The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

by Cheryl Mildenhall

  As Hillary found herself being propelled towards the house, she turned around, hoping that Darius would be close behind. Disappointed, she saw he was already climbing back into the Range Rover and, in a few seconds, had turned it around and was heading up the driveway towards the main gates without even a backwards glance.

  Swallowing her disappointment she entered the house and found herself equally pleasantly surprised by the interior of Harwood Hall. Having expected that it would turn out to be dusty and draughty and sparsely equipped with ancient, lumpy furniture, she was pleased to find the whole of the interior had been tastefully modernised and was very comfortable indeed. Naturally, they didn’t occupy the whole wing, it was much too large. According to her sister, Darius’s conversion meant that the east and west wings were now divided into half a dozen separate living quarters, although their share was by far the largest with four en-suite bedrooms.

  Nestled comfortably in an armchair, nursing a large glass of vodka and tonic, she looked happily around the cosy sitting room.

  Alicia misread her thoughts. ‘Darius Harwood employs a live-in housekeeper to keep it all clean, a young Scots girl called Fearn.’

  Hillary opened her mouth to reply, then closed it and simply smiled at her well-intentioned sister. Eventually she said, ‘Thank you for inviting me, Alix.’

  Alicia dismissed Hillary’s gratitude with a careless toss of her bobbed blonde hair. ‘I couldn’t have you spending the summer in the city of all places, much too dirty and sticky. Besides you’ll be light relief from Chloe.’

  Hillary couldn’t help smiling anew at this. Alicia often complained about her best friend Chloe, groaning at her cynicism and shallowness and how all she ever talked about were clothes, money and men. In reality the two women were as alike as two peas in a pod, the only difference being that Chloe was as dark as Alicia was fair.

  At that moment they were interrupted by the arrival of a young woman whom Hillary had never set eyes on before. Immediately Alicia jumped up and grasped her by the hand, pulling her into the room. ‘Hilly, you remember I said Chloe had invited a friend? Well, here she is. Odile. Isn’t she gorgeous?’

  Hillary had to admit the young woman standing in front of her was very attractive. Tall and slim, with endless legs, her crowning glory was a head of lustrous deep-auburn hair that fell in soft thick waves to the small of her back.

  Hillary smiled and extended a hand. ‘Odile, that’s a French name, isn’t it?’

  The girl smiled back, squeezing Hillary’s hand in response. ‘Yes. I am half French on my mother’s side but my father is English and I’ve lived here all my life,’ she replied – her voice with its soft, melodic tones suited her admirably.

  Just then Chloe sashayed into the room. Divested of the red suede stiletto heels she had been wearing earlier, she padded across the thick-pile carpet in stockinged feet.

  ‘Oh, I see you’ve already met Odile.’ She pouted, then asked, ‘Where’s that darling man Darius? Has he gone already?’

  Alicia nodded her head. ‘He didn’t even bother to come in, I think Hillary must have said something to him to frighten him off.’

  Thinking her sister was serious, Hillary started to protest. ‘No, really, we hardly talked at all.’

  Chloe patted her hand. ‘It’s okay, Hillary poppet, your darling sis was just having her little joke, the truth is,’ she added, dropping her voice, although there was no one around to overhear their conversation, ‘we all think he’s just a teensy bit fabulous, don’t we, girls?’

  Her smile took in Alicia and Odile who both nodded fervently. With a small sigh, Hillary realised that if she was going to make a play for the delectable Darius this summer she would have to join the back of a very long queue.

  Their little party broke up soon after this exchange and Hillary was grateful for the sanctuary of her bedroom, her weary body longing to sink into the cool comfort of her bed. Her earlier session with Michael had overtaxed some of her less-used muscles and they were now starting to make their presence felt. Nevertheless she felt too tired to take a bath.

  Slowly she removed her clothes, dropping each crumpled garment to the floor. Just like the rest of the rooms, her bedroom was spacious yet cosy with soft carpeting in a deep midnight blue and the walls and ceiling marbled in eggshell blue. Fancying she could hear the sound of the tide, Hillary imagined herself to be immersed in a deep warm sea. As she turned she caught sight of her naked body in the large mirror that graced one wall. Surrounded by an ornate gilt frame the square mirror took up almost half the wall and reflected the entire scope of the room behind her including the comfortable, oversized double bed.

