Miranda giggled. ‘Mint’s my favourite flavour.’ She pushed herself up as he tore off the top of the packet. Her fingers shook as she helped him roll on the condom, wondering at the hot, silky feel of him, like she’d never touched a man before.
‘I can see you’ve done this before,’ he said, teasing her gently.
‘It’s been a while since I … held a bloke’s … thing.’
He glanced down at his erection and gave a wicked grin. ‘Me too, apart from my own. Always while thinking about you, of course. About the way you are now, naked and wet and ready to let me inside you. I can’t wait to make love to you, Miranda.’
She couldn’t wait either, so when he nudged her thighs apart and stroked her with his fingers again, she had to fist the coverlet in her hands to stop herself from coming. She heard herself whispering, ‘Now, now, please.’
‘Do you need to touch yourself?’
Touch herself? Oh God. She shook her head. He was already bursting and the intimacy of his question was about to send her over the edge. She let out a gasp as he nudged his way into her, marvelling at how tight he felt. He whispered tender obscenities to her as he moved inside her, faster and harder. She gripped his shoulders and waves of the purest, most intense pleasure rolled through her. He thrust into her again, and fell with her over the edge.
When she opened her eyes, her tiny but cosy bedroom with its pretty wallpaper and angled nooks and crannies had vanished. It had been replaced by the curved stone walls of the tower. The room was far bigger in the bright morning sun than it had seemed in the dark and the patchwork quilt lay in a wanton heap on the floor. She lifted her head but there was no sign of Jago, either next to her or anywhere in the tower. Had he gone out, leaving her alone? Was he regretting their night? She lay back against the pillows. From below the tower, she heard the clang of metal against stone, frantic shouts and, laughably, the hum of a vacuum cleaner somewhere in the castle.
They were normal sounds of people going about their business but she knew that nothing would ever be as normal again.
A draught of sea breeze rattled the window. Miranda pulled the tangled sheet up to her neck and heard a loo flush from behind a low arched door on the rim of the room. A minute later, the door opened and Jago ducked under the arch from what she guessed to have been a garderobe at one time. He wiped his hands on a towel then dropped it on a stool, revealing himself in all his glory.
His eyes lit with pleasure when he saw she was awake. ‘Morning. How are you?’
She could have offered him a choice of answers: ecstatic, full of dread, desperately turned on at seeing his nudity revealed in the morning sunlight.
‘I could do with a shower,’ she said, fisting the sheets in her hands, aching to leap on him again.
He grimaced, but even his frown seemed sexy now that she knew him, now that he’d been inside her and she’d tasted him and dug her heels into his back.
‘There’s a washbasin and loo in the tower but no shower, I’m afraid. I have to use the one out in the main bathroom in the corridor.’ He hesitated. ‘But perhaps I can offer you an alternative.’
A few minutes later, he carried a porcelain washbowl of water from the washroom into the bedroom. Drops splashed over the rim of the bowl and onto the rug as he negotiated the uneven floorboards. He replaced it in the washstand and gave a little bow.
‘Your shower, madam.’
Miranda slid out of bed, momentarily embarrassed at her own nakedness.
‘This water couldn’t be called hot,’ he said apologetically. ‘But it’s warm and wet.’
She trailed her hand over the surface, rippling it. ‘It’s fine. Thank you.’
‘The pleasure will be all mine, I can assure you.’
Her fingertips hovered above the bowl of water before taking the flannel and wringing it out. Jago rested against the bed stand with his hands behind his head, his eyes fixed on her. Miranda was unable to touch herself at first. Washing herself was the most intimate act, more intimate somehow than sex itself because it was normally so private to her. Taking a breath, she started with her arms, rubbing the dripping cloth from her wrists to her shoulder and then under her arm and back over her elbow to her hand. The casement window creaked and the breeze licked her damp skin, prickling her flesh. She dipped the flannel into the bowl again and squeezed it, her fingers hardly able to wring out the water because they were so unsteady.
Jago kept his eyes on her as she wiped her arms and neck, just as if he saw her wash every day. She paused, knowing what was expected of her but suddenly shy.
