An All-Consuming Passion

by Anne Mather

  ‘Well, what’s he doing, coming here?’ demanded Stephen, looking beyond her to where Morgan was drinking his coffee with cool composure. He glared at the older man resentfully. ‘This is private property, Kane. You’re not welcome here.’

  Morgan finished the coffee in his cup and, setting it aside, rose somewhat cautiously to his feet. ‘Very well,’ he said, shifting his walking stick to his left hand and leaning on it heavily. ‘I’ll wait down on the quay. You won’t object to giving me a lift home, will you, Holly? I told Harding I wouldn’t need his assistance.’

  Holly gazed at him frustratedly. ‘You mean—you don’t have any other means of getting back?’

  ‘Well, I guess I could get a cab,’ conceded Morgan drily. ‘But I understood you finished at lunchtime.’

  ‘I do.’ Holly caught her lower lip tight between her teeth. ‘But it’s only eleven-thirty. I don’t usually finish until two.’

  ‘Ah.’ Morgan absorbed this with a rueful grimace. ‘I’ve evidently misunderstood what Lucinda told me.’ He hesitated a moment, and then shrugged somewhat philosophically. ‘No matter. I can wait.’

  Holly glanced frustratedly at Stephen, and then, either unwilling, or unable, to endure the thought of Morgan dragging himself down to the quay, she intervened. ‘You can’t,’ she exclaimed, aware of Stephen’s disapproval but too conscious of Morgan’s disability to pay it much heed. ‘You can’t walk down to the harbour, and you can’t wait in the sun for two solid hours. You just can’t?’

  ‘Why not?’ Once again, Stephen chose to intervene, his voice harsh and scathing. ‘Heaven knows, the exercise will probably do him good.’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  Holly turned on him then, but it was Morgan who offered an alternative. ‘What else can I do?’ he enquired drily. ‘Unless you choose to finish earlier than usual, of course.’

  ‘Why should she?’ Stephen swept aside the girl’s protests and confronted the other man furiously. ‘It’s not her fault you fell off your horse! It’s not her fault you haven’t the skill to stay in a saddle! And it’s certainly not her fault that the only horses you’re used to are those you hang your clothes on!’

  ‘Well, no one could say that of you,’ responded Morgan mockingly, surveying Stephen’s attire of short-sleeved shirt and wide-legged shorts with a distinctly malicious eye. ‘As I said before—your style is decidedly neolithic, Mr Brent.’

  Stephen’s fists warned Holly of what he intended to do just a moment too late. Intent on keeping the two men apart, she had never considered the dangers to herself. Forcing her way between them, she didn’t anticipate the blow until it hit her, and then the punch which should have connected with Morgan’s jaw sent a stream of coloured lights exploding before her eyes.

  She came round to find herself lying on the leather day-bed in the Reverend Frost’s study. Hannah was seated beside her, applying a cooling sponge to her brow, while from somewhere close at hand, she could hear the low buzz of male voices.

  ‘She’s conscious, Mr Kane,’ she heard Hannah say, as her eyelids flickered, and a moment later Morgan and the school principal came to look down at her.

  ‘Thank God,’ said Reverend Frost piously, and Morgan’s lips twisted.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Dessai,’ he amended, and when the games mistress rose, he took her place. ‘How are you feeling, Holly?’ he added, running tentative fingers along the curve of her cheek. ‘This is going to hurt like hell in the morning. Have you ever had a black eye before?’

  ‘Not that I remember,’ said Holly, finding it painful even to speak. Her head was aching and she felt a little sick. ‘What happened? Did I pass out?’

  ‘Not unreasonably, in the circumstances,’ conceded Morgan drily. ‘Still—it was one way of earning a couple of hours’ remission, I suppose.’ His lips twitched. ‘Poor Brent. He thought he’d killed you.’

  ‘It’s no laughing matter, Mr Kane,’ exclaimed Reverend Frost, intercepting Morgan’s amusement. ‘If what Stephen says is true, you were provoking him in the most insulting way possible. We don’t criticise a man’s appearance here. It’s his worth as a human being we try to measure.’

