Miranda's Mount

by Phillipa Ashley

  His eyes rested on her before he answered. Her heart pitter-pattered. Was now the time they would tell her what was going on? Surely they wouldn’t keep her in suspense any longer.

  ‘Not at the moment, thank you,’ Jago said, glancing over at his mother.

  ‘In that case, I’m going to go back to the office and will start planning the new opening hours, but if you need me you can reach me on the radio.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  And with that she was firmly put in her place.

  Back in the office, Ronnie greeted Miranda like a dog who’d retrieved a very big stick from the sea. If she had a tail, it would have wagged, thought Miranda, unable to suppress a smile.

  Miranda laughed. No matter what was in store for the Mount, she had great colleagues to entertain and infuriate her. Their night out on the mainland had left Miranda with a king-sized hangover but they’d had a great time meeting up with a couple of friends from Nanjizal rowing gig club after the cinema. Getting off the island wasn’t a matter of just jumping in a taxi on a whim, you had to plan it around the tides but that was part of the fun and her fondness of the people who lived there, like Ronnie, were a major reason she’d stayed so long on the island.

  ‘Guess what? I found out exactly who left the bestiary out.’

  ‘Really?’ said Miranda, throwing her fleece over the back of her chair.

  ‘Don’t sound so interested, will you?’

  ‘I’m winding you up. Of course I want to know. Which one of the students was it?’

  Ronnie was almost panting with excitement. ‘None of them. It was their tutor. I called the whole group in for a routine update on security procedures and said you’d found the book lying outside the cabinet when you checked the library after closing. Apparently, Professor Smartarse thought one of her students had locked it away and didn’t bother to check. She confessed straightaway and I didn’t even need the thumbscrews.’ Ronnie gave a sigh. ‘Pity. I like torturing academics, they’re so bloody smug.’

  ‘Good work, Poirot. You won’t be surprised to hear that I left the theft out of my report to her ladyship,’ said Miranda.

  ‘Wise move. How is she? She doesn’t look too good lately if you want my opinion.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s feeling too well either.’

  ‘I bet she’s called Jago back to take over. I just know it.’

  Miranda couldn’t deny she thought the same way. ‘It looks like it. I hope he’s not going to make big changes.’

  Ronnie’s face was grim. ‘Or bankrupt the place.’

  ‘I’m sure that won’t happen.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘OK, then I hope he won’t bankrupt the place.’ Miranda spotted the day’s post on her desk, secured with an elastic band, the top being from the Health and Safety Executive. Her heart sank a little. ‘Is there anything else I should know about while I’ve been in my meeting?’

  ‘Nothing life-threatening for once. But you have had a call.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Theo Martin.’ Ronnie said the words with relish, as if Theo was a cream doughnut or a giant block of chocolate.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said he wants to review the Mount’s emergency evacuation procedures with you but I think he just wants an excuse to talk to you. He promised to try to drop by over the next few days.’

  ‘Right.’

  Ronnie tutted loudly. ‘Miranda. Don’t.’

  Miranda fingered the letters. ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Play the Ice Maiden. Theo’s just about the best-looking guy in south-west Cornwall, if you like short men that is.’

  At well over six feet herself, Ronnie had trouble finding a man who could look her in the eye or had an even chance of beating her in a fight. Theo, at a five ten-ish was considered almost a Munchkin by her standards. However he was a gorgeous Munchkin, Miranda was well aware of that, as were half of the girls within a fifty-mile radius. ‘Thanks for passing on the message,’ she said. ‘Now, I’d better make a start on the Health and Safety paperwork.’

  ‘Coward. I’ll be sure to show Theo right up if I see him before you.’ She hesitated before adding mischievously, ‘I wonder if he knows that Jago’s back yet.’

  After Ronnie had left, Miranda picked up the desk calendar perched atop a pile of old Country House magazines. The current month featured a shot of the Nanjizal lifeboat vessel racing to a shout. She couldn’t see Theo in the photo but she knew he would have been at the helm. He was the coxswain of the lifeboat, the only salaried member of a crew which comprised volunteers from the local area. He was a proud man; devoted to his job and, if you cracked him open, Miranda reckoned he’d have Cornwall running through him like the letters in a stick of rock. He also had a fan club that ranged from teenagers to great grannies; the combination of rugged good looks and regularly risking his life for the community had made Theo the equivalent of royalty in Nanjizal.