‘Please carry on,’ he said.
She applied the flannel to her right breast, rubbing it gently over her skin. Water trickled over her nipples, following the curve of her skin. She soaked the flannel again, squeezed it and pressed it to her other breast. Tiny rivulets of lukewarm water raced down her chest and belly, and trickled between her thighs.
‘Christ, you’re beautiful.’ Jago climbed off the bed. ‘May I?’ He pointed to the cloth in her hand. She nodded, so he took the flannel from her hand and dipped it in the bowl of water. He wrung it out as droplets cascaded into the bowl with a musical sound.
‘Turn around.’
After he’d rubbed the cloth over her shoulder blades, he eased it over the ridges of her spine. She tilted her face upwards, lost in languorous pleasure. Water tinkled again as he wrung out the cloth and then he turned his attention to the back of her thighs and calves. Her inhibitions melted away and she just enjoyed the sensation.
‘Oh!’
Her cry was a mix of shock and pleasure as he washed her buttocks, rubbing the soft skin between her cheeks with firm, brisk strokes.
‘Relax, I love doing this for you.’
She closed her eyes, drowsed with desire. He moved to face her and knelt on the floor. ‘Your feet,’ he said, running a finger down the blade of her foot until she giggled. She lifted her foot into his lap and held on to his shoulder with one hand as he washed the soles of her feet, rubbing between her toes and over the blade of each foot. She arched her back and tried not to tense as hot wetness pooled between her legs. He would feel her in a moment, if he touched her there. He would know.
Still kneeling, he dropped the flannel into the basin but didn’t take it out. ‘I don’t need this now.’ Miranda knew what he was going to do and invited it by pushing her hips towards his face. He groaned with desire then parted her legs and touched her sex with his tongue. She cried out as he used his tongue on her, and then pushed him away.
‘Can’t. Wait. Any. Longer,’ she said and dragged him back to bed.
After they’d made love, the sun was brighter and the sound of hammering from below seemed to resonate through the stone walls. The maintenance team were dismantling the stage. There was also more vacuuming and this time the hum was a lot louder and a lot nearer. She nudged Jago, lying face down beside her. ‘Hey.’
He grunted but stayed where he was.
‘Jago. Wake up!’
Miranda slapped his bottom more sharply than she’d meant to but he simply propped himself up on one elbow and grinned. ‘So it’s like that is it, Miss Whiplash?’
‘Can’t you hear that noise?’
He rubbed his knuckles over his eyes. ‘What noise? The banging or the hammering?’
‘The hoovering. It must be Mrs Arblaster, the cleaner. She’s coming.’
‘I hope not. That wouldn’t be a pretty sight.’
Miranda pulled the sheet up to her neck. ‘But she’ll catch us together!’
‘Stop worrying; she won’t come in here when she knows I’m in bed. Besides I locked the door last night and it would keep out an army.’
His eyes sparkled wickedly but Miranda’s bubble had burst and she felt herself crashing down to earth. It was most definitely time to get back to reality, one in which she and Jago were going, literally, to the other ends of the Earth.
‘I need the bathroom, but don’t go anywhere.’
Whi
le he was in the washroom, Miranda gathered up her clothes from the floor and slipped into her blouse and skirt. Soon she would have to slink out of his room as countless other mistresses had slunk out of the lord’s room at dawn. Her clothes felt sweaty and dirty but she could hardly do the walk of shame back to her cottage in the nude.
Wearing nothing but a Mount St Merryn apron, Jago emerged from the washroom with a kettle, two mugs and sachets of tea and coffee. He turned round, the apron ties dangling down and neatly bisecting his hairy bottom. He grinned back over his shoulder. ‘Tea or coffee, milady?’
Miranda burst out laughing, her fears momentarily forgotten at the sight of him. ‘Where on earth did you get that?’
‘In the cupboard. This stuff must be a courtesy pack from a conference or when we had guests to stay. I have no idea where the apron came from. Perhaps Mrs Arblaster left it here.’
