Dark Pirate

by Devine, Angela

  'So what did you say to that?' demanded Greg.

  Rose gave a brief, bitter laugh. 'I told him to drop dead, then I handed in my resignation. As it happened, Aunt Em had just died and left this cottage with a life interest to my mother and the remainder to me. I could see my mother couldn't wait to return to England, but she tried hard to persuade me to get another job in Australia. Except that for once I was fed up with being sensible, so I decided to burn my bridges and come with her. And here I am.'

  'Good for you,' said Greg. 'You did the right thing.'

  'Did I?' demanded Rose, gesturing at the shabby room that surrounded them.

  'Now I'm not so sure. I almost wish I'd stayed in Brisbane.'

  'You're not still in love with him, are you?' demanded Greg in a hard voice.

  'I don't know!' Rose burst out. 'Love isn't reasonable, is it? Sometimes I think I am, but other times I hate him. Mostly I just feel humiliated and angry to think what a credulous fool I was. How could I have been so easily

  deceived? And it makes me feel a lot of pain and anxiety too. I don't feel as if I can ever trust another man again. Especially a rich one.'

  'That's ridiculous!' said Greg sharply. 'Just because one man disappointed you, that's no reason to think you can never get involved with another one.'

  To her astonishment, he suddenly hauled her hard against him, tilted her chin and planted a long, thrilling kiss on her lips. Rose felt shaken and exhilarated and for one crazy, impetuous moment she kissed him back with equal fervour. The firelight flared orange through her closed eyelids, yet its heat seemed to blaze not only on her skin, but also in the innermost depths of her body. As Greg's powerful arms tightened about her, she felt an urgent, pulsating need that made her sway dizzily against him. Her lips parted, trembling, and she offered herself to him with a wanton intensity that both thrilled and shocked her. She heard him utter a low groan deep in his throat and that brought her back to her senses. Aghast at what she had done, she broke away and retreated to the door.

  'Look, let's forget that that ever happened,' she said in a strained voice. 'I'm going to bed. Goodnight.'

  And in case there should be any misunderstandings, race she had gained the sanctuary of her bedroom, she turned the lock firmly in the door.

  * * *

  Rose woke early the following morning, roused by the flood of sunlight spilling in through the uncurtained window. For a moment she lay baffled, trying to work out where she was. Then comprehension came jolting back and with it the memory of the previous night. Uttering a low groan, Rose burrowed into the feather pillows and pulled the quilt over her head. Her cheeks went hot with embarrassment as she wondered how she could have been such a fool. She hardly even knew Greg Trelawney, so how could she possibly have kissed him with such abandon? The whole incident was completely unlike her! She had always been calm, sensible, reserved, so how on earth had it happened? She felt angry with herself and angry with Greg too, but here there was a strange confusion in her feelings. He shouldn't have kissed her and yet... if she was honest with herself, she had to

  admit that she had enjoyed it. And, even if he hadn't condemned Martin's behaviour, she couldn't believe that Greg himself would ever do anything so cruel. He was too direct, too primitive, too natural for the sort of calculation and subterfuge that came so readily to men like Martin. And was it really so dreadful if Greg had felt powerfully attracted to Rose and simply seized her and kissed her? It wasn't as though he had a wife or girlfriend; he had told her that himself. Deep down she felt certain he was the kind of man she could trust completely. Of course, it mustn't happen again, she must make that quite clear to him, but perhaps there was no need to end their budding friendship...

  Five minutes later, dressed in furry slippers and a full-length towelling dressing-gown that covered her cotton nightdress, Rose padded warily into the kitchen. Greg was already dressed and busy boiling the kettle on the gas ring, but he turned to smile at her.

  Although he was wearing the same faded jeans and checked red flannel shirt as on the previous day, there was something subtly different about his appearance. Something that nagged at the back of Rose's mind that she could not quite identify... His dark eyes glinted at the sight of her and he seemed completely unperturbed by what had happened the previous night.

  In spite of his rather mocking smile, he made no attempt to touch her, so why did she feel as uneasy as if she had just stepped into a cage with a drowsing panther?

  'Good morning,' said Rose coolly, retreating a pace or two.