  Miranda liked him too, he was sexy, he made her laugh and she admired his commitment to the village. But why had Ronnie been interested in his reaction to Jago? Theo wasn’t a fan of the St Merryns, that was true. As well as Cornwall running through his veins, he also had a chip on his shoulder about the family and their power and influence over the local community. Fair enough, Miranda acknowledged that he was entitled to voice his opinion and he’d certainly never mentioned Jago specifically to her face. Why would he? Ronnie was imagining things or, more likely, winding her up again.

  Miranda heard her laptop ping as email messages started to pile up in her inbox. She put down the desk calendar, slipped the elastic band off the letters and reached for the paper knife. She smiled to herself. If only she’d had it when she’d found Jago in the armoury, she could have fought a duel with him.

  Chapter Five

  Miranda was a little surprised when Theo didn’t turn up as expected that week. He usually kept his promises, but the timing of his visit had been vague and, anyway, Miranda had other things to occupy her. For the past few days, Jago had kept out of the offices, but not out of her way. She’d bumped into him a dozen times or more, mostly on the back routes to the castle that were closed to visitors and once, after the property had closed, in the armoury. She wondered if he’d been trying to keep an eye on her or how hard she worked. That kind of pettiness didn’t seem his style, but you never knew.

  She’d gone into the armoury one morning before opening time to find him examining the sword again. He’d laughed at her expression, which, she had to admit, had probably been a mixture of dismay and naked lust.

  ‘You’re quite safe this time,’ he said, replacing the sword on the display

  ‘If you wanted another tour, you only had to call me,’ she said, crossing to the cutlass and peering at it as if checking for damage. ‘Are you aware, my lord, that this is a rare early eighteenth-century cutlass captured by the fifth Lord St Merryn from a buccaneer in the West Indies?’

  He scratched his chin. ‘And here was me thinking my great-grandfather acquired it from a market stall in the Portobello Road.’

  ‘There is, I suppose, some element of doubt about its provenance but I prefer the more picturesque version.’

  Jago shook his head. ‘Oh God, a romantic. That’s all I need.’

  ‘Not really, the visitors prefer the pirate story too. It’s good for business.’

  He seemed about to say something more but just said, ‘I’d better leave you to your work,’ and marched off.

  She watched him jog down the stone steps of the armoury and across the now deserted castle courtyard until, finally, he disappeared down a narrow path that wound its way to the harbour. The way he’d dashed off made her think he was planning to run away from the Mount again. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

  On balance, she thought with a shiver, she rather hoped Jago would stay.

  When she finally got back to her cottage that evening, it was gone nine o’clock. She listened to a message from Theo saying he’d ca
ll in the next day and then fell asleep on the bed in her uniform.

  When she awoke, the bedside clock said 1 am, Miranda’s heavy limbs said 6 am would come round all too soon, yet her thoughts tossed about like a skiff on a stormy sea. The curtains stirred in the breeze and the scent of salt and ozone wafted over her. She’d left the casement window open, hoping the air would circulate as she lay awake, and that she’d be lulled asleep by the halyards clanking on the yachts in the harbour. Instead, she tossed and turned in her bed. Grit prickled her eyelids and her legs ached. Years of walking up and down the steep slopes had kept her fit but she was exhausted by the events of the past few days. She thumped her pillow and flopped back against it with a sigh. The window creaked open as the wind from the Atlantic freshened and changed direction. Out here on the island, even though it was barely a mile from shore, the weather could change from mild to angry in minutes. She started to slide into that half-asleep state where fantasy and the real world mesh and the subconscious reigns.

  A shadowy figure climbed through the window.

  ‘My lord?’

  Miranda gasped as Jago appeared at the foot of her bed, silhouetted against the moonlight streaming through the window. He wore a billowing white shirt and dark breeches tucked into leather top boots but she didn’t find his outfit at all strange.