  ‘Oh, but——’ began Holly, realising Morgan was not about to say anything in his own defence, when he swiftly overrode her.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, glancing up at the headmaster, ‘it was all my fault. Now, I suggest you allow me to take Miss Forsyth home. It’s obvious she’s not going to be able to continue with her lessons this morning.’

  If the Reverend Frost wanted to protest, he refrained from doing so, restricting himself to a terse, ‘Please drive carefully then.’ For her part, Holly was immensely glad when someone lifted her off the couch to carry her to the buggy. She had closed her eyes against the wave of dizziness that had accompanied her attempt to remonstrate on Morgan’s behalf, but she was horrified to discover that it was Morgan himself who was carrying her.

  ‘I know,’ he said, grunting a little as he descended the steps to the playground. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this. But Brent’s disappeared and your scholarly principal didn’t look strong enough, so what could I do?’

  ‘You could have let me walk,’ said Holly, though she swayed a little when he set her down beside the car. ‘Thanks, anyway. But are you sure you’re fit to drive?’

  ‘Just give me the keys,’ said Morgan flatly, though his skin had acquired a sheen of perspiration. ‘It’s amazing what anyone can do, if they have to. Now, get in, will you? Before your friend decides to finish what he started.’

  Holly scrambled into the buggy. ‘You’re not afraid of Stephen, are you?’

  ‘Afraid?’ Morgan grimaced. ‘Why not? He’s quite a formidable character, isn’t he?’ He looked at her. ‘Your boyfriend?’

  ‘Stephen already has a wife,’ said Holly crossly, expelling her breath in an upward motion. She sighed. ‘I don’t believe you’re afraid of Stephen. Where is he? Where did he go?’

  ‘Let’s not stop to find out,’ said Morgan, levering his length behind the wheel and wincing as his spine protested. ‘Okay,’ he stifled a painful groan, ‘just tell me how to get back to your house. I, for one, could do with something stronger than coffee.’

  Lucinda was horrified when she saw Holly’s face, and Holly, who had only had a glimpse of herself in the wing-mirror of the buggy, hastened into the hall, where there was a mirror.

  ‘My God!’ she was whispering, as Morgan appeared behind her, and for once she was indifferent to the sallowness of his skin.

  ‘It will fade,’ he remarked tautly, as she brushed her fingers over the curve of her cheekbone where the swelling began. ‘It’s an advantage really. You can always tell your father I did it.’

  Holly gasped and turned to face him. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I wouldn’t. I don’t tell lies, Mr Kane.’

  ‘Not even to your boyfriend?’

  ‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’

  ‘All right. Stephen what’s-his-name, then,’ said Morgan wearily, beginning to drag himself in the direction of her father’s study. ‘You told him I was—nice, apparently. But you don’t believe that.’ He paused in the open doorway, and gave her a penetrating look. ‘And you’re right. I’m not nice, Miss Forsyth; I’m decidedly nasty. And what’s more, I’ve decided that we’re leaving tomorrow, not three days from now. I’ve had enough of desert-island living. Give me the old concrete jungle every time!’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HOLLY came down for dinner with much reluctance. She hated the idea of having to expose her bruised face to the other members of her father’s household, and while careful make-up had disguised most of her skin’s discolouration, it could not erase the ugly swelling that gave her features a slightly one-sided appearance. But her father had specifically asked that she should join him for dinner and, as she had no wish to re-kindle their animosity towards one another, she had agreed. So far, they were maintaining a rather precarious truce, and alt
hough Holly’s resentment had not dissipated, other considerations had tended to overshadow the bitterness she still felt towards Andrew Forsyth.

  Not least of these was her own unwilling attraction towards Morgan Kane. It was irrational, and obviously not reciprocated, but it was there, just the same; a powerful, and uncontrollable, force that subsequent events had only strengthened, not diminished.

  It was incredible to think it was only ten days since she had imagined she might effect his downfall. When her father’s telegram had arrived, she had anticipated Morgan’s appearance with grim purpose. Two years had caused her to believe—quite wrongly as it turned out—that the youthful feelings she had nurtured for her father’s personal assistant had long deserted her. And even when she saw him again, she had continued to compound the fallacy. It wasn’t until their confrontation, among the burnt-out cabins at the plantation, that she had conceived her mistake, and when Morgan had kissed her, her worst fears were realised.

