by Celia Scott
Where the Gods Dwell
By
Celia Scott
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
WHERE THE GODS DWELL
Lorna had fallen in love with Crete at first sight, but her love for Jason Peritakis took longer to develop. And even when they both confessed their love she was still racked by doubts. Could she, an independent woman, ever really be at home in Crete, with its very different culture?
Another book you will enjoy
by
CELIA SCOTT
STARFIRE
Like many stage actresses, Ashley Morrison had tended to look on film work as beneath her dignity; nevertheless, when she was offered a big film part she decided to accept it—making it clear to the director, Lucas Martineaux, that she didn't intend to make a habit of it. So she only had herself to blame when, having fallen in love with Lucas, she realised what a low opinion he had of her!
First published in Great Britain 1985
by Mills & Boon Limited
© Celia Scott 1985
Australian copyright 1985
Philippine copyright 1985
This edition 1985
ISBN 0 263 75120 1
There is a land called Crete
in the middle of the wine-blue water,
a handsome country and fertile, seagirt…
(The Odyssey of Homer, Book 19: Line 170)
CHAPTER ONE
The timer went off with a noise like an angry wasp. Lorna lifted out the first print from the fixer tray and rinsed it carefully, using a length of borrowed hosepipe. She was using resin-coated paper for all her Greek photographs, so the rinsing didn't take long. Once she'd sponged away most of the water she examined the picture carefully. Her well-defined lips curved in a smile of satisfaction. It was great! Every detail of the shards that had been found on the 'dig' yesterday showed clearly. The distinctive Minoan design on the two larger fragments was particularly sharp. She placed the photograph on a fibre glass screen to dry and attended to the remaining prints.
A strand of silver-blonde hair slipped out of its hairband and stuck to her hot cheek. She tucked it behind her ear, thanking providence that she'd had the foresight to have it cut and styled at a fashionable Toronto salon before coming to Crete. Waist-length tresses might be okay for Canada, but for an archaeological photographer working under gruelling conditions, such abundance was nothing but a hot nuisance. And she liked the sense of freedom her new hairstyle gave her. Short on her neck, but dipping in sleek wings on either side of her face.
She put the last print on the screen to dry and let herself out of the stuffy little dark-room she'd fixed up in the taverna.
Her room-mate joined her on the way to the bedroom they shared. Susan was in her bathrobe and slippers, a sponge-bag in her hand, a damp towel on her shoulder.
'Did you leave me some water, Susie?' Lorna enquired, opening the door to the bedroom and moving to the dresser for her shampoo.
'Never fear! There's lots of water tonight. Vasily filled the tank this morning.'
'Thank God for that!' Lorna said fervently, remembering the time their landlord had forgotten to fill the roof-top tank with water from the river. It had been a very grimy bunch of fieldworkers who had sat down to dinner that night.
She pulled her damp T-shirt away from her breasts. 'Lord! I'm hot,' she said, looking down at her dust-streaked denim skirt and dirty plimsolls, 'and filthy too. I must have half Crete's earth plastered all over me.' She peeled off her sweat-soaked clothes and wrapped herself in a cotton kimono that was the same shade of delphinium blue as her eyes.
'Oh! How I envy your figure, Lorna,' Susan said. She had laid down on her own bed, one plump leg poking out of her bathrobe, 'What are you? A size twelve?'
'I'm a ten,' Lorna admitted.
Susan sighed. 'It's not fair. I never lose weight.' Then her round face brightened. 'Maybe it's puppy-fat.'
'Puppy-fat! At twenty-six! Give me a break, Susie,' Lorna chuckled as she gathered up her towel and headed for the primitive shower. Still grinning she reflected that it was sometimes hard to believe that Susan was one year her senior. There were times when her chubby colleague acted more like a teenager.
