Ned glanced sideways at her. ‘Taken a dislike to someone?’
Dislike! At the very thought of Stephen Barrington her eyes sparkled dangerously. How could a mild word like ‘dislike’ describe what she felt for that odious creature?
‘I don’t think I care very much for your friend Stephen,’ she said guardedly.
‘You don’t like Steve?’ Ned sounded positively astonished. ‘There’s nothing about him to dislike.’
‘Oh, isn’t there!’
She could have named quite a few traits she found far from likeable, including taking advantage of his masculine strength to punish her because she had not fallen a victim to his mocking charm like everyone else.
‘You’ll probably change your mind when you get to know him better,’ Ned said easily, apparently not in the least perturbed.
‘I don’t think I want to know him. He’s about everything I dislike in a man and far too fond of having his own way.’
She was a little sorry after the words left her lips, because she did not want Ned to get the idea that she was going to dislike or find fault with his friends, but at least it would serve to let him know that she had no particular desire to become closely acquainted with Stephen Barrington and, knowing her wishes, her brother might tactfully keep off the subject and not accept any invitations on her behalf—not that she was likely to receive any, considering the way in which she had parted from Stephen last night.
She glanced at Ned sideways to see how he was taking it, but he still looked quite undisturbed and was even grinning to himself in a way she could not understand.
They turned on to the smooth road that led to Milton and for a while the conversation concerned her old life back in the small Kentish town she had left to come to Ladrana, then at last the first few buildings of Milton straggled into sight, a motley collection that were mainly English colonial style, interspersed with a sprinkling of the distinctly Spanish or Portuguese type dwellings that seemed far more appropriate to the island.
‘You’ll find the people a bit of a mixture,’ Ned said with a nod towards a knot of people talking together and gesticulating excitedly outside one of the houses. ‘It’s been British for quite a time, but the island was originally settled by the Portuguese.’ He gestured towards the unseen sea. ‘The nearest island out there is Portuguese too. I’ll make arrangements for you to visit it some time. They’re a friendly crowd.’
The buildings were getting closer together now, a curious mixture of old and new, until they at last reached the centre of the town, with its wide streets and beautifully set out gardens. Ned drove around for a while, pointing out various landmarks, the fountains in the gardens that were always illuminated at festival times—unfortunately reminding Laurel too vividly of the illuminated fountain in Stephen’s gardens—the modern public buildings and business houses of the town and the harbour where an assortment of vessels were anchored. In the deeper part she saw the coastal freighter that had brought her to Ladrana still unloading its cargo, a flurry of brown figures on its decks. A slim white yacht rode the slight swell gracefully a short distance along, with a miscellany of native craft—and then the droning of a powerful engine crept faintly into the scented air.
‘That sounds like Steve,’ Ned remarked, and nodded as a slim dart of a vessel rounded the headland in a plume of angry wash and spray, the fiendish howling of its engine a song of power and arrogance.
Just the sort of craft he would own, Laurel thought scornfully. It was easy to imagine that dark, buccaneer face intent and at the same time assured, the strong, ruthless hands gripping the wheel of the powerful craft, battling the force of its throbbing engines as the vessel turned in a sweeping arc and reduced speed, its needle nose lowering to meet the water again, the song of power dying to a muted thrumming and at last dying away altogether.
Reluctantly, she followed Ned down to the quay, watching as a tall white-clad figure jumped lightly from the moored boat and turned to them with a half laconical gesture of one hand in greeting.
‘ ’Morning, Ned.’ The mocking eyes with their too astute knowledge slid from the man to the taut figure of the girl at his side. ‘How’s the headache, Laurel?’
‘Quite gone, thank you,’ Laurel replied stiffly, resisting the impulse to say that the headache had just arrived.
One dark brow jerked upwards quizzically. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’
He knew quite well that she had never had a headache, since it had been his invention in the first place. The knowledge made her hands clench at her sides in the helpless fury she was coming to associate with his presence.
