An All-Consuming Passion

by Anne Mather

  Morgan sighed, and then, steeling his expression, he levered his leg over the low rim of the bath. It obviously pained him, but he succeeded in completing the operation, and when he was standing beside the bath, he regarded her with some resignation.

  ‘Harding says I can probably leave here in three or four days,’ he told her flatly. ‘I’ve telexed your father to that effect.’

  Holly moistened her lips. ‘And—and you expect me to—to go with you?’

  Morgan sighed. ‘It’s what your father expects.’

  Holly pursed her lips. ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘I shouldn’t.’

  Holly sniffed. ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘No.’ Morgan hesitated a moment longer, and then began to move with some difficulty back to his room. ‘No one can make you do what you don’t want to do, Holly. You’re over eighteen. You’re not a minor any more——’

  ‘But you think Daddy will make me, don’t you?’ she interrupted him frustratedly.

  ‘I think he won’t make it easy for you,’ conceded Morgan, reaching his door, and briefly supporting himself against the frame. ‘I suppose it all comes down to money in the end. Can you support yourself without his allowance?’

  ‘Here?’ Holly spread her hands. ‘I suppose I could just about manage on what I earn from the mission.’

  ‘And the horses? And this house? Not to mention the Fletchers,’ inserted Morgan shrewdly, strangling Holly’s tentative bid for freedom at birth.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she exclaimed bitterly. ‘He’d use them, wouldn’t he?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know how you can work for a man with so little compassion for his own flesh and blood!’

  Morgan straightened. ‘I don’t deal in emotions, Holly. I deal in facts. And, right now, your father wants you back in London. Whether you go or not is up to you.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IN fact, Morgan did come downstairs for dinner. By the time Holly had recovered herself sufficiently to put in an appearance, he was already seated behind her father’s desk in the study, silently contemplating the dusty Bible which was open in front of him. To her surprise, he was wearing a loose-sleeved cotton shirt and narrow-legged cotton trousers, both of which she had not seen before. They were black, and the sombre colour suited his dark colouring, drawing attention to the swarthy cast of his skin and the pale grey brilliance of his eyes.

  Something of her confusion must have shown in her eyes however, for he met her gaze only briefly before remarking casually, ‘Micah got some things I wanted in Charlottesville. I didn’t intend such a prolonged visit, as you know.’

  Holly, conscious that in spite of her efforts her eyes were still swollen from the tears she had shed earlier, lifted her shoulders dismissively. ‘It’s nothing to do with me. But you could tell me what you’re doing with that book. I don’t believe my father’s power of attorney gives you the right to poke about in private family records!’

  ‘It doesn’t, of course,’ responded Morgan carelessly, but he made no attempt to close the Bible. ‘However, after our visit to the plantation the other day, I was curious to learn about your ancestors. I’ve heard about records like these, but I’ve never actually seen one before. Did you know your birth was entered? And that of your mother?’

  ‘My grandmother kept it up to date,’ said Holly coldly, crossing the room and flipping the heavy volume shut. ‘But I don’t think she would approve of your motives, Mr Kane. As far as I know, she was one of only two people in the world who ever cared about me.’

  The other being——?’

  ‘My grandfather, of course.’ Holly gathered the heavy tome into her arms. ‘Excuse me.’

  Morgan sighed. ‘Your father loves you, Holly,’ he said levelly. ‘You have to believe that.’

  Holly winced. ‘As you said earlier, Mr Kane, I’m not a child any more. I don’t believe in fairy stories.’

  ‘It’s not a fairy story.’ With an evident effort, Morgan thrust himself up from his chair, and followed her across the room to where she was restoring the Bible to its original position on the shelves. ‘Holly, for God’s sake, stop feeling so sorry for yourself!’

  ‘Me?’ She turned to gaze at him indignantly. ‘Feeling sorry for myself?’

  ‘Well, aren’t you?’ he retorted, supporting himself with a hand on either side of her.

  ‘No, I——’

  ‘You want your father to go on supporting you, but you don’t want to give anything in return. Isn’t that the truth?’

  ‘Is that what my father says?’

  ‘No, damn you, it’s what I’m saying,’ grated Morgan impatiently. ‘When have you ever done anything that wasn’t self-motivated?’