  Of course, she had fought the weakness, understanding only too well what it could mean. She was not a child any longer to dismiss such feelings as a form of hero-worship. She had admired Morgan as a child, but she admired him as a woman now, even though he had given her little encouragement. Oh, he had wanted her, physically at least, on more than one occasion. But he was a man, after all, who was no doubt used to female company. And ten days was a long time, when he had had little else to think about. The fact that he had been able to control his baser instincts proved that his was not an all-consuming passion. No doubt, now that he was back in London again, he would resume his faintly patronising attitude towards her, and no doubt that was just as well.

  Nevertheless, she had known a totally unworthy sense of achievement the morning they left the island, when Lucinda admitted that Stephen had been admitted to the local hospital the previous evening.

  ‘Micah heard the poor man had a couple of cracked ribs,’ she declared, watching Holly closely. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t know nothing about that.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Holly replied honestly. ‘Perhaps that’s something you should speak to Mr Morgan about.’

  Lucinda hadn’t, of course. And Morgan himself had not mentioned the affair again. But for a while, Holly had nurtured the idea that perhaps Morgan did care for her, after all. A notion which had been swiftly obliterated by his coolness to her since.

  Now, with one hand raised to protect her cheek, Holly entered the library of her father’s house. An elegant, book-lined room, it accommodated Andrew Forsyth’s famous collection of first editions, safely protected behind burglar-proof glass doors. But it was also a comfortable room and one where her father’s guests normally gathered to have drinks before the more formal business of the evening began. Not that Holly expected any guests this evening. Her father had assured her there would be just the two of them, and she was relying on that.

  It was an unpleasant surprise, therefore, to find she had been mistaken. Instead of finding her father in the library, waiting for her, she found a woman there; a slim, attractive, dark-haired woman, helping herself to ice from a silver-plated bucket. She turned as Holly entered the room, and the girl was not unaware of the swift, but comprehensive, appraisal she was given before the woman’s eyes returned to her face. Then, with a smile lifting her lips but not quite reaching her eyes, the woman came towards her, holding out her hand as if she, not Holly, belonged there. Holly felt there was something familiar about her, but she couldn’t think what. No doubt she was someone she had seen here in the past. But, as Holly had seldom attended her father’s dinner parties, she had known few of his staff or their wives outside the office.

  ‘How lovely to see you again, Holly,’ the woman was saying now, and the girl thought how typical it was of her father to do this to her. She was almost tempted to turn round and go back to her own room, except that she had no absolute guarantee that he would not send someone after her. ‘Does your eye hurt? Morgan told me what happened. Such a silly accident, and just when you were coming home.’

  Morgan? Holly blinked. The woman must be someone from the office then. Morgan’s secretary, perhaps. Or her father’s. Though, she pondered, did secretaries wear Christian Dior dresses or move in a cloud of what Holly was able to recognise as Gucci perfume?

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ the woman added, close enough now for Holly to see the faint lines of dissipation around her mouth. ‘But I remember you. Even without that bruise, which does single you out, I will admit.’

  Holly caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, aware of the stiffness of her voice, but unable to do anything about it. She was relieved she had not come down to dinner in the sweater and jeans she had been wearing all day. She might easily have done so, even though she knew her father liked to change in the evenings. May in London was so much cooler than May in the Caribbean, and she had known that wearing a thin silk or jersey dress would have left her shivering. Instead, she had compromised, dressing in a wide-sleeved fine wool jump-suit, with a flattering cowl neckline and trousers that ended just above her ankle. It was black, and she had hoped its darkness would help to disguise her injuries. Even with her father, she was intensely conscious of the disfigurement, and now she welcomed her foresight. This woman had no qualms about drawing attention to the defect, and Holly wondered again who she could be to be so insensitive. The woman was older than she had at first imagined. Not one of her father’s dolly-birds, she was prepared to bet. Yet, it was possible that Andrew Forsyth’s tastes had changed in her absence, and her lips tightened involuntarily at this possible explanation.

