The Judas Trap

by Anne Mather

  ‘Even so…’

  Marion was endearingly honest, and Sara was finding it increasingly difficult not to like her. It was not really her nature to take sudden aversions to people, and she wished Michael would stop looking at her in that disagreeable way. She guessed he would not forgive her easily, and she dreaded his hostility on the journey home.

  Because of this, she drank more wine than she was accustomed to, and by the end of the evening she didn’t much care what he thought of her. Or so she told herself. She felt pleasantly mellow, but she couldn’t help swaying a little when they came out of the inn and the cool night air hit her.

  The Mortons said goodnight and went to find their own car, and Michael regarded Sara with distant eyes. ‘Can you make it?’ he asked, and the tone of resigned toleration in his voice made her feel like a silly schoolgirl. It was as if he was determined to be polite at all costs, as if behaving as though she didn’t know better cooled his temper. But she would rather have had his anger after the way she had acted.

  Without answering him, she wove her way across the car-park to where the Jaguar was parked, and with a shrug of indifference, he unlocked the doors.

  ‘Get in,’ he advised, his voice a little harder now, and with some difficulty, she gathered herself and her skirts into the squab seat. Then she waited tautly while he circled the car and got in beside her.

  The Mortons’ Range Rover was behind them as they left Penzance, its headlights illuminating the inside of the Jaguar, making Sara feel a little like a performer in the spotlight. Still, their searching presence seemed to restrain Michael from making the outburst she had expected, or perhaps she was wrong, and he had decided she was not worthy of his contempt.

  In consequence, she was obliged to look at the road ahead, until the constant stream of headlights caused her eyes to droop and finally to close. She did not know at what point the Mortons left them, or indeed recall much of the journey back to Ravens Mill. She opened her eyes to find the car’s engine extinguished, and only the muted thunder of the ocean disturbing the stillness.

  She jerked upright abruptly, looking round for Michael, but she was alone in the car. Immediately, a sense of injustice gripped her, that he should leave her here, to the mercy of any intruder who might enter the grounds. The fact that it was unlikely that anyone should wander the grounds of Ravens Mill at this time of night was immaterial. He had done it, and if the keys had been in the ignition she would have driven straight back to London, she thought resentfully.

  Sniffing, she reached for her handbag, and as she did so the door at her side of the car was opened. Shocked, she gazed into Michael’s impatient face with startled eyes, and his mouth turned down at the corners when he saw her expression.

  ‘You’re awake,’ he remarked flatly. ‘You seemed dead to the world when I left you.’

  Sara gathered herself with difficulty. ‘Is that an opinion—or an invocation?’ she enquired tartly. ‘I probably should be if I was left to sleep out here all night.’

  Michael’s mouth tightened. ‘As it happens I’ve been unlocking the doors, preparatory to carrying you up to your room,’ he told her, with cold emphasis. ‘However, as you seem fit enough to spit at me, you can make your own way upstairs!’

  He walked back towards the lighted entrance, and once again, Sara felt terrible. She should have known he would never have abandoned her. It simply wasn’t his nature. And if nothing else, she had learned he had sympathy and compassion.

  With a feeling of dejection she got out of the car, closed the door, and walked slowly into the house. There were lights on the stairs, and a light in the library, and without any hesitation she halted by the open door. Michael was pouring himself a brandy when she cleared her throat to attract his attention, but his glance behind was barely cursory, and accompanied by an interrogative lifting of his eyebrows.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry for—well, for speaking to you as I did just now, and for being rude to—to Mrs Morton.’

  There was silence for a few more seconds while Michael lifted the glass he was holding to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of the spirit. When he turned, still holding the glass, she stiffened, but all he said was: ‘That’s all right then, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’ Sara was uncertain. She didn’t care for the expression in his tawny eyes. She didn’t care for the way he was regarding her—as if she was some recalcitrant child, and he was determined to humour her. ‘Do you—do you accept my apology?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t sound as if you do.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Sara pursed her lips. ‘That’s a meaningless phrase!’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’

  His contempt was belittling as she took his meaning. She could see no glimmer of sympathy or compassion in his eyes at the moment and the glass of brandy in his hand seemed to signify his intention of finding a different kind of satisfaction. But still she had to have one more try.