Standing under the shower-head—that looked like the rose of an enormous watering-can that had been let into the ceiling—she cranked the handle to release a flow of sun-warmed water. She could feel the day's fatigue sliding away with the grime. While she vigorously shampooed her hair she sang, her voice echoing satisfyingly in the narrow stone-walled bathroom—'It's love's illusions I recall… I ree… eely don't know love at all,' she warbled happily as the water slid deliciously over her firm young body.
Winding her towel round her head and tying her kimono tightly round her slim waist she padded back to the bedroom to find Susan squeezing her ample bottom into a pair of peach-coloured polyester slacks. She struggled with the zipper, then gazed doubtfully at her reflection in the mirror.
'I think these pants must have shrunk,' she murmured.
Lorna diplomatically refrained from making any comment. She put on a pair of briefs and a lacy bra, then started riffling through her clothes that hung in the shared wardrobe. 'Aren't you going to be rather hot in slacks, Susie?' she asked. 'It doesn't get much cooler in the evenings, now that it's "flaming June".'
'I don't have anything else that's clean,' Susan said, looking gloomily at her peach-clad legs.
Lorna pulled a navy-and-white cotton tent dress out of the wardrobe and held it out to the other girl. 'Would you like to wear this? It should fit you, and it'll be a lot cooler than trousers.'
Susan looked at the attractive dress longingly. 'Could I, Lorna? That'd be terrific!' She divested herself of the tight-fitting trousers and Lorna helped her pull the tent dress over her head. The full material settled round Susan's roly-poly body, concealing her bulges, and making her appear inches taller. She turned slowly in front of the mirror and broke into a smile. 'It's great… gee! Thanks.'
'It does look good on you,' Lorna agreed, buttoning on a cream blouse and stepping into a full cherry-red cotton skirt, 'why don't you keep it, Susie,' she grinned, 'consider it an un-birthday present.'
Susan smoothed the crisp material. 'Lorna, are you sure! I… I love it… but…'
'It looks better on you than it does on me. Besides, I've got lots of clothes,' Lorna replied as she tied a soft black leather sash round her waist, 'one of the perks of doing fashion photography… I got things at cost.'
'Working in the fashion world must have been so glamorous. Don't you miss it?' Susan asked.
'Not a bit. It was fun at first, but after four years I was bored to death.'
'Wait till you've spent a few months grubbing around on this dig,' Susan said, 'you won't just be bored… you'll be exhausted.' She pushed her stubby fingers through her short curls till they stood on end in a dark halo.
'Exhausted maybe, but never bored,' Lorna replied reflectively, 'digging up history is too exciting.'
'You certainly seem to be obsessed,' the older girl observed, watching Lorna apply mascara to her long curling lashes, 'I've noticed that fanatical look you get when we make an interesting find.'
'That's not a fanatical look, honey,' Lorna grinned, putting down her mascara and touching the high cheekbones of her oval face with a hint of blusher, 'that's my professional photographer's gleam.'
But she knew what Susan meant. Ever since she'd stepped off the plane at Iraklion three weeks before sh
e'd felt as if she was under a magic spell. In some mysterious way it was as if Crete had claimed her for its own, binding her in a web of its ancient past and colourful present. Everything she saw, felt, and heard, found an echo in her heart, and she was enchanted.
She screwed silver hoop earrings into her ears and slipped two narrow matching silver bracelets on her fine-boned wrists. 'I don't know about you, Susie,' she said, 'but I'm hungry. It's been a long time since lunch.'
Her friend nodded enthusiastically. 'Me too. I could eat a horse.'
'You might have to settle for a goat, we're in Crete remember? Horses don't figure much on the menu here,' Lorna laughed, as the two girls, one tall and golden, the other short and brunette, made their way downstairs to dinner.
Outside, their colleagues were seated at a long table under a plane tree. Vasily had strung small lights haphazardly around a shaky wooden frame, and they twinkled on to the shallow river that tumbled down to the valley below. The warm night air smelled of thyme and verbena.
'Lorna, where have you been? We have been thinking you were lost,' called Nikos Peritakis. He was one of the locals, and was helping on the dig. 'See! I have saved you a chair. Ela! Come!' he indicated a place next to him.