  Now, holding up her head, she faced her adversary with grim determination. ‘Do you work for my father, Miss—Mrs——?’ she enquired politely, and was rewarded by a gurgle of amusement.

  ‘Heavens, no,’ the female responded swiftly. ‘But my—my ex-husband does.’ She paused. ‘I’m Alison Kane. Your father and I were able to help one another while Morgan was away, and he suggested it might be a good idea if you and I became friends.’

  Holly felt her jaw beginning to drop and rectified the fault. ‘M—Mrs Kane,’ she murmured, moistening her lips. ‘Of course.’ She should have studied the woman more closely. Although she had never actually been introduced to Morgan’s wife, she did remember seeing them together at one of her father’s dinners some time ago. Some years ago, she corrected herself drily. It had to be at least five.

  ‘I knew you’d remember,’ Alison remarked now, swirling the ice in her glass with an idle finger and then raising the same finger to her lips. Her lips twisted. ‘I hope Morgan didn’t give you a hard time.’

  Holly drew a breath. ‘Morgan?’

  ‘Your father told me you weren’t keen to come back to London,’ she explained carelessly. ‘I’m surprised. I’d have thought London held more for a girl of your age than an island in the Caribbean.’

  ‘Would you?’ Holly was finding it incredibly difficult to be civil to the woman, and her mind was a chaotic turmoil of half-formed thoughts and wild exaggerations. What was Alison Kane doing here? Why did her father desire them to be friends? And did Morgan know that his employer and his ex-wife had become so intimate?

  ‘Oh, I’m sure everyone would envy you a few weeks in the sun,’ Alison was continuing, ‘but two years! I mean—weren’t you bored silly?’

  ‘I paint,’ said Holly, pulling herself together and moving across the room to help herself to a Bacardi and Coke. It was a mixture she had come to enjoy during her time in the West Indies and, although she seldom imbibed very freely, tonight she felt in need of a stiffening drink.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Alison turned to watch her. ‘Andrew told me.’ Andrew? ‘But surely that didn’t occupy all your time.’

  ‘I taught,’ conceded Holly unwillingly, swallowing a generous portion of her drink. ‘At the school on the island.’ She raised her glass in a self-mocking salute. ‘One of the advantages of an expensive education.’

  ‘Even so,’ Alison consid
ered, ‘one wonders why a girl with your—undoubted advantages, should choose such an existence.’

  ‘Didn’t my father tell you that, too?’ enquired Holly, a definite edge to her voice now, and Alison looked distinctly relieved when the man himself came strolling into the room to join them.

  Holly’s tongue clove to her upper lip as her father put a hand on the woman’s shoulder in passing, before continuing on to where his daughter was standing. ‘I see you and Alison have been renewing your acquaintance,’ he remarked evenly, regarding Holly with guarded sympathy, and she thought how typical it was that he should underplay his involvement.

  ‘Mrs—Mrs Kane and I have never met—before tonight, that is,’ she responded tautly, suffering his kiss on her unbruised cheek. ‘She says you and she have—been of some use to one another while—while your assistant was away.’

  ‘Morgan?’ Andrew arched his rather bushy brows, and pulled a wry face. ‘Well, yes. I suppose you could say that.’ He cast an acknowledging smile in Alison’s direction. ‘But first—tell me how you feel this evening, my dear? You still look a little pale.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Holly didn’t want his sympathy, not now, not while Alison Kane was looking on with that decidedly condescending air. What was she doing here? What was her father up to now? And why couldn’t she hate him, when he evidently found her so easy to manipulate?

  ‘Well …’ Andrew smiled now, apparently prepared to overlook her ungraciousness. ‘Let me say, it is good to have you back again. I’ve missed you, and—well——’

  ‘… you never thought you would,’ put in Holly tightly, wishing he would revert to the unfeeling monster she remembered. She paused, and then added provokingly, ‘I thought we were dining alone. I must have misunderstood.’

  Andrew’s expression mirrored his impatience for only a moment, and then urbanity re-asserted itself. It was obvious he was determined to appear before Alison Kane in the role of the all-forgiving father, and Holly wondered bitterly if he was acting this way because of the twins. Maybe he wanted her to think he was a good parent. Or had he another motive for trying to win his daughter’s approval?