by Anne Hampson
'Oh…!' Her heartbeats increased, though she could see no reason why they should. 'I—I'm just taking the air.'
'Sobering up,' he suggested, uncaring for her feelings. ' I saw you come down the steps and felt I ought to keep an eye on you.' So casual! He might have been used to keeping an eye on females who'd had too much to drink!
Naturally Sara was embarrassed, but she contrived to sound as casual as he as she said,
'I have no idea why you should feel I need watching. I assure you I'm not sobering up, as you so impolitely put it.'
'Liar,' he returned softly. 'Why didn't you tell me you weren't used to it?'
She bit her lip. He was far too perceptive, this one!
'I think I shall return to my room,' she began, when he interrupted her.
'What made you come out? A headache?'
Sara gave a sigh of resignation. No use trying to fob him off, she decided, and said yes, she had a headache.
'I thought the fresh air would cure it,' she added, her eyes caught by fireflies glowing luminous in one of the bushes not far from where she and Carl were standing.
'A couple of tablets would be much more effective,' he told her. 'Come on back inside and I'll give you some.'
She hesitated, for although she had mentioned returning to her room, she was enjoying the fresh air, and the scent of the garden after the rain. It promised to be the kind of night she had so very much enjoyed when first she came to the farm. She had not slept very well, and would get up from her bed and go on to the stoep, her dressing-gown wrapped snugly around her. She had been excited by the magic of the African night with its velvet sky spangled with stars, with the enormous moon sailing among the wispy clouds, its argent light spraying the slumbering bushveld.
She looked up at Carl and said quietly, 'I'd rather stay out here for a while, if you don't mind?'
He seemed to frown in the darkness.
'But you've just expressed the intention of returning to your room,' he reminded her.
'I've changed my mind,' she said on a note of defiance.
'How like a woman! Still, it's her prerogative, so it's said. I shall walk with you,' he added, and fell into step beside her as she moved away.
They continued along the flagged path which eventually led to the swimming-pool. Sara stopped, her every nerve tensed. She had never felt quite like this, never been so profoundly aware of the attractiveness of a man. Ray had lit emotions she had never known before, but those were the kind of emotions she had been able to explain. These which she experienced now baffled her. She was excited, expectant, conscious of her heart beating a little too quickly. There was a strange inexplicable yearning within her which seemed all mixed up with the magic and the mystery of the night—the stars flaring in the sky and that clear-cut crescent moon, the whirring of cicadas in the trees, the distant drumbeat which only now penetrated her consciousness. It was just an echo, really, but primitive, haunting…
'Are you intending to remain here all night?' The voice, closer than she expected, drifted gently into her thoughts and she looked up into Carl's face. This was too unreal! She had no right to be here, in this magical setting, with a man as attractive as Carl van der Linden!
'No—er—no,' she stammered. 'I ought to—to be going back.'
'Ought?' with a faint lifting of his brows. 'What exactly does that mean?' He came closer; he was above her looking down and she knew instinctively that were she to move away he would reach out and bring her back. Every nerve quivered; she was vaguely aware that the effects of the wine had not worn off—no, not by my means! 'You haven't answered me,' said Carl very softly. 'Are you going back or aren't you?'
She swallowed, wondering why her throat felt so dry.
'I'm going back, of course,' and determinedly she moved, stepping to one side of the path so as to get past him. The atmosphere between them was electric, and her nerves were taut as, breathless, she prepared herself to resist should he act in the way she fully expected him to act.
'Not quite yet, my dear.' The voice seemed to be edged with sardonic amusement as his hand came forward to grasp her wrist. She twisted about in an attempt to release herself, but his strong brown fingers closed more firmly and a low, amused laugh escaped him as, with a swift and masterful jerk, he brought her protesting body close to his. Her mind was still fuddled, her thoughts hazy as a result, but she did make some effort to escape his lips as they came down to meet hers. With another masterful gesture Carl took her chin in his hand and forced her head up. She saw laughter in his eyes, felt the sensuous pressure of his body against hers, the commanding strength of the hand that was forcing her head up. And then his mouth touched hers, gently at first, caressing in its movement as he invited reciprocation. She swallowed hard, and made another feeble effort to free herself. And then she accepted that she was helpless in his embrace; she steeled herself for his kiss, one part of her angrily determined to allow him no satisfaction at all… but the other half actually contemplating surrender.
And surrender it was to be. His mouth, hard and sensuous, forced her lips apart in a kiss so ruthless and primitive that her already heightened emotions seemed to be set on fire. His arms about her, hard and inflexible as steel, crushed her tender body so that she felt sure it must be bruised. The strength of him was incredible; she made no attempt to combat it, but allowed his ardour to conquer any small mental resistance she might have been trying to sustain. She was soon carried to blissful heights, thrilling in the end to the sort of magnificent domination which he was so easily exerting, making her feel small and helpless… and yet she liked the sensation! Vaguely there flitted through her mind such things as common sense and rational thought, but these prosaic expressions were soon crushed beneath the rapture surging through her whole being.