  Holly gasped. ‘Why you—you——’

  ‘At a loss for words, Miss Forsyth?’ Morgan gave a short mocking laugh. ‘I seem to have drawn blood, don’t I? Could it be that you actually recognise the truth when you hear it?’

  Holly stiffened. ‘If that’s what you choose to believe, I can’t stop you, can I?’

  ‘Oh, Holly!’ His harsh use of her name was raw with impatience. ‘You’ve got to stop feeling that no one cares what happens to you. They do. Believe me!’

  ‘Do you?’

  The words were out before she could prevent them, and afterwards she tried to convince herself it was what she had intended. Certainly, Morgan did not believe her motives were as artless as they truly were, but just at that moment neither of them was particularly conscious of the other’s interpretation. The question that had sprung so naturally to Holly’s lips required an instant evaluation, and Morgan’s involuntary reaction drove all other thoughts from their heads.

  With a groan, half of anguish, half of protest, his hands moved to cradle her face between his palms. Then, the distaste he felt for his own actions crossing his face in a grimace of defeat, he put his thumbs beneath her chin and tilted her face to his.

  His mouth was as hot and demanding as on that other occasion he had kissed her. Only this time she was prepared for him, and her lips parted instinctively to the hungry pressure of his. With his tongue tasting the tentative sweetness opened to him, Morgan had little strength left to sustain his present position. As the tremor in limbs still weakened by his condition got the better of him, he was forced to allow his body to rest heavily against hers. His chest crushed her breasts, the nipples hardening against his muscled flesh and, as his mouth continued its devastating possession she felt again the intimate thrust of his manhood throbbing between them.

  ‘Do you want me?’ Holly breathed, stifled by his weight and her emotions, and Morgan uttered a sound of self-disgust.

  ‘Would there be any point in denying it?’ he demanded, his breath moistening the curve of her ear. He drew a harsh breath, and pushed himself back from her, his forehead beaded with sweat, ‘It would serve you right if I took up your so-generous invitation! I realise it wouldn’t be any novelty for you. You’ve probably had more men than my ex-wife, and that’s saying something. But somehow, I don’t think you’re thinking of the pleasure we could give one another; only of how much leverage it would give you with your father!’

  Holly wanted to slap his insolent face, but she was very much afraid that, if she did so, he would simply keel over under the blow. And, despite his scornful denigration, she found she couldn’t deliberately hurt him. Not physically, at least.

  Instead, she chose her words with care. ‘What’s the matter, Mr Kane?’ she taunted bravely. ‘Afraid of the competition?’

  ‘Hardly,’ he countered, refusing to respond in the way she had intended. He made his way with some difficulty to the desk and rested his hips upon it. ‘It’s something you learn with age, Holly. Discrimination. Yes, that’s the word. And self-restraint; even in the face of extreme provocation!’

  Holly slept badly that night, which was no novelty, either. Ever since Morgan’s arrival she had been fighting the emotional upheaval his appearance had created, and now, more than ever, she was torn by h
er emotions. She told herself she hated him; that once again he had proved how unreliable he was; that he was her father’s familiar and, as such, incapable of any decent feelings. But it didn’t help. Deep down inside her, she could not destroy the faltering belief that he was not as black as he seemed and, although she knew it was a faint hope, she clung to this conviction.

  She was due at the mission school that day and, as she anticipated Morgan would spend the morning in bed, she saw no reason to alter her schedule. ‘I’d have thought you’d want to be here when Doc Harding comes,’ commented Lucinda sharply, serving her breakfast with a reproving air. She eyed the girl’s much-depleted appetite with a jaundiced eye. ‘Ain’t no use you fretting none. After what you did, seems like you got no choice but to go back with Mr Morgan.’

  ‘After what I did?’ Holly was indignant. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘I told you it wasn’t no good running out on Mr Morgan,’ continued Lucinda, almost as if Holly hadn’t spoken. ‘If’n you’d acted like an adult—if’n you’d sat right down with him and explained the reasons why you didn’t want to go back to England, he might have been prepared to listen to you. But no. You had your own ideas about getting your own way. And where has it got you? Nowhere, that’s what!’

