A look of dawning comprehension spread over his craggy features.
'Oh, then you'll be Emily Pendennis's great-niece,' he said. 'Yes, I heard she'd left her cottage to a lass from foreign parts. But wasn't there talk of your mother coming here as well?'
Rose gave a wry smile at the efficiency with which the bush telegraph seemed to be operating. After the vast, impersonal sprawl of Brisbane, she found it strangely warming to find a community so intimate that everyone knew each other's business. Far from being annoyed by it, she was oddly moved.
'That's right,' she admitted. 'My mother was supposed to come with me, but unfortunately she was taken ill just before we were due to leave Brisbane.
Nothing really serious, but she had to have an operation and my insurance policy wouldn't allow me to cancel my airline ticket. In any case, my mother urged me to come and she'll be joining me in a few weeks, as soon as she's
well enough to travel. We're hoping to open a bed-and- breakfast place in Aunt Em's old cottage.'
'You'll be staying on here, then?' asked Greg, and for an instant something disturbingly sensual lurked in his eyes.
Rose might be alarmed by that momentary spark of warmth but she couldn't help feeling flattered by it. In all the three years she had spent with Martin, he had only seemed to make her aware of her deficiencies, that her nose was too snub, her hips too rounded, her legs too short, her skin too pale. Now, with this rugged fisherman darting her a swift sideways glance from under half-closed lids, Rose suddenly felt that she was a desirable woman. The thought sent a flood of colour rushing into her cheeks and made her step back a pace from him.
'Yes,' she muttered. 'At least for a while.'
'Well, that's good news,' he said mildly. 'If there's anything I can do to help you out, just say the word. This is only a simple fishing community and we're all good neighbours hereabouts.'
If he had asked her to go out with him, Rose would have retreated in alarm and refused immediately. As it was, his manner was so casual that she began to think that she had imagined that brief flare of attraction between them.
What an idiot she was! Obviously Greg was only trying to be kind...
'Oh, I'm sure you are,' she agreed with a rush of enthusiasm. 'This village seems absolutely enchanting and I'm thrilled to think that my roots here go back for centuries. You see, I've always hated big cities and wished I could live somewhere small and quaint. Well, I'd say Polperro is the kind of place that time has passed by, where people still enjoy old-fashioned pleasures.
Going fishing, gardening, spending time with their friends, having a quiet drink in the pub. I can almost imagine that I'm still in the eighteenth century here. Actually, when I first saw you I thought you looked exactly like--' She broke off and flushed with embarrassment, aware that his eyes were on her with a frankly amazed expression.
'Like what?' he prompted in his husky Cornish voice.
'Like a smuggler,' she admitted.
Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed, an incredulous, pitying laugh that made her feel a complete fool.
'I'm sorry,' she said in confusion. 'I suppose it sounds silly really.'
An expression mid-way between contempt and amusement flitted across his face.
'You're not far out, in a way,' he replied. 'Just between you and me, in my youth there was the odd bottle of brandy I brought back on my fishing boat from France that never paid duty in any Customs office.'
'You're a fisherman, then!' she exclaimed with interest. 'I thought you must be. You looked like one, somehow. Exactly the way I imagined a Cornish fisherman.'
'Ah, well, my dear,' he said. 'It's clear you're a romantic at heart and I've always liked the romantic, myself.' Was it her imagination or did his Cornish accent suddenly seem stronger than it had before? 'But tell me, now, how are you going to get home to your aunt Em's cottage, seeing you've missed the bus?'
Rose hesitated and then took the plunge.
'W-well,' she stammered. 'I hate to ask you this when you've already done so much for me, but could you possibly loan me some money for a taxi? I'll pay you back tom--'
But Greg was sorrowfully shaking his head.
'I'm sorry, my love,' he muttered. 'I don't think I can do that. A simple fisherman like me doesn't carry much money on him.' He reached into his back pocket, drew out a shabby wallet and looked at the three one-pound coins that lay forlornly in it. 'I'll tell you what, though. I could sail you home.
How about that, now? I'll drop you off all right and tight in the cove at Pisky Bay.'