'I rather thought I'd enjoy doing that,' said Carl when at last he held her at arms' length and regarded her with a sort of lazy satire from that incredible height of his. 'And it's easy to see that you derived a similar pleasure. We must do it again some time.' So casual! He was amused, too, and she had the humiliating impression that he had done this kind of thing many times before. His expression was clearly one of contempt—yes, even in this half-light she could make out that sneering curl of his mouth. Anger surged within her; her eyes blazed as she said, tilting her head to meet his gaze,
'You hateful cad! I hope you're proud of yourself!'
Carl gave a brief laugh, releasing her from the grip of his hands.
'Are you going to deny that you enjoyed that little interlude, Miss Morgan?'
Miss Morgan… How utterly absurd that sounded after what had taken place! And yet she would not have him address her in any other way. What had happened to her during those few irrevocable moments? She must have been mad—quite out of her senses… Yes, she admitted, colouring with shame, she had been out of her senses. She thought: I'll never touch a drop of wine again!
'I most certainly did not enjoy that—interlude, as you call it!'
'You little liar,' he accused softly, and he watched her colour increase, this time with discomfiture rather than actual shame. His lynx-like gaze held an expression of amusement as he added, still in that same soft tone of voice, 'You enjoyed it so much, my dear, that you'd have raised no objection if I'd decided to go a little further '
'Oh!' She gritted her teeth, glowering up at him. 'What a detestable thing to say to me! And what an inflated opinion you have of yourself!' Tears of anger and mortification welled up behind her eyes, but her dominant emotion was one of bewilderment at her own action in allowing Carl to make love to her in that passionate, intimate way. She could have resisted, she told herself… but obviously she had not wanted to resist. 'You sp-speak to m-me as if I'm the kind of girl who would—would———-' A choking sob checked the last words; she turned abruptly from him as the tears rolled down her face. 'I'm going to my room—g-good- night!' And on that she sped along the path towards the steps leading to her bedroom. She heard Carl asking if she st
ill wanted the tablets, but made no answer, and it was only when she had undressed and got into bed that she realised just how intensely painful her headache was.
The following morning she awoke to the sunlight streaming into the room and realised that she had not bothered to close the curtains the night before. Her head still ached and she wondered how she could have slept as soundly as she had. However, what really amazed her was that she had slept at all after what had taken place down there in the garden. How was she to face Carl this morning? The idea so appalled her that she would have crept surreptitiously from his home had that been at all possible.
By the time she had bathed and dressed she had collected herself sufficiently to be able to accept what was facing her with a certain amount of equilibrium. It was not the first unpleasant situation in which she had found herself and she did not suppose it would be the last.
She looked at herself in the mirror after combing her hair and applying the blusher and lip-rouge to her face as she had last night. Irma, despite her natural beauty, had always maintained that make-up gave a woman confidence, and this did appear to be a fact in this present situation, as Sara, when at last she was on her way to the breakfast-room, discovered to her astonishment that she had actually managed to assume an air of confidence which she hoped would remain with her, at least for the next half hour or so.
Carl was already there, looking immaculate even though he wore corduroys which were by no means new, and a checked shirt of several shades of blue from dark to pastel. His lazy amber eyes were without the amused satire she had expected to see in them; the fine lines of his mouth were unsmiling as he bade her good morning.
'Good morning, Mr van der Linden.' She moved to the chair he indicated, sat down unhurriedly and remarked on the weather. Carl sat down opposite to her, answered gravely, agreeing with her that it was a beautiful morning after the storm. And then he said, his eyes flicking over her face in a swift but examining glance,
'I trust you slept well, Miss Morgan?'
She nodded.
'Very well, thank you.'
Anna entered with bacon and eggs which she placed, in their silver dish, in the centre of the table.
Sara finished her grapefruit; Carl finished his and took the two glasses over to the sideboard.
'Can I serve you with bacon and eggs?' he inquired politely.
'Yes, please—er—not too much.' It was the strangest thing, but this attitude he was adopting disconcerted her far more than one of sardonic amusement—perhaps because she was far more used to seeing him in what she herself described as a disagreeable mood. This suave and polite manner seemed to be over-exaggerated and she wondered if, beneath it all, he was in fact amused. The idea gained strength as the meal progressed, with the result that the air of superb confidence which had clothed her like a protective mantle was beginning to fall away and she was becoming vulnerable to any change of demeanour which Carl might decide to display. She was suddenly filled with embarrassment; the whole disgraceful scene came back to her—Carl's mastery and her own lack of resistance to it; she looked at his face across the table and wondered if he were regarding her with deeper contempt now than ever before. If he knew she was in love with Ray— and she was very sure that he did know—then it was inevitable that he should be thoroughly despising her for her conduct last night. In love with one man but not averse to allowing another to make love to her! It was disgusting, and she had to admit that Carl had every reason for despising her.
'You're not eating, Miss Morgan.' Carl's voice drifted to her; she shook her head, wondering if the colour really had risen in her cheeks, or whether she just imagined that her self-disgust was making her blush.
'I'm not hungry. I'm sorry I let you help me to the eggs and bacon.'
He looked at her, subjecting her to that kind of searching scrutiny that made her avert her head, hiding her expression from that shrewd and piercing regard.