  'Good morning,' replied Greg with an undertone of amusement in his voice.

  'I've got the water-heater going, so once you've been out the back you can have a bath, if you like.'

  'Thanks,' said Rose.

  After braving the outside loo, which was dark, full of spiders and definitely leaned to one side, Rose was relieved to find the old claw-footed bath brimming with hot water.

  'Take your time,' advised Greg. 'I'll make some coffee and toast when you've finished. Pity we haven't got any eggs and bacon.'

  But that was a deficiency which was soon to be remedied. Rose had just finished dressing in her severest office suit, which was navy blue with a white pinstripe and made her feel more in control of the situation, when she heard the unmistakable sound of voices from the kitchen. Surprised and curious, she hurried out and found herself warmly embraced by a grey-haired woman of about sixty.

  'You must be Rose Ashley,' said the newcomer. 'I'm your neighbour, Joan Penwithick. I was expecting you on the bus yesterday afternoon but you didn't arrive, so when I saw the smoke from the chimney this morning I thought I'd pop down and investigate.' Joan's brown eyes darted piercingly sideways at Greg as she said this. Rose flushed and launched into a hasty explanation about her lost pocketbook, the missed bus and the sailing trip back from Polperro.

  'And, of course, the weather was so bad last night that Greg didn't think it was safe to sail back home, so he stayed here,' she finished lamely.

  Joan snorted. 'Didn't seem that bad to me,' she pronounced. 'I've seen you out in far worse gales than that, Greg Trelawney. Anyway, why couldn't you just sleep aboard your yacht in the bay?'

  For once Greg looked completely disconcerted, but instead of answering, he strode forward and grabbed the string bag that was dangling from Joan's right hand.

  'Well, what have you got here?' he asked. 'Bacon and eggs? Oh, you're a fine woman, Joan, my love. Why don't you sit down and ask Rose all about her mother while I fry these up?'

  Successfully diverted, Joan took her place at the kitchen table opposite Rose and fired an eager volley of questions about Fay Ashley, who was only five years her junior and whom she had known in their schooldays. A complicated recital of the Ashley family history ensued, followed by an equally complicated account of the Peowrthick saga, complete with the

  news that Joan's second grandchild was due any day now. When she paused for breath, Greg set sizzling plates of bacon and eggs and mugs of hot coffee in front of both of them. Then he sat down to tackle his own hearty breakfast, but he had scarcely swallowed his first forkful of bacon when Joan went on the attack again.

  'Why aren't you at the shipyard in Plymouth, Greg?' she demanded. 'Surely things are too busy for you to have a holiday on a Tuesday?'

  Greg hastily swallowed a mouthful of bacon and scowled at Joan. 'I reckon they can do without me once in a while,' he replied, his Cornish accent suddenly stronger than ever.

  'Shipyard?' echoed Rose. 'What shipyard? Oh, Greg, you haven't missed a day's work just so that you could help me? What if you get fired?'

  It was Joan's turn to choke on a mouthful of bacon, and Greg slapped her vigorously on the back.

  'Well, I don't want to rush you, Joan,' he said. 'But if you've finished your breakfast, I think you'll have to excuse Rose and me. We've got an appointment with the bank manager in Looe this morning.'

  'Have we?' asked Rose incredulously, after Greg had seen Joan off the premises
.

  'We soon will have,' promised Greg. 'Hugh's an old friend of mine and I know he'll help us out. I'll just go up to the phone box at the corner and give him a ring.'

  Feeling as helpless as if she were being swept along by some roaring river in full flood, Rose soon found herself shepherded out of the door and on to a bus for Looe.

  ' What about your boat?' she objected as they bowled away between the leafy hawthorn hedges.

  'I'll come back and fetch it later,' said Greg. 'First we've got to get you a loan to fix up the cottage.'

  'This is ridiculous,' protested Rose. 'Look, Greg, I'm unemployed, except for a bit of freelance programming which I'm finishing off for Inglis's—I was part-way through it when I left and the systems manager begged me to complete it on a contract basis. He'd always been helpful to me, so I agreed.

  But once that's finished, I'll have no income at all. I'll never get a loan for the cottage. Never, never!'

