Moon Witch

by Anne Mather

  Then the road curved down again, until neon-lighting signified the object of their travels, a low building, strung with multi-coloured lights, highlighting the words 'Pedro's Marine'. There were plenty of cars parked on the forecourt, and when Jarrod helped her from the car and escorted her across a wide verandah, under an arched entrance and into a brightly lit bar throbbing with the music of a steel band, Sara saw why it possessed so peculiar a name. The bar was situated round a deep sea-water aquarium, in the depths of which was every kind of fish imaginable. Green lighting en-hanced its marine appearance, and Sara leaned on the rail in excitement, fascinated by the variety of shapes and colours.

  Jarrod came to lean beside her, handing her a tall glass of amber-coloured liquid. 'Here,' he said, 'a small tribute to your maturity. It's rum and ginger ale. Quite an innocuous proportion of rum, believe me!'

  Sara found herself smiling, and sipped the drink tentatively. 'Hmn. It's delicious! What are you drinking?'

  'Rum and soda. Rather more stimulating, but perfectly safe, I can assure you. Now, what are you going to choose to eat?'

  Sara's eyes widened. 'How do you mean?'

  'The fish! Surely you realised you chose your meal.'

  'No! Do you? Oh--well, I don't know. What do you suggest?'

  Jarrod looked down into the well. 'How about baked crab? Have you ever tried that? Or turtle steak?'

  Sara gasped, 'Turtle steak! There are no turtles in here.'

  'No, but you might enjoy it. With rice perhaps.'

  'It sounds interesting,' she admitted. 'Do you recommend it?'

  'I recommend anything at Pedro's,' replied Jarrod, as a small dapper little man came to join them. 'Hello, Pedro! How are you?'

  'Ah, Senor Kyle!' Pedro grinned happily. 'It is happy I am to see you again. I did not know you were returning here so soon.' He looked at Sara. 'And your companion also. I have not had the

  pleasure

  Jarrod glanced wryly at Sara. 'Sara, this is Pedro Armendez, proprietor of this establishment. Pedro, meet Sara Robins, my ward.'

  If Pedro was surprised at this revelation, he did not show it. Instead, he bowed politely and suggested that Sara have a second drink on the house. Sara politely declined, and after more conversation, Jarrod was shown his table. The restaurant was in an inner apartment, hung about with palms and tropical flowers, and lighted far more discreetly than the bar. A small band played on a corner dais, and several couples revolved on a handkerchief-sized dance floor.

  The meal was delicious. After a special kind of soup which Pedro recommended himself, she had turtle steak and fluffy white rice, and finished off with a dessert made of oranges and the pulpy flesh of the star-apple. The coffee was Continental and rich, and Jarrod had a liqueur, although Sara refused, deciding the rum she had already consumed accounted for the feeling of wellbeing that was flooding her body. She refused to think about Helen, and the possible outcome of this defiance, and concentrated on the moment only.

  Jarrod was quite an interesting companion now, telling her about the earthquake at Spanish Town and the overthrow of the despotism in the islands. 'The original name for Jamaica was Xaymaca,' he said, sipping his liqueur lazily.

  'I didn't know that,' said Sara interestedly. 'What does that mean?'

  'The Indian meaning was land of wood and

  water,' he replied, 'and I guess that's really what it is.'

  'And so marvellously laid out,' enthused Sara, sighing. 'I mean, a land of wood and water could describe practically anywhere, whereas here everything is so much larger than life somehow. The seas are bluer, the trees are greener and flowers are more colourful!' She sighed again.

  'You ought to work in our public relations department,' he said, laughing. 'If you could describe textiles with as much enthusiasm as you expend on describing the island, I should imagine you could sell practically anything.'

  Sara cupped her face with her hands, resting her elbows on the table 'I'm glad you brought me out, Jarrod.'

  'Why?' His eyes narrowed.

  'Oh, don't be alarmed, I'm not going to be stupid. It's just that--well, I'm enjoying myself.'

  'Good.' Jarrod finished his liqueur, and summoned the waiter. He signed the bill, then said: 'Come on, let's go!'