He made tea and coffee in a two plastic tooth mugs and held up a carton. ‘There’s only one milk. I’ll wrestle you for it if you like.’
‘You have it. I surrender,’ said Miranda, her dread subsiding a little. The moment hadn’t ended yet. There was still a little time left to enjoy the fantasy.
‘That’s the kind of word I like to hear. Because sooner or later, we need a truce and, for that to happen, one or both of us are going to have to back down.’
His words were so not what she had expected and her hopes lifted a little. In fact, they started to take flight and threatened to soar over the castle walls. Maybe there wasn’t going to be a walk of shame. Maybe last night had been the start of many nights to come. The traitorous whisper of hope grew louder in her head. Maybe Jago had changed his mind and was about to tell her he would stay.
The drinks abandoned on the bedside table, he touched her cheek. ‘You know you have to come with me, Miranda. Come back to Oz. Or anywhere. We can’t carry on like this.’
‘Come with you?’
‘Leave here. Leave the Mount. It doesn’t have to be Oz, you know. We can go anywhere we like: Hawaii, South America, round the world if you want to. Just come with me.’
Realisation slammed into her. Jago had just given her the world.
It wasn’t enough.
It wasn’t enough to have half a Jago, a man who was still living in the past and trying to run away – and the woman that went with him, wouldn’t be the real Miranda. She’d be aimlessly travelling, always wondering what had happened to the Mount, her friends and the colleagues who had become her family.
‘You know I can’t do that. You have to understand. I can’t abandon everyone.’
He threw up his hands in frustration. ‘Unlike me? Christ, Miranda, don’t say you still want me to stay and do my duty?’
‘Not your duty. It’s not that simple but I can’t see this place end up in Southcastle’s hands – in Jumeau’s hands. I’ve thought about it so long and I won’t be able to stay here when you’re gone, Jago. He made me an offer, a very good one.’ She thought Jago would explode with fury at that revelation, but he stayed silent.
‘You knew he’d offered me a job, didn’t you?’
‘He hinted as much.’
‘And you didn’t care?’
‘I do care. Of course I bloody care, but it’s your future. I can’t force you to do anything.’
‘Well, I won’t take it. I can’t work for him but I don’t know if I can stay and see what he’ll do to the place.’
‘So it’s fine for you to run away from the Mount when it suits you? You’ll be leaving here anyway so why not leave with me? What’s the difference?’
‘Betrayal. Guilt. My conscience,’ she shot back.
‘Oh for God’s sake. Those values went out of fashion in Victorian times, if they ever really existed. There is no honour or duty any more, Miranda, just the here and now. We only have a duty to live for today. I know that and I want you to realise it too.’
He jerked upright and strode off, raking his hands viciously through his hair. When he turned round, his face was dark with bitter disappointment. ‘You know what your trouble is? Your trouble is that you fear being disappointed so much that you don’t dare risk anything at all. I don’t blame you after what happened with your family, but you’ve run away here and shut yourself up. You’ve played it safe ever since so you can never be disappointed again and I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed in me too.’
She knew he was bitter and hurt at her rejection but she was in agony too. ‘Like you disappointed Rhianna? Because you wouldn’t help her when she needed you most?’
She held her breath as he opened his mouth as if to shout, teetering on the threshold of anger. Instead he lowered his hands from his head and dropped them by his side, defeated. ‘Go your own way. Take Southcastle’s offer if you want to, or don’t. Either way, I’m never going to live up to your ideal of the noble lord of the manor. I’m not the man you think I am, Miranda, or, at least, I’m not the man you want me to be.’
She thought he could be anyone if he just forgave himself. She’d seen him tender and gentle, willing to risk himself to save a little boy he cared about. She’d seen what it had cost him to do what he thought was right for Rhianna. She’d seen him passionate, angry and outrageously unreasonable and now she felt the hurt he was causing her and yet she still loved him.
‘You may be right about me in some ways but not this: if I’d always played things safe, I’d never have got involved with you.’
He sat down beside her on the bed, reached out a hand and stroked her hair gently. ‘True, and I’m so sorry you have got involved with me, in every way, but for your sake, not mine.’