  ‘I don’t know what came over me,’ she persisted, running her hands inside the cuffs of her coat. ‘I’m not normally so—so—’

  ‘Forget it!’

  ‘How can I?’

  ‘Quite easily, I should think.’ Long lashes came to veil his eyes. ‘You seem to forget things with remarkable ease, when it suits you.’

  Sara clenched her fists. ‘Is that supposed to mean something?’

  His eyes flickered for a moment, then he shook his head almost wearily. ‘No.’ He sighed. ‘No, go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SLEEP WAS a long time in coming. Sara tossed and turned for hours, plagued by feelings of guilt and recrimination, aware that staying here was rapidly becoming an untenable proposition. During the day, she could fool herself into thinking that she could handle the situation, but lying in the darkness, she could no longer deny that she was playing with emotions too powerful to control. And she had to control them. She loved Michael, that much was obvious, but she could never tell him. Somehow she had to summon the strength to leave here, before she succumbed completely to a wholly unrealistic desire to accept whatever he was prepared to offer.

  How Diane would laugh if she knew what she had done. Selfish, uncaring Diana, who had sent her down here under false pretences, prepared to sacrifice anyone to her own ambition, so long as it wasn’t herself. Had she no thought to the consequences? Why hadn’t she phoned or written, to find out what was going on? Or had she believed it might all be a bluff, and by contacting Sara known she might only be arousing unnecessary suspicions?

  With thoughts like these for company, Sara found the escape to oblivion almost impossible to achieve. Even the idea of leaving in the morning evoked a pain, whose physical manifestation was only a vague discomfort compared to its spiritual counterpart. Michael’s reactions to her explanation about her tablets came to taunt her, and it was impossible not to carry the thought on from there to its inevitable conclusion. He had said asthma did not scare him, but how might he react if he discovered she was only half a woman, an invalid, like his father’s wife, of whom he spoke with a certain amount of disparagement?

  She eventually fell into a fitful doze, awakening soon after seven to the chattering chorus of the birds. Any further sleep was impossible, in spite of the comfort of her bed and the earliness of the hour, and she decided to go downstairs and make herself a cup of tea before Mrs Penworthy arrived to prepare breakfast.

  The kitchen was chilly, but the kettle soon boiled, and she leant against the draining board while it brewed, staring out at the neglected garden. A few late daffodils struggled between the roots of an ancient elm tree, and the hedges were rapidly losing their skeletal appearance. Soon the blossom would be out along the lanes, and the whole panoply of summer would colour this small corner of Cornwall. Even the ocean would adopt a less threatening appearance, although the rocks below Ravens Mill could never look anything less than treacherous. But she guessed it was possible to swim fr
om the cove, and she envied Michael his ability to climb the cliffs without effort. Of course, Michael might not be here come summer. His home was in Portugal now, he had said so, and perhaps his great-aunt would arrange a marriage for him as her parents had for his grandfather.

  The unpleasant trend of her thoughts brought a return of the black feelings of the night before. Forcing them aside, she turned from the window and poured her tea, almost relieved when the scalding liquid splashed her fingers and she had a purely physical pain to contend with. Picking up her cup, she carried it across the kitchen and into the hall, gathering up the skirt of her dressing gown as she climbed the stairs.

  She had to pass Michael’s room on the way to her own, however, and almost involuntarily she hesitated outside the door. He might like a cup of tea, she told herself, trying to justify her reasons for stopping, but she knew that was not why she wanted so urgently to see him. He would be asleep, and that was why she had this almost compulsive urge to open his door, to look on him unobserved and without embarrassment.

  With the teacup still in her hand, she turned the handle and allowed the heavy door to swing inwards. She knew the room, of course. It was where she had slept that first night, that fatal first night.