Rose hesitated, torn between delight and apprehension. To sail home through the sunset and catch her first glimpse of her cottage from out in those dazzling, sapphire seas! It would be perfect, absolutely perfect... And yet was it wise to trust herself to Greg Trelawney? Not that he was likely to abduct her, but there were other kinds of danger that could be more subtly threatening. Like the danger of contracting an absurd, adolescent crush on a man who was quite likely to see her day in and day out in such a small community. She didn't want the pain or the humiliation of that. Really, it would be more sensible to refuse. Sensible! something inside her shrieked in outrage. Where has being sensible ever got you? You were being sensible waiting for Martin to propose, weren't you? Well? In that instant Rose flung caution to the winds and decided to live dangerously.
'Thank you,' she said firmly before she could change her mind. 'That would be wonderful. But are you sure it's not too much trouble?'
'No trouble at all, my dear. There be my boat just down there, see? Lying at anchor on the mooring.'
Rose followed his pointing finger down to the spot where a stately old ketch, with a black hull and red sails furled along its boom, lay tranquilly bobbing next to a pink buoy. By now the tide was turning and the water rippled as green as glass around the graceful vessel, making it shift and move as if it longed to be off.
'Come on,' ordered Greg. 'We'll just go down to the phone at the pub and report your belongings missing. Then we'll be off.'
Ten minutes later their mission was accomplished and they stood outside on the whitewashed steps in front of the Smuggler's Rest.
'What about your luggage?' asked Greg, struck by a sudden difficulty.
'I sent it on ahead on this morning's bus,' replied Rose. 'One of Aunt Em's old neighbours has been keeping an eye on the cottage and she promised to take delivery of it for me. Oh, there's one other thing, though. I must call into the clothes shop and tell the woman I can't take that sweater and skirt after all.'
'Don't you worry about that,' said Greg. 'I'll take care of it. I have to go round to the far side of the stream in any case to get my dinghy. Now, you walk down to the stone pier over there and wait for me. I'll bring the ketch to the foot of that iron ladder and pick you up. Can't say fairer than that!'
Rose firmly dismissed her last lingering doubts. 'All right, thank you,' she agreed.
Twenty minutes later they were heading out to sea with the sails flaring bright red in the slanting gold light of the sun. There was no sound but the slap of water against the hull, the singing of the wind in the rigging and the occasional noisy squabbling of a flock of seagulls. Rose found the slow dip and rise of the vessel immensely soothing and she heaved a deep sigh of pleasure. A brief smile flickered over Greg's face but he said nothing, apparently content to enjoy the scene around them without any need for words. He was standing at the yacht's wheel, his long, muscular legs braced apart and his sensitive fingers handling its blunt wooden spokes as tenderly as if they were alive. With his eyes narrowed against the blaze of the sinking sun and his hair blown into wild disorder by the wind, he looked like some primitive, timeless sailor, totally in harmony with the rugged coastline that had produced him. An aching, primeval need stabbed through Rose's entire body at the sight of him standing there so virile, so confident, so untamed. I could really fall for him in a big way, she thought and then gave a soft gasp of dismay at her own unruly instincts. Living dangerously was on
e thing; going right off her trolley was quite another.
'Everything all right?' he asked, looking over his shoulder at her.
'Yes, fine, thank you,' she agreed, grateful that he could not read her thoughts. Yet perhaps he could, for his eyes narrowed even further and he looked at her with that strange, assessing warmth that she had found so disconcerting on the cliff-top. Once again a tingling current of raw physical attraction seemed to pass between them.
'Why don't you come and take a turn at the wheel?' invited Greg, and his baritone voice was so husky, so caressing that the invitation seemed vaguely indecent.
Rose opened her mouth to refuse and then paused. She was being foolish, incredibly foolish. All this belief in nameless, animal passions lurking just below the surface might be only a product of her own fevered imagination.
Greg would probably think she was crazy if she started acting like some skittish, wild creature and refusing a perfectly harmless invitation.
'All right, thanks,' she agreed, forcing herself to rise and clamber nervously across the sloping deck to join him. 'What do I do?'
'Just put your hands here on the wheel at ten to two. Then take a look straight down the centre of the ship and line up the prow with that headland over there. If she begins to fall away, turn the wheel a little to bring her back on course. Yes, that's fine.'