  'Go?' Sara stared at him. 'But it's early yet.'

  'I know it. Come on, collect your wrap.'

  Sara felt dejected, wishing she had said nothing now. If her words had precipitated their return to Flamingo Lodge she was furious with herself.

  She got into the car with ill grace, not glancing at him as he joined her, turning the key in the ignition. Apart from a slight huskiness in his voice, his cold didn't seem to be troubling him at all, so there was absolutely no reason why they should go home so early. It was barely ten.

  The car followed the winding road through the

  hills, dropping down steeply into the valleys and cresting the small rises without difficulty. It was only as they drove that Sara became aware that they were not going straight back to Helen Kyle's home, for the car was winding lower down the terraces, and soon they were almost to sea-level. The car swung along a headland, and he brought it to a halt above the beach that was silvered with moonlight. Gut in the bay, Sara could see a yacht, and she realised it was the Sea Witch.

  'Don't be alarmed,' remarked Jarrod, 'I'm not aiming to take you sailing. Let's walk on the sand. It's wonderful down here, and we can talk.'

  'Talk?' Sara frowned. 'What about?'

  Jarrod ignored her, sliding out of the car, so that she was forced to do likewise. The path to the beach was steep, and she took off her shoes, and ran down the slope to the sand. Beyond a belt of palms the sea creamed unceasingly, and the sound of it was in their ears, combined with the faint persistent throbbing of a drumbeat rhythm from one of the villas high up on the terraces. It was a perfect night, and Sara thought she had had almost a perfect birthday.

  She ran away from Jarrod to the water's edge, allowing the waves to touch her toes. Jarrod came to join her, hands in his pockets, looking solemn.

  'Now,' he said, frowning, 'we can talk.'

  'What about?' She sighed. 'Must we talk seriously tonight?'

  'Well, I think it's time we considered your future seriously. It's three months and more since you came to live with J.K., and while I know he has no desire to lose you, nevertheless you ought to be thinking about your future.'

  Sara felt a cold hand round her heart. 'In what way?' she asked.

  'Sara, you must realise that you have to have a career. J.K. doesn't seem to understand that young girls nowadays need something more to occupy themselves with than merely playing around. I think you understand this, and that's why I'm discussing it with you, rather than with him.'

  Sara heaved a sigh. 'I see.'

  'Here in the islands you've seen a little of the world you had hitherto not known existed. You must have some feelings about it, something of it must have taught you that life has many different faces.'

  She nodded. 'I suppose so. Travel broadens the mind, as they say.'

  Jarrod thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. 'Matt tells me that you like painting--that you're interested in that sort of career.'

  'Sometimes I think I am,' she shrugged.

  'I could give you a design career with one of the textile corporations,' he remarked thoughtfully.

  She looked at him. 'But not your organisation, I gather.'

  He stared out to sea. 'No, not mine,' he agreed.

  Sara sighed again. Whenever she seemed to be getting anywhere with Jarrod she seemed to come up against a brick wall.

  'Well, I don't want to talk about it now,' she murmured bleakly. 'I might have known that you wouldn't have anything other than business on your mind!'

  Jarrod's expression hardened. 'What the hell do you mean?' he swore angrily. 'Haven't I brought you out this evening?'

  'Yes, but now I'm beginning to think you had different motives from the ones I imagined.' She compressed her lips m
utinously. 'J.K. was right. All you think about is business! I pity the woman who marries you! She'd be falling in love with a machine!'

  Jarrod caught her wrist in a painful hold. 'I've warned you, Sara,' he muttered angrily. 'Don't attempt to meddle in things that you don't understand.'

  Sara struggled to free herself. 'You continually say that!' she seethed. 'But I understand very well. I understand that Lauren Maxwell, Tracy Merrick, even Virginia McKay, are of little importance to you. You only require a woman from time to time, to satisfy your manly appetites, not someone to share your life, to talk with you, to love you! I've just realised how right your father can be! Except in one thing! He thought I'd enjoy this holiday, but instead I'm hating it, do you hear, I'm hating it!'