  Holly sighed. ‘You don’t understand, Luci——’

  ‘I understand enough,’ retorted the black woman. ‘Mr Morgan—he told me how it is. Seems like your Daddy needs someone to take charge of his household, now that Mrs Forsyth has up and left him——’

  ‘The fourth Mrs Forsyth!’ put in Holly bitterly. ‘Let’s not forget the numbers.’

  ‘All right.’ Lucinda inclined her head. ‘But that don’t mean nothing. Maybe the poor man just ain’t found anyone to take your poor Momma’s place, that’s all. You should be proud of that; not moaning about it.’

  Holly pushed back the bench and got to her feet. ‘I see Mr Morgan has convinced you anyway,’ she declared unsteadily. ‘But I’m still going to work, Luci. This may be the last chance I’ll get.’

  Stephen came to find her in the middle of the morning. Holly had taken her coffee outside, and was seated on the low stone wall that surrounded the play area, absorbed in the view and totally indifferent to the noise the children were making.

  ‘I hear you may be leaving us, after all,’ he said, causing her to look up at him almost blankly, her mind still occupied with the thoughts she had been nurturing.

  ‘What? Oh—yes. Probably,’ she responded dully, numb to any sympathy on his part. She had had to make the situation known to the Reverend Frost, and she guessed he had lost no time in telling one of the school’s chief benefactors.

  ‘I thought you were going to fight this,’ protested Stephen, propping his hips against the wall beside her. ‘Holly, you don’t have to go. Oh, I know what you said about living in your father’s house and so on, but you could find alternative accommodation——’

  ‘It’s not just the house,’ said Holly flatly, ‘If Daddy was to sell the old Gantry place, what would Micah and Lucinda do? Not to mention Sam, of course. And the horses. What about my horses? I couldn’t let them be abandoned.’

  ‘Horses survive,’ said Stephen shortly. ‘Human beings find it rather more difficult.’

  Holly shook her head. ‘I know you mean well, Steve——’

  ‘… but you’re leaving anyway.’

  ‘I can’t see any alternative.’

  ‘But what about your painting? What about your art? Didn’t you say your father always made it difficult for you?’

  Holly gave him a rueful smile. ‘I don’t think my art would persuade him, do you? Let’s face it, I’m not that good. I can daub a little, but that’s all.’

  Stephen’s lips compressed. ‘I assume this means your visitor has made a full recovery?’

  ‘He’s making it,’ said Holly tersely, not wanting to think, let alone talk, about Morgan Kane, but Stephen was not diverted.

  ‘Harding says he’s pretty tough,’ he continued irritatingly. ‘For a man of his age, that is. He’s in his forties, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s forty-one,’ retorted Holly, unknowingly revealing that she was not as indifferent as she would like to appear, and her companion frowned.

  ‘How do you know?’ he asked. ‘Have you discussed his age? You seem very sure about something that’s hardly relevant.’

  ‘You brought it up,’ Holly reminded him crossly, annoyed that she had unwittingly exposed her interest. Concentrating on the sails of the boats down in the small careenage, she hoped he would take the hint and leave. But Stephen was not finished yet.

  ‘I wonder,’ he said, with annoying insistence, and Holly was forced to turn and look at him again.

  ‘What do you wonder?’ she asked, barely able to keep the edge of frustration from her voice, and he shrugged.

  ‘Maybe you’re not so opposed to leaving now as you were,’ he remarked broodingly. ‘Who knows? Perhaps this man, Kane, has been more persuasive than I thought. What’s he like? You said he was—nice. But what does that mean?’

  Holly bent her head. ‘Steve, please! You’re being silly. As you’ve just pointed out, Morgan Kane is a man in his forties. What could he and I possibly have in common?’.

  ‘How about—Andrew Forsyth?’ enquired a lazy voice behind her, and Holly turned with a start to find the man they had been discussing standing only an arm’s length away. He was supporting his weight with the means of a narrow cane walking stick but, apart from this affectation, he looked perfectly well.