As he had spoken he had positioned himself behind her, putting his arms around her and gripping her hands so that he could guide them. Harmless invitation! thought Rose despairingly. I didn't know he was going to do that!
Her senses reeled at his overpowering nearness and her heart begun to beat in a frantic, suffocating rhythm. She was intensely conscious of his towering height, the power of the whipcord muscles in those strong tanned arms that were wrapped around her, the salty masculine smell that came off in waves from his warm body. For one insane moment she wondered what he would do if she suddenly leaned back against him. The mere thought made her go rigid with panic.
'I think you can let go now,' she said in a stifled voice.
Greg released her, but he continued to stand just behind her so that she found it difficult to keep her attention on handling the boat. Almost before she realised it, the bow began to stray out towards the open sea and Greg had to move forward to correct their course.
'I'll just help you out as we go down the channel between this rocky island up ahead and the mainland,' he explained. 'It looks as though there's plenty of space, but in fact there are some sharp reefs below the surface here. No, there's no need for you to move. All you have to do is let yourself go and trust me.'
But Rose had already wriggled free of his grip and was retreating to the safety of her seat in the stern. 'You'd better do it,' she said shakily. 'I'm afraid of running into disaster.'
A soft chuckle escaped him, but he did not argue with her. Rose looked out at the island looming ahead of them and tried to distract herself from Greg by examining every feature of it. It was nothing but a craggy outcrop of rock covered with bright emerald grass at the top and plummeting to wicked-looking rocky shores below. Seagulls whirled and shrieked above it and a mass of scudding clouds like shredded lace sent shadows chasing over its vivid green grass. Greg shaded his eyes and looked out at the restlessly heaving sea ablaze with light from the sinking sun.
'Not far to go now,' he announced in a matter-of-fact voice. 'Come by here and look. You see over there to starboard? That's Pisky Bay, just around the headland.'
The land began to come closer and closer and soon Rose could see a half-moon of sandy beach framed at each end by jagged cliffs.
Emerald-green water rushed past her, then suddenly they were in the bay itself with the details of the land growing larger and sharper with every passing minute. Rose could not suppress a little cry of excitement as she saw a dusty road winding between hawthorn hedges, cows grazing placidly in a green field and three or four widely scattered cottages barely visible among the trees that surrounded them.
'Oh, I can hardly wait!' she exclaimed. 'Somehow I feel exactly as if I'm coming home!'
'Well, it won't be long now,' said Greg. 'I'll just take down the sails, drop anchor and I'll have you ashore in no time.'
He was as good as his word. A moment later the huge red mainsail came flapping down and was lashed securely around the boom, to be followed at once by the other two smaller sails. Then Greg hurried up to the bow of the yacht and there was a loud, grinding rattle as he let out the anchor chain.
Then he came back along the narrow, polished deck of the yacht with the lithe tread of a hunting cat. Pausing with one hand on the entrance to the
hatchway, he glanced back at Rose, his eyes narrowing in a way that made her heart beat faster.
'Are you planning to offer me a cup of tea when we get ashore?' he asked.
That was more than Rose had bargained for. Her whole body tensed in a useless impulse to retreat. 'I very much doubt it, I'm afraid. I have no idea of what I'm going to find once I get inside the cottage. And I haven't any tea.'
'In that case, I think I'll bring my own,' announced Greg, calmly disposing of her objections. 'And a few basic supplies to see you through the night.'
Before she could protest, he swung himself down into the cabin and reappeared a couple of minutes later with a knobbly looking old khaki rucksack slung over one shoulder. 'Now, let's get you into the dinghy and we'll go ashore,' he said.
It was rather unnerving to scramble down into a heaving dinghy in a straight skirt, but with Greg's assistance Rose managed it somehow. Instructing her to sit down in the stern, he fitted the rowlocks into their holes and shipped the oars. Then he untied the painter and, crouching low, took his place in the centre seat facing her. With a deft movement he unshipped the oars and began to row. His powerful arms sent the tiny craft skimming effortlessly across the water, but as they neared the band of white foam where the waves were breaking on the beach, a fresh difficulty presented itself to Rose.