Miranda felt like someone had taken wire wool to her emotions and rubbed them raw. ‘Jago, there’s another thing I need from you.’
‘That’s two things.’
‘I’m allowed a last request. If you care about me even a little a bit, do something for me.’
‘I care about you more than a little bit. You know that.’ He paused, as if he was wrestling with a great decision. She allowed herself one last tiny spark of hope. He covered her hand with his fingers and she couldn’t bear the soft pressure. ‘What’s your last request?’
‘Face them. Tell the staff the truth about the sale to Southcastle. If you’re resolved on it and decision is final, don’t keep them wondering any more. I haven’t told anyone about the plans but I know they suspect something is up and they’re very worried. Be honest with them. Even though it’s not the news they want to hear, you owe them that.’
He heaved a sigh then nodded. ‘You’re right. I’ve hidden the truth for far too long. I’ll call a meeting for tonight and ask everyone to come to the Great Hall. And then I’ll tell them.’
Chapter Thirty-One
‘My God, have you seen this?’ Ronnie blocked the way to Miranda’s desk and held a letter aloft. It was printed but had a bold signature at the bottom.
Miranda homed in on the crest and the name.
He’d done it, then.
Jago had kept his promise. In one respect, at least, he hadn’t disappointed her and, while he’d granted her last request, it tasted as bitter as acid.
‘No, I haven’t seen it. I’ve been busy since this morning.’ The truth was she’d been avoiding the office and Ronnie as much as possible since she’d crept back to her cottage from Jago’s bedroom. She’d found things to do in obscure corners of the island, minor clearing-up jobs that could have been left to the rest of the staff but, by afternoon, she’d had no choice but to go back to the office and face the music.
‘I wondered where you’d got to this morning. I guessed you were having a lie-in after the Festival.’ Ronnie passed the letter to her. ‘This won’t help your mood.’
She took the letter and read it as Ronnie carried on ranting. Miranda didn’t blame her or the rest of the staff. No matter how many rumours had been flying about the island, seeing their fears confirmed must have come as a hell of a shock to the staff.
‘Jago sent this ro
und to everyone. I’ve been on the phone since one of the office assistants brought it ten minutes ago. She says everyone who works or lives here has got one. Miranda, this can’t be anything good. You must know something about it?’
Miranda replaced the sheet on the desk, almost paralysed with shock. The letter asked everyone to attend a meeting that evening in the Great Hall where Jago had something ‘important to tell them’. It said it was ‘vital’ that they attend, if at all possible, and it was signed in fountain pen ink, in Jago’s own hand and formal style.
St Merryn
Ronnie picked it up gingerly as if it was a hand grenade. ‘Looks like a bloody death warrant, doesn’t it?’
Privately, Miranda agreed the signature was very like Henry VIII might have issued when ordering a haircut for one of his wives, but she didn’t need to reply because Ronnie did all the talking for her. ‘What’s Jago doing, calling us all to the Hall tonight? I call it bloody inconsiderate and typical of his lordship. It’s my night off and I’m supposed to be meeting Neem at the Pilchard for dinner. What the hell is going on?’
Miranda answered truthfully, if not completely. ‘I wish I knew.’
‘You know what I think?’ Miranda could guess but let Ronnie continue, clutching at any chance to avoid telling more lies. ‘I think he’s flogging the place to that French bloke. Creepy git, I never liked him!’ She turned a laser stare on Miranda. ‘You’ve shown them round; you must know what’s going on. You would tell me, wouldn’t you?’
Miranda traced Jago’s signature on the paper with her finger. Outside, she could hear the insistent beep of a van as it reversed along the quay, and shouts as the workmen packed away the stalls and equipment for another year. Next Festival, if there was a next Festival, she wouldn’t be here. Perhaps, Ronnie wouldn’t be here either. Miranda certainly couldn’t imagine her working for Jumeau and Devlin for five minutes without throwing one or both of them off the battlements. Lady St Merryn would be in San Francisco, threading flowers in her silver hair like a hippy and Jago would be in the middle of the ocean, drifting again.
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