House of Storms (26 page)

'Am I, Jack?' And she could only think how different he was from Rodare. 'It's late, you know. You should be going—'

'Must I go?' His eyes implored her to say no.

'Yes, you must go.' She drew herself out of his embrace. 'Thank you for the strawberries.'

'Thank you for not slapping my face.' He pushed a hand through his hair, and for a jaggedly painful moment Debra was so reminded of Rodare that her knees quaked as she went to the door and unlocked it. Jack came across the room towards her and there was a tinge of regret in his smile, deepening as she swung open the door.

'Little saint,' he said as he passed her by and went out of the room. 'I'll see you in the morning—but we don't work tomorrow. Tomorrow is a holiday and we'll go riding instead. Dream sweet dreams, Debra.'

'You too, Jack.' She closed the door behind him and then allowed herself to sink back weakly against its support. Little saint! His brother's name for her up there on the moon-swept headland, with the air like a wild wine, and the devil let loose in a pair of dark Spanish eyes.

Wearily she pushed her hands through her own hair, then carried the tray with the juice-stained bowls into the bathroom, where she washed them under the tap. Jack's visit to her bedroom was another secret to add to her list . . . not a dark secret like the one she shared with Rodare, but it wouldn't make her stay at Abbeywitch any easier if his mother found out that Jack came late at night to her bedroom, bringing strawberries and cream.

THE palomino's wheaten mane was half over his proud, bright, blue-nosed face and he snickered his pleasure as Debra fed him a quartered carrot which she had brought from the kitchen.

'You're a real beauty, aren't you?' she murmured, for this was the horse which always stood out from the group that galloped along the sands in the morning. High-stepping and somehow joyous, he was exactly the horse she would have loved for her very own; she didn't dare to imagine how much he was worth.

Suddenly she tensed as she caught the sounds of booted feet on the flagstones of the stable yard, then two men and their girlish companion swung into view and Debra felt her heart thud against her chestbone.

'Sharon will be riding Palo.' The words struck loud and clear against Debra's ears. 'I want no damned novice on his back.'

Her hand slid from the satiny neck and she stepped quickly away, her fingers clenching on her riding stick. In her white shirt, corded breeches and boots she looked the proficient rider that she was, and she tried not to show any feeling as she turned to say good-morning to Sharon and the Salvador brothers.

'Hello!' Sharon smiled gaily. 'Are you going riding with us?'

'I invited Debra,' Jack said at once. 'Grand start to the day, isn't it? Just breathe the air!'

'I bet you think Cornish air should be bottled and sold as a balm for the nerves,' Sharon laughed. 'Horses don't make you nervous then, Debra?'

'Not in the slightest, Miss Chandler.'

'I thought they might as you're a Londoner and more accustomed to big red buses, black cabs, and traffic snarl-ups. How do you stand all that clamour?'

'With difficulty.' Debra forced a light note into her voice even though she was desperately aware of Rodare looming over Sharon and herself as they waited for the groom to saddle up the four horses. She didn't dare to look at him directly; already his remark and his tone of voice had told her what to expect if she did look upward into his eyes.

'It must make a marvellous change for you to be working at the seaside and in such surroundings as these,' Sharon continued in her sociable way. She seemed to Debra to be one of those girls to whom the word butterfly truly applied. The kind to be unaware of undercurrents who when the time arrived would make the perfect hostess for a man of means. She looked stunning in cream shirt and breeches worn with tan-coloured boots, the epitome of the type of girl whose photograph often appeared in
The Tatler
or
Country Life
.

Her self-assurance was so complete that Debra felt slightly gauche by comparison, especially as she hadn't taken the trouble to apply make-up in order to take a gallop. Her own face felt schoolgirlish and scrubbed, and her hair was a horsetail secured by an elastic-band.

'How different you are from Miss Tucker.' Sharon's inquisitive glance went from Debra to Jack. 'She was a little dumpling of a woman and she was scared out of her wits of the horses.'

'Horses don't frighten me,' Debra rejoined. 'Though I lived in London and went to school there, my mother has a sister-in-law at Torquay and I used to go there for summer holidays. Her children always went riding so I used to go with them. Devonshire ponies are very mettlesome and those we rode at the local stables were moor-bred.'