  Despite her weariness she contemplated her reflection for a few minutes, turning this way and that in unselfconscious appreciation of her own body until her attention was suddenly stolen by the hoot of an owl outside the window. Automatically she glanced away from the mirror, diverting her attention for a moment to the large picture window. Of course she could see nothing – owls are elusive creatures and the window was shielded from the outside world by thick velvet drapes. With a shrug she turned her head back to resume her study of herself and as she did so felt an inexplicable chill run down her spine, for a split second she could have sworn that someone was watching her.

  In a flash she was across the room and, without stopping to wonder if she was being foolish, jumped into bed and covered herself with the sheet. Gripping it until her knuckles turned white, she glanced around fearfully to see if anyone, real or ghostly, was lurking in a shadowy corner. It wasn’t entirely beyond the realms of possibility, she reasoned, for such an old building to be haunted.

  Eventually the rapid beating of her heart slowed and her breathing and thoughts returned to normal but, despite the bright light of her reading lamp, she couldn’t relax enough for sleep. With a tired sigh she reached for her magazine and flicked through the pages; it almost had bored her to sleep on the train, perhaps it would do the same for her now.

  In another part of the house Darius Harwood was seated comfortably in a large black leather chair, smoking a cigar with deliberate enjoyment. Relaxed and mellow after a good meal and warm bath, he now reclined against the warm hide, his damp body shrouded by a thick towelling robe. In his hand he held an outsize brandy balloon from which he took a sip every now and then, licking his lips with satisfaction after each coating of cognac. It was his favourite part of the day, the time when most of his guests were safely tucked up in their beds. He leaned forwards a fraction and at the mere touch of a button the bank of TV monitors in front of him flickered into life.

  The closed-circuit cameras had been installed on the advice of his local crime-prevention officer but against the better judgement of a good friend of his who ranked high in the local constabulary. In a property like Harwood Hall, where priceless antiques sat incongruously alongside the cheap seaside tat invariably purchased by his guests, security was a must. Cameras were highly visible all around the perimeter of the building and in every room in the main house. Darius was, however, warned against installing them in the converted guest quarters.

  ‘People won’t take too kindly to being watched twenty-four hours a day and under all sorts of circumstances, I mean the bathroom and bed and so forth,’ the police officer had warned him, his already florid face deepening in colour to an embarrassed crimson.

  To this Darius had nodded, said he understood and thus reassured his friend without actually saying that he wouldn’t go ahead and do such a thing. As soon as the closed-circuit TV contractors had done their job and left, Darius ordered his own man to fit a second set of minute cameras, one in every bedroom and sitting room, each concealed behind a large ornate mirror positioned so that he was afforded the widest possible view.

  For good measure, he had tiny microphones installed in the rooms as well. He didn’t expect to be found out, the devices really were well hidden and he paid his man too well for him ever to reveal their existence.

  One screen caugh
t his attention instantly. The new guest, what was her name? Oh, yes, Hillary Fordham. She had just entered her bedroom looking happy but fit to drop. He leaned forwards to watch more closely as she moved around the room, unbuttoning her clothes, stepping out of them, leaving them littered untidily about the bedroom floor. Darius tutted to himself, he hated clutter. With a wry laugh, he reminded himself that he was not interested in her as a prospective housekeeper, her other abilities and attributes were what intrigued him. As she walked towards the mirror he instinctively reeled back in his chair; the picture was so clear it was as though she was walking towards him.

  He drew in his breath sharply, before letting it out slowly as a low groan. God, but she was beautiful! Perhaps not in the conventional way but her body was superb. Like an athlete’s body it was slim, well toned and sinewy with high firm breasts and a narrow waist. Despite the fact that the summer had only just begun in earnest, she was already well tanned, he noticed, although her breasts were paler and, in stark contrast to the rest of her lower body, her pubis displayed a triangle of white skin.