‘I’ve just been showing Laurel around the town,’ Ned put in. ‘We were just about to retire for a cool drink. Care to join us?’
To Laurel’s immense relief, she saw Stephen shake his dark head. ‘ ’Fraid I can’t make it. I’ve just been up coast and I have to get straight along to the warehouse.’ There was a glint of amusement in his eyes as they went to the girl. ‘Anthea has been muttering all the morning about having you over to lunch if you’re free. She’s probably gone out to your place now.’ His glance went back to Ned. ‘Why don’t you both come along?’
Ned hesitated, then shook his head. ‘Thanks, Steve, but I’d better not. I meant to have a look at the sisal this afternoon and I don’t think I should put it off any longer.’ He turned to where Laurel, at his side, was anticipating and dreading his next words. ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t go, though.’
There was every reason, Laurel thought furiously. Ned knew very well that she did not like Stephen Barrington, yet he was calmly proposing to abandon her to an afternoon with the said Stephen Barrington. It could not be ignorance of the true state of her feelings, because she had made that clear enough, and on glancing at her brother she detected a rather bland look on his face and guessed what it meant.
So Ned thought her dislike would abate on closer acquaintance? As if that could ever happen—however long she knew him!
She shrugged, rather ungraciously it must be admitted, and Stephen seemed to take the matter as settled.
‘I’ll pick you up a bit later, then.’
Laurel parted her lips mutinously, to state that she had no desire whatsoever to lunch at Castelanto and that she would far rather look at the sisal with Ned, but she reluctantly closed them upon the unspoken words.
She listened to Ned deciding where they would go, heard him arrange for Stephen to pick her up later, all the time with her helpless annoyance seething inside her, but she made no move to demur. She did vow to herself, though, that in future she would have some excuse ready to explain why she could not go. At the moment both of them knew it was too soon for her to have received invitations from anybody else on the island.
Ned led her into what looked to be a private garden, but just as she started to wonder rather anxiously whether he had made a mistake and they were trespassing, a waiter came out to take their order. Sitting back in the shade of a blue-flowered jacaranda and sipping a cool drink appreciatively, she found some of her anger abating, but she still regarded the forthcoming afternoon with no degree of pleasure and a vast amount of reluctance.
Stephen joined them only a short time later and they moved outside, to where a powerful dark maroon car was parked. Laurel’s glance went over it with admiration, but at the same time dislike, because of its owner. By no stretch of imagination could she see dust entering this car, even on the worst road.
Ned gave her a grin. ‘See you later,’ he said with not too well hidden complacency, and went off down the road with his loping stride, leaving Laurel annoyed with him but also confused and conscious of a stupid sense of panic that made her want to call him back. Unconsciously she even made some slight move towards him, until she heard Stephen’s slow, drawling voice behind her.
‘The car is in this direction.’
She turned, with a tensed acceptance of the inevitable, and slid into the seat, avoiding touching him as he held open the door. When he
slammed it shut and went round the front of the car to his own side she unobtrusively inched as far as possible away from the place where he would be sitting.
Before starting the car he turned in the seat to glance down at her. ‘Stop acting so much like a sulky child. I’ll keep out of the way all the afternoon if you like. You didn’t hate Anthea on sight, did you?’
Without waiting for her reply, he turned his attention back to the car and started the engine, but as no answer seemed to be forthcoming after a few minutes, he remarked a little grimly:
‘I’m still waiting for a reply.’
Laurel flashed him a startled glance. ‘Oh no...’ She broke off and continued more slowly. ‘No, I don’t hate Anthea. I rather like her, in fact.’
‘Good.’
She did not know quite what to make of the monosyllabic reply and a quick glance at his face only disclosed that his expression was completely unreadable.
‘What would you have done if I had said yes?’ she asked curiously, surprised at herself the next moment when she heard her voice asking the question.
‘Taken you back to Ned’s place and left you there.’