  ‘Lord St Merryn. Wh-what are you doing here?’

  He smiled in a way that made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickle. ‘Come now, you must know, Miranda.’

  She pulled the sheet up to her neck; despite the fact that in her fantasy, she wore a full-length nightgown like her great-grandmother used to own.

  ‘Don’t do that.’ He crossed the room, his boots thudding on the floorboards.

  She twisted the sheet tightly in her fists. ‘You shouldn’t be here!’

  He sat on the bed next to her, a wolfish smile on his lips. ‘I can do anything I want. This is my land, my home.’

  ‘But it’s my room.’

  ‘No, Miranda, it’s my room. Everything here is mine.’ He reached out and touched her cheek. ‘Including you.’

  In a flash, Jago tore the sheet from her hands and flung it back, revealing Miranda’s nightgown. She tried to let out a shriek but her vocal cords were paralysed in contrast to every nerve which zinged and tingled.

  ‘You’ve heard about droit de seigneur. Well, I’m here to claim mine.’

  He pulled off his boots and climbed onto the bed, making the mattress creak alarmingly. She tried to move her arms to fend him off but they seemed to be paralysed too. He sat astride her and lowered his head close to hers. His hair was loose. She made a monumental effort and found her voice but it sounded far away.

  ‘But I’m not getting married, my lord, and I’m um … actually not a virgin.’

  Jago started to unbutton his breeches. ‘If you’re already a strumpet then I’m definitely going to take you.’

  ‘Um … no,’ she whispered, aware that she didn’t sound very convincing. ‘You really shouldn’t, my lord.’

  ‘Shouldn’t? Who are you to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do, wench?’

  Jago grabbed the hem of her nightgown and ripped it apart, from bottom to top, exposing her naked body. She cried out and sank back onto the pillows, helpless to resist as he closed his mouth around her exposed nipple. As he sucked, she let out a groan as all her senses sprang into life. She felt his calloused hands parting her thighs and heard his ragged breathing. She didn’t mean to touch him back but found her hands tugging down his breeches anyway. Being an eighteenth-century brigand, of course, he wore no undergarments so she could clutch his muscular cheeks and squeeze them rather hard.

  Lifting himself off her, he kicked off his breeches, his cock standing proud and hard. Miranda screwed her eyes tight in shame. Cock? What a rude word to think, even in a fantasy.

  ‘I mustn’t,’ she said, ‘I mustn’t do you, I mean, do this. Or even think this!’

  ‘Lie back and think of England,’ he snarled.

  ‘If I must. Ohh … oh my God!’

  She was vaguely aware that she was still crying ‘No, my lord!’ as Jago thrust into her hard.

  ‘Oh, Jago!’

  Just as ‘Jago’ was having his very wicked way in her imagination, the window slammed back against the wall, instantly pulling her out of her fantasy. The breeze had whipped up into a squall and the window was banging away for dear life.

  ‘Miranda!’

  Miranda snatched at the sheet to cover her shameful nakedness before realising she was actually still wearing her uniform. She stumbled to the window where the blast of chilly Atlantic air felt like a bucket of icy water had been sloshed over her flushed skin. The moon had disappeared behind a cloud but she could make out a tall figure on the quay beneath, staring up at her. She blinked as Ronnie shone a torch up at the window.

  ‘I heard you scream and the banging. I thought you’d got burglars.’

  ‘Burglars? How would they get over to the island? It’s high tide.’

  ‘You can’t be too careful. Are you all right?’

  ‘F-fine. I must have left the window open and it blew back in the squall.’

  The beam wavered as if Ronnie was trying to get a better look at her guilty face. ‘I thought I heard you call out Jago’s name.’

  Miranda laughed. ‘Jago? Why would I call for him? He’s probably in bed.’

  ‘Yes, and not his own. I saw him head off to the mainland on the last boat. Bet you he’s with some village tart now.’

  Miranda squinted at the torchlight. ‘I’m fine, as you can see.’

  The beam of light dropped to the quayside, leaving her temporarily blinded. ‘Right then, if you’re OK, I’ll see you in the morning. Sweet dreams.’