  And with a sob she broke away from him, running blindly up the beach to the belt of trees, her breath coming chokingly, tears obliterating her view so that she stumbled over an old log and fell among the palms, her dress ripping slightly on the branches. She heard him behind her, and rolled on to her back as he halted beside her. His coat was loosened, his hair ruffled, and he looked angrier than she had ever seen him. He stared down at her for a moment, and then flung himself beside her, uncaring of the damp sand against the immaculate dark suit. Sara tried to roll away from him, but he imprisoned her, one hand on either side of her body.

  'So,' he muttered savagely, 'you think I'm a machine! God, don't you know how much I've wanted you, Sara!' and his mouth sought and found hers.

  At first she struggled, trying to press him away from her, but the weight of his body was too heavy, and after a while the feel of that hard muscular frame against hers seduced her to a state of inertia that drugged her with sensuality.

  'Jarrod,' she moaned, 'please!'

  He buried his face in her hair. 'I warned you,' he muttered violently, 'but you continued to taunt me. Tonight, in this dress, you're like a witch!' His mouth sought hers again, his kisses slowing and lengthening, arousing her to an awareness of the dangers of this kind of lovemaking. She didn't want to struggle any more, she wanted to wind her arms round his neck, and make him possess her completely.

  His hands slid the length of her body, caressing her expertly, while his mouth continued to devour hers, finding too the soft nape of her neck, the creamy curve of her breast, the tanned peach of her cheeks.

  She was on fire for him, unable to think coherently, conscious of nothing but the sea and the sand, and Jarrod.

  And then, with a positive groan of self-disgust, Jarrod suddenly thrust her away from him, getting to his feet and pushing back his hair with unsteady hands. Sara closed her eyes, momentarily, shutting out the world for a few minutes more. Then she sat up, clenching her fists into tight balls.

  'Get up, Sara!' he muttered, turning away. 'Let's

  go. Before I lose my head completely.'

  She struggled to her feet. 'Jarrod----' she began

  uncertainly.

  He glanced back at her. 'Don't speak to me,' he ground out the words. 'I--I'm sorry for what just occurred. I know that's indequate, but there's nothing more I can say, short of promising to hang myself,' and he turned and strode way through the trees. She followed more slowly. She felt sick and shaken, and she slid into the seat of the car, her legs trembling violently. The engine roared to life, and Jarrod drove away, turning up into the hills towards Flamingo Lodge.

  Sara sat in her corner, unable to think coherently. All that kept flooding her brain was Jarrod's rejection of her, and its implications.

  At last he said: 'I apologise, of course. It's no part of my duties to give you a sexual education. I disgust myself. I'm sorry.'

  Sara stared at him in the gloom. 'It was my fault,' she said, in a small voice. 'You know it was!'

  'Nevertheless, I'm old enough to have more sense,' he muttered. 'After the inquisition I gave Matt. .. ' His voice trailed away.

  'What inquisition?'

  'Tonight, before we left. I didn't trust him!' He gave a short mirthless laugh. 'He told me you'd discouraged his attempts at flirtation. I could wish that you'd done the same tonight.'

  'That was no flirtation,' she cried, her voice breaking.

  Jarrod swore angrily, swinging the car round a sharp bend. 'No. You're right,' he muttered. 'It was almost something quite different!'

  'Jarrod, please!' she begged. 'Don't--don't!' She put her hand over her ears, and he refused to look at her until they reached the Lodge.

  Helen was waiting for them on the veranda, her face pale and drawn. She hurried down to meet them, and Sara shrank back wearily. She couldn't face Helen's piercing eyes tonight.

  'Oh, Jarrod,' she was saying, 'thank God you're back! There's been a telephone call from England. J.K. has had another heart attack!'

  For a moment, Jarrod said nothing, then he said quietly: 'What did they say?' He looked pale. 'Is he alive?'

  Helen sighed distractedly. 'I think so. He was when the call was made, but it sounded as though it was touch and go. Oh, Jarrod, do you think he's going to die?'

  Jarrod shook his head. 'Don't ask me questions I can't answer, Helen. Have you rung the airport?'