  The room was shadowy, even though the sun was doing its best to force its way between the cracks in the curtains, but Sara saw at once that Michael was still asleep. He was lying on his back, arms stretched above his head, the fine covering of dark hair on his chest arrowing down to his naval. The covers concealed his lower limbs, but she had no doubt that he was naked, and her pulses quickened in concert with her racing blood. If only, she thought, taking a tentative step nearer, her eyes moving down over the muscular outline of his legs, if only…

  ‘To what do I owe the honour of this visit?’

  Michael’s brusque tones brought her head up in alarm, and the cup shook perilously in its saucer. Unknown to her, his eyes had opened, and now he was gazing at her with only lightly concealed hostility.

  ‘Oh, I—’ She sought around for a suitable excuse, and her trembling fingers drew her attention to the cup she was holding. ‘I—I’ve brought you—some tea!’

  ‘Tea!’ He sat bolt upright, uncaring that by doing so the sheets dropped precariously lower. ‘Why should you bring me tea?’

  Sara swallowed with difficulty. ‘I—why else should I come into your room at this hour of the morning?’ she countered, glancing behind her. The door was still reassuringly ajar and a little of her confidence returned. ‘Would you—would you like a cup?’

  Michael’s lips twisted. ‘All right. Why not? If that’s all you’re offering me.’

  Licking her dry lips, she was forced to move forward, holding the cup out in front of her like some defensive shield. If only he would lean towards her and take it. Then she wouldn’t have to go near the bed. But he didn’t. He waited until she was actually beside the bed before taking it from her unresisting fingers.

  He watched her as he raised the cup to his lips, but she didn’t immediately draw away, even though she realised that she could. Now that he had made no move to touch her, she felt curiously let down, and she waited until he tasted the tea, frowning at the grimace he pulled when it was not to his liking.

  ‘This isn’t sweetened,’ he observed, returning the cup to its saucer. ‘Are you sure it’s really for me? I thought you would have learned by now that I like things sweet.’

  Sara faltered. ‘I—er—I—’ she started awkwardly, and his eyes glinted sardonically.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re sorry again,’ he mocked. ‘Not after last night!’ He surveyed her lazily as he set the cup down on the bedside table. ‘No. You thought I’d be asleep. So what brought you in here, I wonder? Curiosity? Surely you know I have no secrets from you!’

  Sara’s cheeks flamed and she took an involuntary backward step. ‘I—I brought the tea,’ she insisted, dragging her eyes away from his lean, supple body. ‘If—if it’s of no use, I’ll take it away again.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She hesitated. Then, with difficulty: ‘Michael, I—I hope your friends didn’t think I was too—well, too silly last night. I mean—I thought—that is, I didn’t know—what your relationship with Mrs Morton—was.’

  The amber eyes darkened as they rested on her half averted face. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Well, yes. Yes, I think it does. I mean, you were—you were kissing me, and—and I felt—I felt—’

  ‘Embarrassed?’

  ‘No! Ashamed!’ She met his eyes then with uneasy defiance. ‘After all, we only met a week ago—’

  ‘Met?’ He uttered a short laugh. ‘Well, I suppose that’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘Don’t make fun of me!’ she flared. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he confirmed brusquely, shocking her by sliding his legs out of bed and getting to his feet. Ignoring her swift intake of breath, he reached for his bathrobe and pulled it on, turning to face her as he tied the cord, his expression far from encouraging. ‘What do you have to say, Sara? I suppose last night proved we can’t go on in this way. I can’t, anyway. I guess the time has come to go to London and let Diane know she’s a widow. Not a wealthy one, but comfortable enough. That will please her, no doubt. Me—I’m going back to Coimbra.’

  Sara’s lips parted in dismay. Lying in bed, going over the possibilities that faced her, leaving had seemed the only answer. By getting away from Ravens Mill, by returning to her life in London, she had thought she might find peace. Yet now, confronted by such an inevitability, she felt only doubt and uncertainty, and the indisputable awareness of her feelings for this man. It was crazy, madness, but how could she let him go, not knowing if she would ever see him again?