  But she was wrong. Greg might be only a simple fisherman, but he seemed to have remarkably good contacts. When they entered the bank building in East Looe, there was an unmistakable deference in the manner of the staff as they spoke to him. What was more, the manager Hugh Thomas, a short, grey-haired man of about sixty with a cautious expression, treated both of them as if they were royalty.

  'I'll come back for you in half an hour,' promised Greg. 'You should have everything arranged by then, shouldn't you?'

  'Yes, yes, of course,' agreed Hugh, glancing down at Rose and sighing.

  'Now, Miss Ashley, if you could just step into my office and give me a few details...'

  Rose had a dreamlike sense of unreality throughout the interview that followed. After all, she didn't even have a passport as proof of her identity, let alone a proper job or any sign of financial stability apart from the title deeds of Aunt Em's cottage, which were lodged with a local solicitor. And yet Hugh Thomas seemed extraordinarily unfazed by all of this and very soon produced a document for her to sign with terms of interest that seemed to her inexperienced eye remarkably favourable. When Greg arrived after the prescribed half-hour she stumbled out, looking dazed.

  Well?' he demanded. 'How did it go?'

  "He's agreed, she said in disbelief. 'A fifteen-thousand personal loan and another five-thousand pound overdraft facility. And he's supplied me wish some cash for immediate expenses. I can't believe it!'

  "Oh, Hugh's a pretty shrewd man,' said Greg. 'He knows a good business proposition when he sees one. And a trustworthy client. Come on, let's go and have a cream tea to celebrate.'

  He took her to an unpretentious tea-shop down by the waterfront and they sat outside on a balcony gay with red geraniums and striped blue and white umbrellas.

  'It's going to be quite a long time before that cottage is fit to take in paying guests,' worried Rose aloud. 'I'll have to buy a PC with an eighty-megabyte hard disk so I can finish this stock-control program. Oh, dear! How am I going to cope?'

  'That's easily organised,' said Greg, reaching into his pocket for a battered notebook and Biro. 'Tell me what kind you need and I'll try and get you a suitable machine in Plymouth. Now, the next thing is to organise your renovations. I can put you on to some good tradesmen who'll save you a packet, but there's another suggestion I'd like to make to you.'

  'What's that?' asked Rose warily.

  'You know what it's like when you're renovating a house. There's always a terrible mess, no electric power, no proper plumbing, dust everywhere.

  Well, my suggestion is this: while they're fixing up your house, why don't you move into my cottage?'

  CHAPTER THREE

  'WHAT do you mean?' demanded Rose in an outraged voice. 'Move into your cottage?' Greg tried hard to look like an innocent lamb and failed dismally.

  Nothing could conceal the disturbing glint in his dark eyes as they moved lingeringly down over her body.

  'You're too hard on me, Rose,' he protested. 'You're not afraid I'm going to seduce you, are you?'

  'No, I'm not afraid you're going to seduce me!' exclaimed Rose hotly and then hurriedly lowered her voice as she saw several people glance over their shoulders in an interested fashion. 'I wouldn't put it past you to try, but I'm not afraid of it because I wouldn't let it happen!'

  'Then what's the problem?' asked Greg.

  "The problem is that you lure me into doing things that I don't intend to do and that I regret afterwards, like going to see the bank manager—not that I regretted that afterwards because it all turned out so well,' said Rose, getting rather tangled up. 'Oh, you know perfectly well what I mean, Greg. I don't want to be alone with you!'

  Bat you wouldn't be,' said Greg. 'I wouldn't be there.'

  Rose was conscious of an unexpected stab of disappointment. 'What do you mean, you wouldn't be there?' she demanded, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

  Greg spread a scone with jam and cream, took an appreciative bite and then sipped some tea before he answered. 'I'm based in Plymouth right through the week,' he said. 'I'm only ever here on weekends.'

  'Then what were you doing here yesterday and today?' challenged Rose. 'On a Monday and Tuesday?'

  Greg sighed and stroked his chin. 'You're very unsportsmanlike to point that out,' he complained. 'Anyway, that was an exception. Most weeks I'm busy

  at the shipyard Monday to Friday and I only come home on the weekends.

  You'd have my cottage to yourself nearly all of the time and you'd actually be doing me a favour if you stayed there.'