  ‘Goodnight, Ronnie.’

  Miranda picked her way through the darkness and back into bed, pulling the duvet over her. So Jago wasn’t even on the island and Ronnie might well be right; he could well be romping with some village girl – or girls or girls and boys right now. Outside, the rain pattered against the window and the distant thunder rumbled over the sea. As for sweet dreams, she had a feeling she wasn’t going to sleep well on the Mount ever again.

  Chapter Six

  The next morning, Miranda stood in the old library at the top of the Mount, unable to believe what Jago had just said. When he’d called her there, she’d braced herself for unwelcome news but not this.

  He’d opened the door to her when she’d knocked and indicated the chaise longue under the window. ‘Thank you for coming. You’d better sit down.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘OK. Have it your way, but my news is going to come as a blow, I’m afraid. My mother says you should be the first to know and, more importantly, I think you should be too.’

  He’d stopped as there was a loud shriek from outside in the courtyard. It was children messing about and enjoying their visit but Jago frowned and seemed disturbed. Then he’d turned to face her.

  ‘I’m selling the Mount.’

  Until that moment, she hadn’t thought it possible that anyone’s jaw could drop to the floor but hers felt like it had plunged through the stone flagstones and ended up far below on the quayside. It wasn’t possible, either, that she heard those four words. Jago must be joking; that’s what he did. Threatened women with cutlasses and wound up security guards. Well, she wouldn’t be taken in.

  She winked at him. ‘Selling the Mount? Oh, that’s a good one. However, I’m sorry, my lord, but I’m not falling for it this time.’

  Jago’s expression didn’t waver. It was still serious with, she thought, a convincing touch of regret and even sadness. He really was very good at playing the game.

  ‘Miranda …’

  Her stomach lurched again at the change in tone from almost brusque to gentle. ‘You are joking? You must be.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Say you are. Please, stop this.’

  ‘I can’t stop it.
It’s true.’

  Miranda had always laughed at the way Victorian ladies sank back onto sofas in shock in novels but that is exactly what she did now. She collapsed onto the chaise longue with a thud. ‘Ow!’

  Jago stepped forwards, his face creased in concern. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Reaching under her, Miranda retrieved a spiky teasel head, placed there precisely to stop visitors parking their patrician bottoms on the family furniture.

  ‘I’m sorry, that was a nasty shock, like my news, I see,’ he added gently, taking the teasel from Miranda’s hand and dropping it into a Chinese bowl.

  ‘But why are you selling? I thought you’d come back to take over the running of the Mount from Lady St Merryn?’

  ‘It’s true that my mother does want to give up her responsibilities for the running of the castle.’

  ‘I … I wondered. Yesterday when I met her to discuss the new opening hours, she didn’t seem like herself but she never complains. I never dreamed she might want to give up the Mount entirely.’

  ‘Things change. I think you’re aware that we’ve been apart for some time now, but we have been in contact intermittently. She emailed me a few months ago and asked me to come home so I knew that something was wrong.’

  Miranda clasped her hands together, trying to get some kind of control as one piece of horrible news after another rolled over her. Lady St Merryn ill? The Mount being sold? ‘I should have noticed. I’ve been so busy running the place, but I should have seen she was ill.’

  His voice softened. ‘Not ill, exactly …’ He paused as if he was about elaborate but then carried on briskly. ‘Her arthritis has become very painful, I think, and running the Mount on top of her health problems has become too much. Being responsible for this place is like carrying the world on your shoulders and I have no intention of being Atlas. This place is a burden I’m not prepared to bear.’

  ‘But your father did!’

  Miranda had blurted out the words without thinking. Annoyance crossed Jago’s face but it was too late to take her criticism back and she was hardly in the mood to be reasonable. He sat in the chair opposite her and pushed a hand back through his hair. A guilty gesture in Miranda’s opinion and, oh, how she wanted him to feel guilty, she wanted him to feel so bad that he’d change his mind right now. ‘I appreciate the work you do here, Miranda; God knows the place would probably be bankrupt without you. I can assure you that your position here will not change when the St Merryns leave.’