obligation. In my sleep, I twisted and turned and cried out in my attempts to escape the relentless persuasion of its voice.
I woke gasping for breath as another, more mundane noise caught my ears. This was the sound of running water, and I rose, throwing a shawl over my nightdress. I did not have far to look for its source. On the narrow landing, a steady stream of water poured through the ceiling and onto the wooden floorboards. Muttering my annoyance, I dashed down to the kitchen to fetch a bucket, but by the time I had returned, a chunk of plaster had come away from the roof, leaving exposed beams and a glimpse of rain-dreary predawn sky.
Midmorning found Rudi and me desperately trying to keep our belongings dry as the rain relentlessly poured in through the roof, and sections of ceiling continued to fall. It was into this scene that Uther strolled, having intended, as he explained later, to invite me to join him on a drive along the coast. He looked impossibly glamorous and out of place in the tiny, crumbling cottage. Rudi, who recovered with admirable speed from his momentary surprise on seeing a man he already knew through his childhood drawings, welcomed him with his usual unfailing courtesy. My embarrassment of the previous day was forgotten. By that time, I had reached the point of such snapping, bad temper that Rudi gave me a wide berth. Ouma used to say that, when I was angry, I resembled a cat. All I needed was a tail to swish while I narrowed my eyes and paced. My own greeting to our morning visitor was curt to the point of nonexistence.
“You’ll have to de-camp to Athal House,” Uther said, apparently oblivious to my foul mood. “Say you will.” He turned the full beam of his winning smile on me, and I felt some of my hissing, spitting impatience instantly subside. “It would be delightful to have you”—did I imagine the momentary pause as his eyes flickered over me?—“as one of my first house guests.”
There seemed to be little else to do but accept his invitation with gratitude. In a trice, the coachman had transferred our belongings to the waiting vehicle, and we were bowling along the road toward the Athal peninsula. When we drew up outside the front door, Uther went away to give orders for rooms to be made ready for us, and Finty came rushing out to exclaim and offer sympathy for our plight. As I watched her lift worshipful eyes to Rudi’s face, a hitherto unforeseen problem occurred to me. How on earth was a girl reared in the lifestyle of an English socialite going to cope with life in the African veldt?
“Oh, it is so good to see you!” She turned to include me in that statement. “I’m afraid Aunt Eleanor has not taken Uther’s arrival terribly well. It was all most odd. I did think, when I saw him, that because he is the absolute image of darling Cad—really, the resemblance is quite breathtaking!—she would take a shine to him. But no! She took one look at his face and insisted on being taken immediately to her room, where she has remained ever since. And when I told her his name was Uther, she turned her face to the wall and cried. It was desperately sad. I couldn’t find a way to comfort her, so I have sent for my uncle Tristan. He will want to meet Uther anyway, because he is keen to do the right thing, but his company always does my aunt good.” She begged our pardon for leaving us to our own devices so soon after our arrival and went away to tend to Eleanor. I followed Rudi into the house and headed for the library. If I was going to be confined indoors on a rainy day, I might as well put my time to good use.
“Oh!” I paused on the doorstep. Nicca’s long frame was stretched out on a sofa beside the fire. He was perusing a newspaper.
He glanced up, a frown descending on his features as he saw who it was. Straightening his limbs into a sitting position, he said with perfunctory politeness, “Good morning. Were you looking for Finty?”
“No, I’ve seen her,” I said. Oh, well, he didn’t like me, and he certainly wasn’t going to appreciate this new situation that made us housemates. I might as well get it over with and be the one to spoil his day by breaking the bad news to him. “Our cottage flooded, so your brother has invited us to stay here.”
“I see.” The frown deepened. “Is that wise?”
My chin tilted of its own stubborn accord. There was enough of my residual annoyance caused by the flood left to ignite an instant spark of anger. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said. I could hear the pugnacious note in my own voice. I hoped he could hear it, too.
“The attraction between your brother and Finty cannot have escaped your notice, surely?”
“Are you suggesting that my brother is not good enough for your cousin?” I demanded, taking an instinctive step toward him.
He sighed. “I wish you would rid yourself of the notion that everything I say is intended to be an insult to you. That was not what I wished to imply at all. But I can’t picture Finty as a farmer’s wife in the African heartland, can you? I simply meant that throwing them together under the same roof might be a mistake. For your brother’s sake as much as for hers.”