‘Oh!’ She digested that in silence for a while, realizing suddenly and incomprehensibly in that moment that he cared as much for his sister as she did for Ned and trying to decide where it fitted into her once well integrated picture of him.
A half glance at him showed that he was grinning rather maliciously ‘What’s the matter?’ His jibing voice had a too complete perception. ‘It doesn’t it fit in?’ A slanting glance of the same unkind amusement slid over her. ‘Think about it for a while, teacher. You have a lot to learn yet.’
Laurel flashed him a mutinous look and bit back the retort that was on her tongue, sure that it would only have called forth more of the biting derision had she pointed out that she had no desire whatsoever to learn if it involved him.
For quite a time she fell into a glowering silence, longing to somehow carry the fire into the enemy camp, but not daring to. Under her dislike she was just a little afraid of him. There was a too clear memory of last night. Even though he might deride her youth and inexperience, he would not hesitate to use his own experience and worldly cynicism as a weapon to punish her if any of her seemingly ineffectual darts turned out to have sharp points after all and stung their way through his insufferable assurance.
A slight movement from Stephen broke into her thoughts and she glanced at him sideways, to see one hand holding out the slim gold cigarette case.
‘Cigarette?’
‘No, thank you.’
In her own ears her voice sounded very prim and reserved and she half expected him to comment on it, but either he did not notice or had lost interest in baiting her for the moment.
‘Light one for me.’
He carelessly tipped the cigarette case, with its built-in lighter, into her lap, and Laurel instantly felt the resentful antagonism rising in her. Did he think every woman was just dying to fall in with his careless orders? Almost at the same time she saw the very faintest suspicion of a grin on his dark face and realized that he was expecting her to refuse—so of course she did not.
With fingers that trembled slightly, she drew a cigarette out of the case, lit it silently and handed it to him. He took it between thin, strong fingers, glancing down, and she flashed him a resentful glance.
‘There’s no lipstick on it, if that’s what you’re looking for. I use a brand that doesn’t come off.’
‘I know,’ he said calmly. ‘I wouldn’t have asked you to light it otherwise.’
She could have bitten out her tongue the moment she had spoken, but it was by far too late.
‘And if you think I’m going to apologize for last night,’ he continued, still in that bland, faintly derisive voice, ‘I haven’t the slightest intention of doing so. You deserved everything you got.’
‘Sometimes, Stephen,’ she said very clearly and deliberately, ‘I feel like hitting you—hard!’
‘You know what happens to little girls who do that,’ he drawled tauntingly.
Laurel clenched her hands at her sides in swift, impotent fury and for one wild moment actually wished she was back in England, where there was no aggravating and thoroughly detestable Stephen Barrington.
At last they swung into the private road, through the high ornate gates and into the gardens of Castelanto, to stop in the tiled patio. Anthea was waiting for them on the terrace, surrounded, it seemed to Laurel, by cats. At first sight there seemed to be dozens of them, then she noticed that the family comprised two full-grown Siamese and four kittens, with the distinctive markings just beginning to show in their creamy fur.
‘Have you got that menagerie out again?’ Stephen commented tolerantly, and did not seem in the least surprised when one of the cats took a fantastic flying leap at him and landed on his shoulder. He hooked it down with one hand, scratched it under the chin with a grin and replaced it on the floor, where it wound itself around his legs, purring loudly.
‘Meet Princess Flower of White Jade,’ Anthea introduced. ‘We just call her Princess, though—and that’s Prince Meng looking aloof over there.’
Prince Meng stalked proudly over to Laurel and condescended to allow her to tickle him behind his sharp pointed ears.
‘By the way, Steve,’ Anthea said, as Laurel straightened up, ‘Peter Marshall is here. He wants to see you about the southern plantation.’
Stephen nodded, detaching himself from Princess. ‘Keep Laurel amused.’ His grin jeered at her. ‘She might miss me.’