'Is there anything else that might tempt you?' He seemed concerned, she thought—but then she was his guest, and so he would naturally want her to have some breakfast.
'No, thank you,' she answered in a low tone. 'I'm not in the least hungry.'
'More coffee?'
'No, thank you.' The position was becoming more and more embarrassing for her, and she toyed with the idea of making some excuse to leave him. But nothing feasible came to mind and after a few awkward moments she said, haltingly, 'I will have some—some more coffee—if you don't mind… ?'
Carl poured it for her, then pushed the sugar box towards her. He hesitated for a moment before saying, in a voice devoid of expression, 'There really is no reason, Miss Morgan, for feeling tie way you do. Have some breakfast; you'll feel much better when you've eaten something.'
'I couldn't eat.' The tears were close; she had no idea just how unhappy she looked, or how ashamed. She could not guess that Carl might be feeling a little bit sorry for her, even though his contempt was as strong as ever.
'You know,' he said after a pause, 'with an incident like the one that occurred last night, there's apt to be an awkwardness of the kind which you're obviously experiencing. I assure you there's no need for this embarrassment, Miss Morgan. I've forgotten the incident, and I advise you to do the same.'
'Forget it? You're asking me to forget it!' Sara felt the tears stinging her eyes and strove to hold them hack. 'I shall never forget it—never!'
'You're still blaming me?'
She shook her head almost instantly.
'No—myself——— ' Her lips twisted into a strained expression. 'I'm not—not used to all that wine, you see.' Her voice quivered as she added, 'I should have refused it; I don't know what made me drink so much.' She was brooding on it and Carl, frowning as if angry with himself, said rather kindly,
'You worry too much, Miss Morgan. Come on, eat something—just a little toast and marmalade. I'm afraid I shan't be able to keep you company this morning as I have some work to do in my study. However, I'm sure you'll find amusement for an hour or two with my books. Irma was telling me you used to read a great deal at one time; I have a library which I shall show you in a few minutes. Browse as much as you like, and if there's anything you want to borrow then don't hesitate to tell me.' His manner was friendly but casual; he picked up the toast rack with a languid gesture and held it out to her. The effect of the way he was adopting with her acted like magic on her wrenched nerves, settling them immediately. Her tears, too, seemed to evaporate, her hand was surprisingly steady as, automatically, she reached forward to help herself to toast. She even managed a fluttering smile as she thanked him. He watched her for a space as she buttered her toast, then suggested that, when she had become tired of her own company in the library, she could go into the garden where, if she liked, she could talk to Masara, one of his gardeners, who would tell her the names of the flowers and trees.
'You know I'm interested in flowers and trees?' she asked in surprise.
'Irma told me that you've been trying to establish a garden at Njangola. As you've come from England I've taken it for granted that a good number of our plants here are unknown to you. If you take a look around my garden you'll be able to choose which plants you want to buy.'
'Thank you.' She fell silent, marvelling that Carl had been able so adroitly to dispel her embarrassment. Last night might never have happened, she thought. 'It's quite true that I've been trying to grow some flowers at Njangola, but it's difficult because Ray hasn't yet decided which ground he's intending to use for the vegetables and other produce for the house.' She could have added that she'd had little or no time for gardening, but she refrained. 'I'd very much like to lake a look at your gardens. Ray's told me how beautiful they are.' She would look at the gardens before going into the library, she decided, for although the sun was shining in a clear sky, it might just start to rain again.
'Usually they're attractive, but you certainly won't be seeing them at their best today, not after the battering they received yesterday. However, wi
th the larger plants, and especially the trees, it's surprising how soon they recover. The sun's been up for three hours already and you'll find that, although as I said the garden won't be at its best, many of the flowers will have dried off.'
Soon afterwards she was outside, gasping in wonderment at the sheer beauty of Carl's gardens. As he had predicted, the flowers on the larger trees had dried off. Masara, delighted at the idea of taking Sara round, spoke almost lovingly about some of the. trees. He told her that the beautiful flamboyant tree on the edge of 1 he lawn was also known as the flame of the forest and the royal poinciana. It was in bloom now, a huge scarlet umbrella with dense clusters of brilliant red petals—but one petal in each bloom was white. The jacaranda was also in bloom, but its pretty bell-like flowers had already begun to fall, forming a blue carpet beneath it.
Masara moved on, leading the way; he named the flowers in the borders—the heliconias and allamandas, the passion flowers, the chenille plants and numerous others, all contributing either colour in incredible bursts all over the border, or lovely foliage to enhance the picture still further.
At last Sara left the garden and went along to the library, where she spent' a couple of hours, which brought her to lunch time. Carl came into the library, and stood by the door, tall, immobile, and too attractive by far.
'Well, have you enjoyed your morning? I'm sorry I couldn't be with you, but I saw that Masara was doing very well as your guide.' Cool tones and polished. He was a very different man from the one he had been last night, and it seemed impossible that he had shown so much feeling, so much ardour. This man before her now, impersonal and with a mask-like expression, was as unapproachable as he had ever been, his amber eyes were as indifferent in their gaze, the thin mouth unsmiling, the jawline implacable.