As Debra revealed this item of information about her younger days, she felt the look which Rodare flung at her. She felt it raking over her, burning her skin to the roots of her hair. With all her might she refused to look at him . . . the high-and-mighty
hidalgo
who had made her feel so low that she could hardly bear it. She wanted never to look at him or speak to him ever again. She wanted him to feel her contempt and deliberately she turned her back on him and smiled at Jack.

'Which horse am I riding?' she asked him.

'The chestnut, of course.' His eyes were upon her hair and for a brief moment they shared the secret of their midnight feast of strawberries and cream.

The four of them mounted up and as Debra gentled the chestnut she noticed what a picture Sharon made seated in the saddle of the palomino, who was like moonlight beside the strong and satiny black horse that Rodare rode as they cantered out of the stable yard. Jack was on a dappled grey with a swishing black tail, named Motley.

Jack sidled Motley closer to Debra's mount, who had the rather interesting name of Tidy Boy. After being in his saddle only a few minutes she realised why he had the name, he was smooth as silk to ride, with a grace to his movements which were transmitted to Debra. She realised with a sense of thrill that he would be swift as lightning if she let him have his head.

'That glamour-boy is all show.' Jack pointed with his riding stick at the palomino. 'You realise you could beat him on Tidy?'

'Yes.' She gave a sudden laugh, all the hope and beauty in the warmth of the sun dispelling any sense of gloom. All at once the joy in being alive and capable was racing through her veins. 'Yes, Jack, I can feel it.'

They cantered along behind the two riders ahead of them, to the far end of the headland where it sloped naturally to the sands. The tide was. far out and the beach lay like a strand of tarnished gold that stretched all the way round the island ... a perfect track for a race.

'Go on,' Jack encouraged with a laugh. 'Show your paces.'

Debra was tingling with the need to show the
hidalgo
that she was no novice, as he had called her. There was enmity between them and in a strange way it was easier to deal with than those more subtle, more disturbing emotions he had aroused inside her. Now she lived to wrench back from him her sense of being her very own person.

'Dare I?' Already her eagerness was transmitting itself to Tidy, who was tossing his head as if saying to her: 'Let me show that Palo there's more to being a horse than being beautiful.'

Debra smiled at her thoughts. 'I can see why your brother wanted Miss Chandler to ride Palo, they do go well together.'

'Like peaches and cream,' Jack murmured, a slightly teasing note in his voice. 'You didn't like it when Rodare called you a novice rider, did you?'

'I took the remark from whence it came,' she said, her voice and manner cooling. 'What can anyone expect from a man so arrogant he sets himself above the rules of behaviour he makes for others?'

'Wow!' Jack gave her a look that was slightly suspicious. 'You've a touch of the devil in yourself this morning.'

'True,' she agreed, and her eyes were bright green as they dwelt on the broad-shouldered figure who rode ahead with Sharon. 'He wanted to make me feel small in front of Miss Chandler; he hoped I'd crawl away, back into the den where I belong, but you invited me to ride, you said this was a holiday and you are my boss.'

'Ah, the Hartway spirit is rebounding,' Jack said, with approval. 'Any more surprises for me?'

'Yes.' Quite suddenly, with the vibrant sea air blowing her cares away, she made up her mind. 'I'll dine at your table tonight, Jack. I'll put on my best bib and tucker and I won't give a damn!'

'My dear,' Jack's eyes crinkled in a delighted smile, 'what brought this on—dare I make a guess?'

'Guessing games can be dangerous.' And so saying she dug in her heels and set Tidy at a gallop, crying out as she reached Sharon: 'Race you!'

Sharon at once took up the challenge and, as if by mutual, unspoken consent the two men fell into a canter side by side while the two girls raced their mounts along the beach.

The thrill of the race lit a green fire in Debra's eyes, for Tidy was so fleet on his legs he was like silk streaming through the sunlit air. She could hear the pounding of the palomino and that meant he was in pursuit rather than leading, and with all her heart she wanted to be the winner.