Before Laurel could think of something appropriately scathing to say, he was gone, and Anthea, with a light chuckle of laughter, led the way into the house, leaving the Siamese in sole possession of the terrace.
‘Don’t let him annoy you,’ she warned. ‘He will do it all the more if he thinks he’s getting under your skin.’
Laurel shrugged. ‘I hardly think he’s likely to do that,’ she replied with an assumption of indifference.
‘Nevertheless, my pet,’ Anthea stated calmly, ‘He is. Furthermore,’ the amazing Miss Barrington added, ‘within a week you’ll be in love with him and, because I thoroughly approve of the idea, I shall see that he marries you.’
For a moment Laurel looked both shocked and angry, then the absurd humour of the situation struck her and she burst into quite irresistible laughter.
‘Anthea, you’re quite mad!’
‘Oh, naturally,’ Anthea agreed blandly. ‘But I usually get my own way.’
‘Perhaps you do, but this is one instance where you’re going to be bitterly disappointed,’ Laurel stated with great determination.
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Anthea put her head on one side, considering the matter. ‘You’re going about things the right way, of course. Stephen is definitely interested. It’s quite unusual for a woman to pretend to dislike him on sight.’
‘Will you please get it into your head that I’m not pretending?’ Laurel retorted sharply, as her amusement gave way to exasperation. ‘I hate to say it, as he’s your brother, but I genuinely think he’s the most detestable person I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet, and I should be quite happy never to see him again. As for this “interest” on his part, it’s merely his way of deriding everybody who doesn’t happen to be lucky enough to be Stephen Barrington.’
‘A week,’ Anthea said complacently. ‘I’ll give you just a week.’
‘Shall we talk of something else?’ Laurel suggested firmly.
Anthea shook her head sadly. ‘You’re hopeless!’
Laurel followed the girl along a corridor and out on to another part of the terrace, forbearing to make any reply, because Anthea was sure to cap it with some audacious statement.
On this part of the terrace comfortable wicker chairs and little glass-topped tables were set out on the sun-warmed stone, but with a little shock Laurel realized that this terrace must be part of the one she had been on last night, the one that opened out from t
he drawing-room—because further along, in the garden below, was a path she recognized.
‘I think we’ll have a cold drink,’ Anthea announced, ringing a tiny bell on one of the tables, and Laurel was glad of the interruption to break the trend her thoughts had been taking.
A slim, dark maid came out on to the terrace in reply to Anthea’s ring and went away again with a flutter of a full, bright skirt when Anthea had given her instructions about what they wanted.
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ Anthea was leaning against the balcony, looking down into the gardens. ‘I don’t think I ever want to leave Castelanto or even Ladrana.’
Laurel turned curiously to look at her. ‘What about when you get married?’
Anthea shrugged. ‘That’s a long way off. Perhaps I don’t have it in me to fall permanently in love,’ she added with a curious little twist to her lips, and, because she was thinking of Ned, Laurel let the matter drop.
Men’s voices sounded from the room behind them and Laurel felt herself tensing instinctively, but when he came out on to the terrace Stephen was not alone. The man with him was dark-haired and good-looking, but although he was only a few inches shorter than the man at his side he looked somehow only of medium height.
Laurel found herself looking into brown eyes that held an expression of such bold admiration she knew a flush must be rising to her face, and the faintly sardonic grin on Stephen’s face did not improve matters. She was quite unaware that Anthea was frowning as Stephen performed the introduction, because she was still too conscious of the intent regard of the man who managed one of the Barrington plantations.
‘How long are you over here for, Miss Shannon?’ Peter Marshall asked, holding on to her hand longer than was strictly necessary, so that Laurel had to tug it free, again over-conscious of the grin on Stephen’s face that mocked at her discomfort under the intent, admiring stare.
‘I don’t know yet,’ she answered. ‘I’m only here for a holiday. I have a career to return to in England.’
‘She teaches school,’ Stephen murmured informatively, and Laurel knew instinctively what was coming. The joke was even beginning to pall a little.
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