'There are two of us,' Lorna replied crisply. She disliked the way Nikos continually snubbed poor Susan, making it quite clear that he considered her too plain even for courtesy.
An extra chair was brought and Susan squeezed herself in on Nikos's other side. One of the American students poured Lorna a glass of retsina from the frosty communal jug. She sipped the icy resinous wine with pleasure, and helped herself to some crusty homemade bread and a spoonful of 'tzatziki'—a creamy cucumber and yoghurt dish flavoured with garlic.
'Have you heard the news?' Nikos asked, leaning close to Lorna's sleek blonde head. 'My family has returned from Athens.'
Lorna remained non-committal. Nikos was a cousin of the Peritakis family who owned, not only the land where the excavation was taking place, but also acres of olive, lemon, and orange groves, and also a large family villa higher up the mountain, plus vast tracts of land all over Crete. According to Nikos, his older cousin had tricked him out of his fair share of the inheritance when his uncle died, and now he was forced to augment his small income as best he could. He was very bitter about this, and although Lorna had a natural sympathy for any underdog, particularly one who had to put up with a tyrannical relative such as Jason Peritakis, Nikos's whining got on her nerves.
'The wedding arrangements for my youngest cousin are completed,' Nikos told her. 'You can be sure her brother has seen to it that he has gained from the alliance. Jason would do nothing that was not for his benefit.' He swallowed his retsina and poured himself a fresh glass. 'It is sad to be poor, Lorna,' he went on mournfully, 'particularly when destiny intended that it should be otherwise. To be forced to work for one's livelihood.' His black eyes regarded her soulfully.
She broke off a piece of bread. 'I wouldn't know about that. I've always earned my own living,' she said shortly.
'Ah! But you make a lot of money, Lorna,' he waved his hand dismissively, 'and you are North American! With loving relatives who would not see you poor.'
Lorna was beginning to feel annoyed by this conversation. It was not the first time Nikos had implied that she came from a wealthy family. However, she had no intention of satisfying his curiosity. It was none of his business that her parents had died when she was a teenager, and that her older brother worked in Singapore. Nor that her older sister was married to a struggling country doctor in a remote area of British Columbia.
Mercifully, at this moment Vasily arrived with platters of food and the conversation languished.
At this country taverna there was no such thing as a menu. You were served what Vasily and his wife could get that day. It was simple, and always delicious. Tonight they ate 'youvarlakia' which turned out to be meat balls in lemon sauce, accompanied by a huge dish of home fried potatoes sprinkled with oregano, green beans stewed with tomatoes and mint, and bowls of Greek salad laden with salty feta cheese and local olives. A dish of oranges from the Peritakis's orange grove completed the meal.
By the time their coffee had been drunk the full moon had risen and on a whim Lorna decided to take a solitary walk before turning in. She said her good nights before Nikos, or anyone else, could offer to accompany her, and left the brightly lit garden.
Before she reached the road in front of the taverna her landlord called to her.
'Miss Lorna! Please. May I be speaking with you?' She turned back and joined him in the entrance hall. 'It is about your room of darkness.' Vasily spoke rather curious English. 'You are hearing that many more students come from Athens for helping with the diggings?'
She nodded. 'Mmm. Professor Spanakis said twelve are coming from the American School of Archaeology later this week.'
'And I am in the extremes,' Vasily confided, 'where to sleep these students?'
'And you need my dark-room,' she said.
'Your room of darkness would house four,' he admitted, 'perhaps with pressings five, but there is also the question of my refrigeration.' Lorna had been storing her film in the taverna's refrigerator. 'It is my experience that students have the appetites. I must be keeping more food…' His good-natured face was creased with anxiety.
'No problem,' Lorna reassured him, 'I'll talk to Professor Spanakis tomorrow. We'll figure something out. Don't worry.'