  Reluctantly he dragged his eyes away from her sex, moving up over her pink-tipped breasts, lingering there only for a moment before continuing their ascent. Her heart-shaped face was not exactly classically beautiful or handsome but, well – pretty he supposed, with wide almond-shaped green eyes, pink dimpled cheeks and pouting lips. Instantly he imagined those lips wrapped around his penis and he felt himself stiffen beneath the bathrobe. All in good time, he promised himself.

  She posed for a long time in front of the mirror, admiring her own body. He appreciated narcissism in a woman as it hinted at hidden sensual depths. Again he found his imagination taking over and fancied himself kneeling in front of her in person, parting the delicate flesh of her labia and covering her with his tongue, lapping against her sensitive bud until she gripped his hair and begged for him to stop. But he wouldn’t, he would do more, exploring her with his fingers as well as his tongue until she pleaded with him, not to stop, but to fuck her.

  He couldn’t ignore his own arousal now. Couldn’t resist touching himself, lightly at first then with harder strokes. Encircling his shaft with both hands, he squeezed himself hard then slid his trembling fingers up and down with greater and greater agitation, rubbing and rubbing until the hot, sticky tribute spurted forth like a geyser. In his relief he smiled as the viscous fluid completely covered the TV screen in front of him where seconds before Hillary had just leaned forwards to peer at herself more closely, her pinks lips forming a perfect O.

  Darius slumped back, staring at her semen-spattered face. He laughed weakly at the irony, that was precisely how he planned to see her in real life – in the flesh. He shuddered and let out his breath in a long slow stream, his eyelids drooping with fatigue. Just a few more minutes and then he would switch off for the night, he told himself firmly.

  Suddenly the spell was broken by the hooting of an owl. She looked away, looked back and – he almost cringed – there was a flicker of something in her eyes. Recognition perhaps? Whatever it was he could swear blind that she saw him watching her. But, of course, that was impossible.

  Impossible or not, something had unnerved her. She bounded into bed, pulled the sheet up and looked around nervously. He held his breath, watching her changing expression as the panic subsided. For a while she just sat there, immobile, clutching the sheet to her chin with both hands. She was obviously debating what to do next, he thought. He could hardly stand the suspense; she must realise that whatever she thought she saw was in her imagination. Slowly she relaxed her arms, allowing the sheet to drop a little.

  Darius leaned forwards again his heart hammering with anticipation. Now she might seek a little self-gratification, a tension-releasing orgasm to lull her to sleep perhaps? His penis began to stir again. He found himself wishing he had the power simply to will her to do his bidding – what an interesting faculty that would be. He stared hard at the screen, using every ounce of concentration.

  ‘Drop the sheet,’ he urged, his voice a hoarse whisper in the stillness of the big old house. ‘Lie back and spread your legs. Pleasure yourself so that we may both enjoy your body.’

  For a moment it looked as though she was actually going to comply. Her hands let go of the sheet and it fell to her waist but instead of reaching for herself she stretched across the bed to the small oak cupboard that stood beside it and picked up a magazine. With a sigh he watched her turn the pages, no doubt she would now read until she fell asleep.

  What a cruel irony, he thought. She was wakeful and needed comfort and he would be only too happy to give it. What a shame they weren’t already better acquainted. He tapped his lips with his index finger thoughtfully, debating whether to zoom the cameras in on either the girl’s sister, or one of the others: all three were currently delighting in their own bodies he noticed, glancing at the flickering monitors.

  But he had tired of watching them during the past weeks and, anyway, apart from the redhead the other two held no interest for him. They were too hard, too embittered about life and men and sex. And they chased him. He didn’t like that sort of behaviour. By tradition, the Harwoods were the hunters not the hunted. No, he had had enough for now. Tonight he would go to bed early and wake refreshed, with enough vigour to rise to any challenges the coming day would bring.

  Despite Hillary’s conviction that she wouldn’t sleep a wink all night, she actually fell asleep quite quickly and throughout those dark mysterious hours she dreamed of both Michael and Darius, their faces and personalities becoming transposed so that in the end it was not Michael she was making love to but the mysterious Lord Harwood. Despite their unreality, the images invoked were extremely powerful and although the next morning her mind could not remember the dreams of the previous night her body certainly could. Consequently, she awoke early the next morning feeling distinctly aroused, her breasts and sex heavy and tingling with excitement.