'How do we get ashore?' she asked, glancing uneasily down at her best navy leather shoes. 'Do we just jump into the waves and walk?'
'I do,' agreed Greg with an unholy glint in his eyes. 'You jump into my arms and let me carry you. And no arguments, my dear.'
Rose opened her mouth to protest and then closed it again. Obviously it was the only sensible thing to do. All the same, she wasn't looking forward to it one bit, or, if she was, she didn't intend to admit it even to herself. There was a sudden, exhilarating surge and they found themselves carried forward on the crest of a wave to ground on the soft sand amid a seething rush of foam.
Greg jumped out, wearing his knee-high rubber fisherman's boots, reached
into the bow of the dinghy for a small anchor which he dug into the sand, then turned to Rose with a look of sly anticipation on his face.
'Come on, then,' he ordered as he held out his arms to her. 'What are you waiting for?' With as much dignity as she could muster, Rose crept gingerly towards him, then suddenly felt herself swept off her feet and into his arms.
In spite of her resolution to remain calm, her body stiffened at his touch and she looked up at him with a flash of alarm. There was still amusement and warmth in his eyes, but there was also something else, a look of hungry, primitive desire that made her blood pause and then throb hotly and violently through her veins. For a moment their eyes met in wordless understanding and she could feel the tumultuous thudding of his heart beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, then he muttered something unintelligible under his breath and began to stride fiercely towards the beach.
A moment later Rose was on her feet on the white sand, although she felt oddly unsteady on her legs. Glancing back, she saw that Greg had returned to the water's edge and was hauling the dinghy up on the sand, out of the reach of waves. She could see the lines of strain in his body as he half carried, half dragged it across the sand, and could not suppress a twinge of admiration at his strength. Then she gritted her teeth in annoyance. She must stop behaving lik
e some ridiculous teenager! It was absurd, undignified.
Deliberately turning her back on Greg, she swung round to face the emerald-green landscape that rose in front of her, so much more vividly green than anything she had ever seen in Australia. She was still gazing at it, drinking in its unfamiliar beauty, when Greg appeared beside her and put one arm casually around her shoulders.
'That's your aunt Em's cottage up there on the right,' he said, pointing to a gabled roof barely visible above a hawthorn hedge about two hundred yards away. 'Your new home, Rose.'
A shiver went through her as much at the pressure of his fingers on her shoulder as at the words he had spoken. Her new home, yes. But would she find happiness here?
CHAPTER TWO
FIVE minutes later Rose stood outside the front gate of the cottage and took a long breath of pure delight.
'Isn't it beautiful?' she demanded.
Greg's eyebrows rose sceptically as he took a long, hard look at the gabled roof, which was encrusted with yellow lichen and had several of its slate tiles missing, at the peeling pink paint on the walls, at a broken pane of glass in one of the front windows, at the weathered grey wooden outhouses that leaned drunkenly away from the sea breezes.
'I don't know,' he said in a troubled voice. 'It looks as if it needs a fair bit of work done on it to me.'
'Oh, men!' retorted Rose scathingly, and pushed open the gate, which promptly broke loose from one of its hinges and dangled askew.
Greg gave an explosive chuckle which he hastily turned into a cough when she glared at him. Rose tossed her head defiantly. All right, maybe the cottage did need a [ bit of work, but she wasn't afraid of getting busy with . a scrubbing brush and some paint. And nothing could spoil the perfection of the garden even if it did look wild unkempt. On the sunny side of the garden a variety [ of shrub roses rioted in colourful profusion, filling the air with their sweet perfume, while in a shady nook between the house and the hawthorn hedge a sea of vivid blue hydrangeas tossed in the breeze. A candy-pink clematis had run riot over the outhouses and was now trying vigorously to climb the drainpipe at the side of the house, while purple buddleia bushes near the front gate provided a haven for swarms of butterflies. Every other available nook and cranny was filled with summer annuals, poppies and columbines and striped petunias. What did it matter if the lawn was now knee-high and rank with weeds, or if the paving on the path was chipped and overgrown with dandelions? These things could all be fixed by someone with plenty of energy and a good set of gardening tools.
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