  'Doing you a favour? What do you mean?'

  'It would discourage housebreakers if you were staying in the house.'

  'Housebreakers? In Polperro?'

  'There are purse snatchers,' Greg reminded her.

  Rose was silent for a moment, drumming her fingers on the red and white checked tablecloth and then fiddling restlessly with a geranium in a glass vase. She felt an unwelcome stir of interest in Greg's proposition, but events were moving far too fast for her. In the past she had always thought of herself as cautious, sensible, slow to take risks or tackle new relationships. It had been several months before she had even let Martin kiss her, much less talk her into sleeping with him. And she had never really enjoyed it, which only confirmed her dismal certainty that she was more aloof than most women. Yet Greg Trelawney seemed to crash through her reserve without any effort at all. In fact, his brooding dark eyes and crooked smile were beginning to hold an almost hypnotic fascination for her. With a tremulous leap of the heart, she realised exactly what she feared if she went to stay with him. Not Greg. Herself. A fiery, aching sweetness throbbed through her as she remembered how he had kissed her in the firelight. What would she do if he did that again? Order him to stop or...? A shudder thrilled through her body and her eyes flashed up to his in a swift, tormented glance. It was madness even to think of such things! Madness. No. She liked Greg and trusted him, but she wasn't going to invite heartbreak a second time.

  'It's impossible--' she began urgently.

  'It's sensible,' he cut in. 'Look, Rose, your great-aunt's house is going to be uninhabitable and you know it. You haven't got any money to spend on a hotel and my cottage is standing empty. Why not take advantage of it? Are you going to let your stupid pride stand in the way?'

  Rose's tempestuous feelings found vent in anger. 'That's a very sneakily worded question,' she snapped. 'If I say yes, it's like admitting that I'm proud and stupid, and if I say no, I've played right into your hands.'

  'Touché,' murmured Greg admiringly. 'You're no fool, are you, Rose?'

  'No, I'm not,' she retorted. 'And I'm not going to be sweet-talked into this.

  I'm sorry, Greg, I'm genuinely grateful for all you've done for me, but enough is enough. I don't want to be so much in your debt. And anyway, what about the weekends? What would we do then?'

  'We slept together last night,' pointed out Greg.

  Several newspapers rustled and there was a discreet turning of heads on other parts of the balcony.

 
'No, we did not!' hissed Rose, wishing passionately that she could manage to shout and whisper at the same time. 'You slept in the spare room and nothing happened between us!'

  'Nothing?' taunted Greg.

  Rose's face flamed at the reminder of that kiss in the firelight. She tossed her head angrily and her blue eyes shot sparks.

  'I'm sorry,' she said in a tense, rapid voice. 'But I am not going to come and live in your cottage.'

  Greg sighed and shook his head. "That's a pity,' he said soberly, looking straight into her eyes. 'I didn't think you really cared about convention.

  When I first saw you, I thought to myself, Now there's a woman who looks conventional, but isn't. She's just on the brink of discovering who she is and she's got the courage to find out. Well, it seems I was wrong.'

  Rose flinched at the unmistakable sarcasm in his voice, then she glanced around the balcony and noticed how the other customers' eyes shifted hastily away from her. Her eyes came back to Greg's with a proud, defiant expression. In that instant she reached a hard decision. She knew he was

  intentionally goading her, but there was enough truth in his words to touch her on the raw. Was she always going to hang back from challenges or was she going to find out what she really wanted from life?

  'You're not going to give up at the first sign of difficulty, are you?' she demanded in a deliberate echo of his words the previous day. 'You don't have the look of a coward, my dear.'

  A gleam of admiration illuminated Greg's face. He reached across and gripped her hand so hard that it hurt.

  'Let's go home,' he urged hoarsely.

  Greg's cottage was as spacious as Aunt Em's, but in far better condition. It stood high on the cliff-top just to the west of Polperro, with a dry-stone wall around it, a ship's wheel set in its sparkling teal-blue gate, a garden full of lavender and roses in the front and a paved terrace and dazzling view of the ocean in the rear. He led her round to the back of the house and opened an unlocked glass door which led into a Victorian-style conservatory.