  Not wishing to waste a minute of her first day, she showered and dressed, choosing her outfit with care. As she didn’t know everyone else’s plans for the day, she decided to play safe, selecting a pair of brief white denim shorts, a strappy turquoise T-shirt and underneath a plain white bikini.

  The rest of the house was still silent, not surprisingly as neither Alicia nor Chloe was renowned for being an early riser, so she decided to unpack before going in search of breakfast. Just as she was hanging up the last of her clothes in the capacious oak wardrobe, there was a tentative knock on her door, followed by the smiling face of Odile.

  ‘I’m glad you’re awake. I was planning to go for a walk to the village. Would you like to come?’

  Hillary nodded delightedly. ‘Knowing Alicia, I don’t suppose there’s any food in the place?’

  Laughing, Odile shook her head. ‘Not unless you count truffles, caviar and artichoke hearts.’

  Hillary grabbed her bag. ‘No, they’re not exactly my idea of breakfast.’ She smiled openly. ‘Let’s go in search of real food.’

  If they had walked up the private road it would have taken them quite a while to reach the nearest village but Odile produced a roughly sketched map which depicted a short-cut across the grounds. In less than ten minutes they were on the main road and in another five had reached the outskirts of the village of Harwood which boasted around twenty houses, two pubs, a church and a general store.

  The shop was surprisingly well stocked and they had difficulty deciding what to buy. In the end they chose a plentiful supply of basic groceries, with a few carefully chosen additions including smoked salmon, cream cheese and several French baguettes. The grocer offered to deliver the groceries but they took one of the loaves, the cheese and the salmon with them and walked on through the village and down the road for another mile or so until they arrived at a busy harbour. It was breathtakingly picturesque and they immediately decided to stay and enjoy an impromptu picnic breakfast, seated side by side on the harbour wall.

  For a while neither of them spo
ke, each lost in their own thoughts as they watched the fishing boats come and go. Presently Odile jumped to her feet.

  ‘I must get back to the house, I promised my boyfriend I would call him this morning. He’s coming over to England to stay for the weekend,’ she explained.

  ‘Over?’ queried Hillary, looking confused.

  ‘From France,’ said Odile, looking at her watch. ‘He’s a genuine French Negro – big, black and beautiful. In fact, he claims he’s a descendant of Josephine Baker the infamous dancer of the 1920s.’

  Being particularly fond of that era, Hillary had heard of Josephine Baker and the way she had scandalised Paris with her risqué costumes and dances. If his heritage was as he said, she was looking forward to meeting Odile’s boyfriend very much.

  ‘I’ll stay here for a while, if you don’t mind, but you go,’ Hillary added, noting how Odile seemed to waver uncertainly.

  She stared after the retreating figure until the young woman rounded the corner, then quickly found her attention stolen by a group of children who were fishing for crabs using a single line baited by a small piece of bacon. Time after time they found a crab on the end of their line and hauled upwards excitedly only to see their hopes dashed as the squirming creature broke free and fell back into the water with a loud plop. Sometimes the crab even managed to get away with the piece of bacon, yet this didn’t daunt the children who simply returned to their task with renewed determination.

  After a while she found herself becoming restless. The children had filled one bucket with crustacea of all sizes and were now intent on filling a second. Swivelling around on the clammy stone wall, she watched the car park filling up with holiday-makers. It was at that moment that she noticed the chandlery for the first time or, to be more precise, the chandler.

  In common with all the shops that bounded the quay, the chandlery was built of local stone. Outside were stacked large coils of rope of varying colours and thicknesses, along with wooden crates and tubs of different sizes containing brass hooks and rings and all manner of things that Hillary didn’t even recognise. On the other side of the doorway was a brightly coloured array of more commercial items: rubber dinghies, floats, fishing rods and nets, boxes of beachwear, sandals, hats, and a rack of T-shirts and swimwear. Idly she fingered the garments, wondering why a whiff of ozone suddenly gave people the urge to buy such tawdry items. It seemed to her a typically English phenomenon.