She wanted that word 'novice' hurled back in Rodare's arrogant face. And she also wanted to show these people that even if she was a working-girl she could match their skill when it came to the activities they regarded as their privilege as landed gentry.

The rush of air had loosened her hair from its band and it blew like a pennon as she rode. How alive and renewed she felt this morning, so different from the sad creature who had wept upon the black-oak monk seat in the garden last night. A kind of energy poured through her system . . . the energy of the soldier going into battle she supposed it was, and a laugh broke from her as she realised that Sharon on the palomino had fallen well behind and that she and Tidy were still going strong.

Going too strong . . . the realisation hit her all at once. She tried to slow him down but his own speed had gone to his head and he was eating the air, churning the sand, the Arab strain let loose in him.

'Whoa, Tidy!' she yelled, but he knew her to be a mere girl on his back, light in the saddle and barely a burden for him. That he was out of control didn't frighten Debra, and with tightly gripped knees she strove to get the upper hand, using every atom of her skill from those long-ago summers when she had learnt to ride those big, pinky-white Devonshire ponies who had strong wills of their own.

The wind sang past her ears, bringing all at once the thud of hoofbeats bearing down strongly on her and the runaway chestnut. She cast a look behind her and saw Rodare's black mount streaking along in the tracks made by Tidy, Rodare himself low in the saddle, as she had seen the tough-legged Devonshire lads ride the moor ponies barebacked.

Quite suddenly the powerful black horse surged alongside the chestnut. 'Swing him towards the ocean,' Rodare shouted at her. 'Get him into the water and he'll slow down!'

As much as she wanted to defy Rodare, her common sense told her to obey him. Hauling on the reigns she managed to turn Tidy's head towards the sea and directly he found himself plunging up to his hocks in the water, he slowed his pace and she was in control again. A minute or so later Tidy was standing still and puffing his own foam from his nose.

'You Arab devil!' Debra gave his neck a slap, then tensed in the saddle as Rodare's mount splashed his way to her side. She expected a reprimand and there was defiance in the look she flung at Rodare, her hair wildly tangled about her brilliant green eyes.

'That was good horsemanship,' he said curtly, 'even though you could have broken your neck.'

'As if you'd care.' She pushed the hair back from her damp brow.

'I'd care if you broke the horse's neck,' he rejoined. 'I had no idea you could ride like that.'

'I know you didn't.' She stared at the sea, crawling and winking in the sun. She refused to look at him again, though she was acutely aware of his scrutiny of her on the back of Tidy, who now managed to look as if he were meek and mild.

'Allow me to apologise for calling you a novice.'

'I'm only a novice when it comes to being rolled in the hay.' The words burst forth from her pent-up anger and resentment, then she directed Tidy out of the water and cantered him to where Sharon and Jack sat their mounts, farther up the beach against a backdrop of brilliant red squill cloaking the cliff side.

'That was just like a scene from
His Slave
,' Sharon laughed, any chagrin she might have felt at being beaten by Debra compensated by seeing her lose control of her mount.

'When did a spring chicken like you ever see an old silent like
His Slave
?' Jack wanted to know, leaning forward in the saddle to give Debra a congratulatory pat on the shoulder.

'A friend of Mummy's video-taped it from a showing on American television.' Her laughter pealed out. 'Oh, Jack, you wouldn't believe what a giggle it is—almost as good as Laurel and Hardy.'

Rodare rode up and he was frowning. 'I'm glad you're amused,' he said to Sharon.

'Oh, don't be such a grouse.' She pouted her lips at him. 'It was really exciting watching you go chasing off along the sands, hell-bent to rescue Debra. I quite thought you were going to sweep her out of the saddle into your arms.'

'My heroics don't extend into the realms of schoolgirl fantasy,' he retorted. 'The chestnut needed to be cooled down, that's all.'

'Which chestnut do you refer to?' Sharon ran her gaze over Debra's windblown hair. 'I do like that colour; is it a L'Oreal tint?'

Before Debra could reply, Rodare spoke and his voice was heavily silken. 'Miss Hartway's hair is naturally her own.'

Sharon raised her eyebrows. 'What would a man know about it??'