  ‘I—I suppose there’s some girl—some girl in Portugal, who’ll be—only too happy to have your baby,’ she said on impulse, and he looked at her through narrowed eyes.

  ‘You say the craziest things, do you know that?’ he responded at last, a certain hardening around his lips his only apparent reaction. ‘Why should you be interested in some mythical girl in Portugal? As a matter of fact, I have a second cousin who would fit the bill admirably. Does that satisfy you?’

  ‘Oh—’ Sara’s lips trembled. ‘Oh, Michael!’ She shook her head helplessly, unable to deny the tears that were welling in her eyes. ‘And—and what if I said I didn’t want you to go? Would—would that be crazy, too?’

  A flicker of some uncontrollable emotion burned in the depths of his eyes, but he made no move to touch her, and her hands went out towards him almost in supplication. They gripped the lapels of his bathrobe, moving tentatively over the rough towelling, her fingernails brushing the taut skin of his chest. And all the while her eyes were held by his, riveted by the smouldering golden intensity of his gaze.

  ‘Michael…’ she said again, moving closer, fighting the weakening despair that he might humiliate her further. ‘Michael, please, I want you to stay.’

  ‘Sara…’ His voice had thickened in spite of his control. ‘Sara, this is not the place to have a conversation like this.’

  ‘Why not?’ She moved closer, and as she did so, she could feel the taut muscles of his thighs. ‘Michael, there’s still a few days of my holiday left. Couldn’t we—make a fresh start?’

  ‘Dear God!’ His hands went up to grip her wrists. ‘Sara! Sara, you don’t know what you’re asking. I—I’m only human, not some kind of machine. Living with you—living in the same house as you, is driving me crazy, do you know that? I don’t know what it is about you, but you’ve got under my skin, and I can’t take much more of this—this friendship you want.’

  ‘How do you know what I want?’ she breathed recklessly, and heard the harsh imprecation he uttered.

  ‘Don’t say that, Sara! Don’t fool me! You’re not the kind of girl to become any man’s mistress. And I don’t want you that way. I don’t know what you want, but don’t play with me.’

  ‘Oh, Mich
ael…’ Her tongue appeared with provocative brevity. Even like this, holding her away from him, she could sense his arousal, could smell the musky male scent of his body. She had never known she could feel this way about a man, not only loving him, but wanting him, too. There was a disturbing ache in her lower limbs, and she longed to feel the hungry passion of his mouth, the searching intimacy of his hands, the fulfilling satisfaction only his possession could give…‘Michael, love me…’

  ‘God help me, I do!’ he swore angrily, and this time she had no complaint about his responses. His admission was against her mouth, and when her lips moved against his, his words gave way to a low groan of satisfaction.

  Sara’s senses swam beneath the eager hunger of his lips. Close against the hard muscles of his chest, her breasts swelled and grew taut, surging against the cotton of her nightgown. Michael’s fingers pushed her dressing gown from her shoulders, and then found the straps of her nightgown, shedding it as well.

  ‘Beautiful…’ he muttered, swinging her up into his arms, and Sara had no thought for anything but him and the physical expression of their love…

  She made only one half-hearted murmur that Mrs Penworthy would be arriving shortly, but Michael was in no fit state to consider that possibility in any serious way.

  ‘To hell with Mrs Penworthy,’ he said, lowering her to the tumbled covers, and looking down at her with disturbed and disturbing eyes. ‘You’re all I care about. All I’ll ever want…’

  * * *

  She did not know what she had expected, but certainly nothing like the pleasure that spread over her and around her, wrapping her in a warm feeling of lethargy and fulfilment. There had been pain, but she had been prepared for that, and what came after was so much more than she had ever imagined. Michael had been so patient with her, so gentle, so tender that she had responded to him without inhibition, giving and sharing, and learning how to please him as well as herself.

  Afterwards, Michael lay on his side looking down at her with undisguised satisfaction, and now she felt no embarrassment, only an intense awareness of the poignancy of the situation.