  Stephen was even more taken aback than she was, Holly guessed, as he came abruptly to his feet to face the older man. Yet, although Morgan was older, the differences between them were more pronounced in their physical make-up than in their actual physical appearance. As Holly had once surmised, compared to Stephen’s stocky build, Morgan had the grace and suppleness of a feline, though there was nothing remotely feminine in the lean, muscular strength of his body. It was obvious he was older, of course. It was there in the studied intelligence of his eyes, and in the lightly drawn lines that life’s experiences had drawn on his face. But the comparisons between them merely made Stephen look that much younger, and anyone meeting them for the first time would be hard-pressed to decide how old Morgan actually was.

  However, at the moment, Holly was more concerned with how much of their conversation he had actually heard. The noise the children had been making had deafened their ears to his approach. But Morgan had had time to overcome that obstacle, and Holly’s voice was cold, though she made an effort to speak politely.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. She glanced about her in sudden confusion. ‘How did you get here? Did Micah bring you?’

  ‘Harding gave me a lift,’ responded Morgan carelessly, his eyes on Stephen’s vaguely aggressive face. ‘He wanted to take some X-rays, remember?’ He paused, and then added smoothly, ‘I thought you might offer me a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Oh—of course.’ Holly got abruptly up from the wall, and then, realising the two men had not been introduced, she appended briefly, ‘This is one of my colleagues, Stephen Brent. Steve—this is my father’s assistant, Morgan Kane.’

  ‘I guessed,’ said Stephen distantly, making no attempt to shake hands, and Holly was loath to leave them with animosity fairly bristling between them.

  As luck would have it, there was still a cup of coffee left in the jug when she charged back into the school kitchen. ‘An unexpected visitor,’ she explained to Hannah Dessai, who was washing her cup at the sink. ‘I can’t stop now. I’m afraid Steve will lose his temper.’

  ‘Why? Who is it?’ Hannah’s dark eyes widened. ‘Not your unwelcome house-guest?’

  ‘Got it in one,’ said Holly ruefully, scooping up the cup again and making for the door. Her lips twisted. ‘I suppose my father asked him to check out everything.’

  Outside again, she was relieved to see that so far the two men had not come to blows. On the contrary, as she drew n
earer, she heard Morgan commenting on the beauty of the island, but Stephen’s response was hardly complimentary.

  ‘… yet you’re prepared to deprive Miss Forsyth of its advantages, and dump her in some smelly London suburb,’ he finished provokingly, and Holly caught her breath at this unwarranted attack.

  ‘Steve,’ she exclaimed, reaching them, but Morgan’s voice overrode her anxious protest.

  ‘I don’t believe Hampstead deserves quite that description,’ he observed mildly. ‘And in any case, I’m only delivering Miss Forsyth’s father’s instructions. I don’t have any influence, Mr Brent, one way or the other.’

  ‘That’s a bloody easy cop-out,’ retorted Stephen angrily, his restraint suffering in the face of Morgan’s calm indifference. ‘I suppose you don’t allow yourself to have an opinion. What are you? Some kind of yes-man, or something?’

  ‘Or something,’ agreed Morgan without rancour, making his way to the wall and lowering his weight on to it. Then, taking the coffee Holly proffered with a faintly sardonic smile, he added, ‘Thanks. I never realised walking could take so much effort.’

  ‘I expect you’re not much used to exercise, are you, Mr Kane?’ Stephen waded into the attack again, and Holly sent him an imploring look. ‘Too busy oiling palms and licking boots, I shouldn’t wonder,’ he appended unpleasantly. ‘Don’t you ever get sickened by doing someone else’s dirty work?’

  ‘Stephen, please!’

  Holly was quite desperate, but Morgan was more than capable of handling himself, as she discovered. ‘Someone has to keep the wheels of industry turning,’ he remarked, his bland expression giving no hint of his real feelings. ‘Dare I say, if we’d all—vegetated—on tropical islands all our lives, we’d still be running around in loin cloths and beating each other’s brains out.’ He paused. ‘Or perhaps you would prefer that. You do have a decidedly primitive way of making your point, Mr Brent.’

  ‘Why, you——’

  ‘Stephen, for heaven’s sake!’ Holly stepped swiftly between them, facing the young West Indian with unconcealed impatience. ‘You started this, remember? You can’t blame Mo—Mr Kane for defending himself.’