Since the same thought had occurred to me just minutes earlier, the justice of his words struck me. I’d have died before acknowledging out loud that he was right, however. “Are you sure your dislike of this plan has nothing to do with your feelings toward me?”
A guarded look came into his eyes, and it was his turn now to say, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, I find that remarkable considering that since we met you have described me as a bloody nuisance, a hornet, a hellcat.…Need I continue?” He shook his head, a slight smile flitting across his face. It occurred to me then that he should make an effort to smile more often. “I think you have made your feelings about me abundantly plain, meneer.”
He rose from his seat then and came to stand before me. As always, I was slightly unnerved by his size, and the fact that I had to tilt my head so far back to look up at him. “You have no idea, Annie,” he said expressionlessly and left the room. I watched his straight, retreating back with some dismay. Ag, sies! His dislike of me was clearly even greater than I had imagined!
∗ ∗ ∗
“Why does Nicca always look so disapproving?” I asked Uther later that evening. We had finished an elegant dinner, during which I had endured the full force of the younger Jago brother’s frowning stare. Uther had allowed the others to file out of the dining room ahead of us and toward the parlour before he grasped my wrist, holding me back.
“Let’s play truant,” he whispered.
“We can’t.” I laughed.
“It’s my house,” he replied arrogantly, commandeering an opened bottle of champagne. “I can do what I want.”
We ended up sitting side-by-side on the floor of the vast, empty ballroom, sipping champagne and giggling over nonsense. I was amazed by how quickly I had come to feel that I had known this man forever. But in reality, of course, I had known him for longer than that.
I took great care over my appearance that night and wore one of Bouche Jago’s elegant evening dresses that Eleanor had skilfully adapted to fit me. It was black-and-gold chiffon, hanging straight from my shoulders to a frothy, layered hemline at my ankles. Sleeveless and low cut, it showed far more flesh that I was generally comfortable with, but the warm light in Uther’s eyes signalled his appreciation. Since I had dressed entirely with him in mind, that was all the approval I needed.
The ballroom was unusual because one wall of the ruined castle had been incorporated into the house. A huge, stained-glass window, a replica of one that had graced the original Tenebris, spanned the wall and scattered vivid colour across the floor.
“Oh, he has always worn that particular expression,” Uther replied in answer to my question about Nicca. He took a s
lug of champagne direct from the bottle and held it out to me. I swallowed, shivering slightly as the cold fizz hit the back of my throat. Uther slipped off his dinner jacket and drew it around my shoulders, his fingers briefly skimming the flesh of my collarbone. It was the first time he had touched me. The gesture only served to make me shiver more, but for rather different reasons. “I was only two years old when he was born, and in those two years my mother had died and my father remarried. It was common knowledge, apparently, that he never got over my mother’s death, and Nicca’s mother—a pleasant-enough lady and certainly a kindly stepmother to me—could never replace her. The marriage was not a success, and Nicca was six when they went their separate ways. We saw very little of each other as we grew up. Consequently we are more acquaintances than brothers. I take after my father and am accounted all Jago—for my sins! Nicca is like his mother’s family, serious, dutiful and definitely un-Jago like.”
“Yet you asked him to come and work for you when you inherited the title?”
“But, of course. There is no one I would trust with my inheritance more than Nicca. He is definitely better at looking after my money than I am.” He took another long swig from the bottle. “I was not brought up to see this title as my birth right, remember. There were two sons before me in the ‘true line’ of the Jago family. Petroc and Rory always stood between me and the title. Of course, Petroc died when I was still a child, but Rory was the heir to the title and there was never any reason to believe he would not inherit it. He was killed in the trenches, and I suddenly had to adjust my expectations. When the war was over, Nicca left the army and went into partnership in a firm of lawyers. He has carved out a very successful career for himself, despite inheriting his maternal grandfather’s wealth and not needing to work at all. When Cad died, naturally I approached Nicca and asked him for his help.”
“You said the ‘true line’ of the Jago family. What does that mean exactly?”
“The Athal line can trace its heritage back to the Anglo-Saxons and the title to the Conqueror. But the ‘true line’ is said within the family to come directly from Arwen Jago, the evil eighth earl.” He paused, regarding me. “Are you still cold?” How could I explain that it was not a chill, but that name—Arwen Jago, a name I had never heard but somehow knew—that had caused me suddenly to tremble?
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