She left the greatly relieved Vasily and started walking on the road that wound up the mountain. She wasn't sure how the problem was to be resolved, but something would have to be done. In any case she'd been getting progressively worried about the temperature in her makeshift dark-room ever since the weather had started to get hot. She might have to settle for Polaroid shots only. But she didn't want to do that if it could be avoided. Besides, she still had to store the film somewhere cool. Well! She and the director of archaeology would have to sort it out tomorrow.
She reached the fork in the road where the path ran down to the Minoan site. Tonight she ignored it and continued climbing the narrow mountain road. A gentle breeze pushed her skirt against her bare thighs and ruffled her smooth cap of hair.
She climbed steadily for about fifteen minutes, then stood at a bend in the road to catch her breath and admire the moonlit view.
Above her the dark presence of the mountain loomed. Olive trees huddled in the shadowed slopes below. Lorna made a mental note to return to this spot with her camera during the day and take some shots to add to her Cretan portfolio. She wanted to take enough pictures to make a book about the island. A good book that would say something honest about the place and its people.
She closed her eyes to savour the peace. She could hear a faint murmur from the river whose source was high in the peaks above. In the soft air she could imagine it sounded like music throbbing through the night… it was music! She opened her eyes and followed the sound round the sharp bend and further up the road. Then she saw a square white building, like a dirty sugar cube, leaning against the base of the mountain. Its small windows were ablaze with light, and the sound of Greek music poured out of its half-opened door. From time to time she could swear she heard the sound of breaking crockery.
She peered through one of the grimy windows. The place was packed with people sitting on little cane-bottomed chairs which were grouped around tables. There was a small bar at the far end of the room. Near it, three men sat on a raised dais. One played a small Cretan fiddle, one a guitar, and the third was playing the penetrating three-stringed Cretan lyre. In a cleared space in front of the musicians, men, their arms on each other's shoulders, danced. Now and then one of the dancers would pick up a china plate from one of the tables and smash it to the ground, then continue to dance among the fragments.
Unobtrusively Lorna edged her way into the smoky atmosphere and seated herself at a small table near the bar. When the dance came to an end there was no applause, for it had not been a public display, b
ut a private expression of the dancers' emotions. The musicians took a quick swallow of beer, then started to play again. This time their music was muted.
Lorna ordered a lemonade from the stocky barman. Unlike every other Cretan she had met so far he seemed dour and unsmiling. He ignored her efharisto—thank you—and when he set the bottle and glass before her his lips were tight with disapproval.
She looked round the smoky room. As her eyes grew used to the gloom she began to take note of the bar's occupants. There were some young men in uniform, no doubt on leave from the naval base at Souda Bay, some older men, and a few shepherds wearing the native Cretan dress of baggy trousers tucked into high boots, a cummerbund wound round the waist, and a black turban tied over the head so that the knotted fringe fell over the forehead.
Then she realised that she was the only woman in the place! That explained the barman's surly manner. She had entered a male stronghold. And while no Cretan would ever be inhospitable to a stranger he had made it clear she was not welcome. Well, she would leave as soon as she'd drunk her lemonade. Till then she intended to listen to the music, tactfully watch the various characters around her, and generally soak up the atmosphere.
The music grew louder now, pulsing and soaring. Beating against the smoke-grimed walls like the wings of an eagle. Lorna saw the figure of a man detach itself from a shadowy group near the door and go to the cleared space. He stood for a moment in the centre of the dancing area, his arms raised sideways, the light from the hanging oil lamp falling on his dark wavy hair and sunburnt face. Then he turned to face her and started to dance.
He was much taller than any of the other men in the room, with powerful shoulders and a strong neck. When he swayed to the plangent rhythms she was aware of his flat stomach and lean hard thighs. He wore the modified Cretan costume of black riding breeches and burnished high black leather boots. His white, narrow-collared shirt was unbuttoned almost to the waist, and showed off his muscular chest sprinkled with black hair. A gleaming gold buckle fastened his wide leather belt. His eyes were closed, as if in an ecstasy of voluptuousness. He looked like a pagan god.