  'Of course. There's a flight from Montego at midnight. I've made a provisional booking for four.'

  'Four? Oh, I see. You're coming, too.'

  'Yes.' Helen nodded. 'I--I must see him.'

  Jarrod nodded as though he understood that, and then glanced at Sara, who was leaning against the car weakly, looking at them with horrified eyes. 'You heard?'

  Sara nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  'Good. Go collect a few things. We leave in fifteen minutes.'

  Sara nodded again, and hastened up the steps into the house. It was strange how J.K. had been in her thoughts all day, firstly with his card, and then later when she had wanted to telephone him.

  And now he was desperately ill and they might not get there in time. It was frightening.

  As she thrust her belongings carelessly into an overnight case, she thought how terrible it was that J.K. had been so ill while she and Jarrod . . . She bit her lips to stop them from trembling. Was she never to stop making a fool of herself where he was concerned? Everything that had happened to her had been her own fault. How he must despise her in reality, how bitterly she regretted tormenting him, attempting to destroy his control, when now he had to face this--this tragedy, with no one to whom he could turn. Even his mother had had no deep feelings for J.K. and she, Sara, who might have shared his grief, had destroyed any small part of friendship between them.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SARA sat on the wide window seat of the lounge of Malthorpe Hall, staring out over the gardens with unseeing eyes. Only the rain was real, falling heavily outside, soaking the trees and lawns, dripping from the terraces in a never-ending stream. She thought it was a fitting end to a terrible day. This afternoon they had buried J.K. in the cemetery not far from the Hall, where all the squires of Malthorpe had been buried. Not that J.K. had ever been that, but he had enjoyed the same popularity in the village. She had not cried, she had not been able to cry, and her eyes were hot and burning, as though she was running a fever.

  Since the terrible night of their departure from Jamaica she had had plenty of time for tears, but they had not come. In the three days J.K. survived after their arrival back in England, when the best specialists Jarrod could summon were attempting to save J.K.'s life, she had sat for long hours on this same window seat, when she was not at the hospital, sitting by J.K.'s bedside, holding his hand and loving him, willing him to live.

  But it had all been to no avail. His heart was too weak, it could not stand the strain of the second attack, and they had all been so helpless, just waiting for him to die.

  Helen had cried, she had been stricken with grief, and at the funeral had aroused the sympathy of everyone who had attended. It had been a big funeral, an important funeral, the little village church filled to capacity with mourners, many of whom had come from overseas to pay their last re-pects to a man adm
ired and liked in business.

  It was Jarrod who seemed to bear the whole weight of the awful arrangements that had to be made. Seeing him going about the Hall, driving in the Rolls, instead of in one of his fast cars, always dressed in dark suits, his face dark and withdrawn, Sara could see little resemblance to the man she had spent so many happy hours with in Jamaica, for in spite of that last evening, she remembered the good times with despairing intensity.

  Her enforced solitude had given her time to think, time to consider her own future, and to make arrangements to remove the responsibility of herself from Jarrod's shoulders. It had been different when J.K. was alive, then he had been the mainstay of her existence, but now that he was dead, she had no intention of sponging on Jarrod any longer. Besides, no doubt now he would get married, and provide himself with a family, and she didn't want to be around to witness that.

  So she had contacted the textile firm in Bridchester, for whom her grandfather had worked for so many years, and they had offered her a job as a trainee textile designer, a job which while being moderately paid would eventually provide her with an adequate career. For although at this moment, she loved Jarrod as she had been forced to admit to herself that she did, time might ease that partticular pain and give her a tolerable life. She doubted whether she would ever marry. There was no doubt in her mind that she would never stop loving Jarrod, but maybe the desire for children of her own might one day overcome her other objections.

  The door opened, and Lauren Maxwell came in. Dressed in a slim-fitting black suit with an astrakhan collar that suited her golden colouring very well, she looked sleek and sophisticated. Beside her, Sara's pale cheeks, auburn hair and grey dress looked dull and uninteresting. She seemed pleased when she saw Sara there, and said: