Born Out of Love

by Anne Mather

  Robert’s eager question diverted Charlotte, and she determined to put all thoughts of Matthew, and the Derbys, out of her mind.

  ‘Well, I expect there are sharks,’ she conceded doubtfully, realising this was something else she had not considered. ‘But I don’t suppose it’s dangerous to swim or anything like that.’

  ‘Mmm. Pity,’ her son remarked disappointedly, and she gasped. ‘Robert!’

  ‘Well…’ His grin was rueful, and the memories she had succeeded in stifling moments before came flooding back. Robert’s resemblance to his father might not be too obvious yet, but his sense of humour was purely Logan’s—that, and his darkness, the sallow cast of his skin after spending too long in northern climes, and the angular leanness of his body which would later acquire the muscular hardness of his father’s. ‘That would be really something,’ he added. ‘Seeing a shark!’

  ‘It’s something I can do well without,’ retorted Charlotte, her tone sharpened by emotion.

  ‘Oh, Mum!’

  ‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘if—and I emphasise the word if—you do get the opportunity to go swimming, I shall expect you to remain within your depth.’

  ‘Seventy per cent of shark attacks on bathers occur in two to three feet of water,’ Robert observed casually.

  ‘My God!’ Charlotte stared at him aghast.

  Robert shrugged. ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Did you have to tell me that?’

  His eyes teased hers. ‘I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Where did you get this information?’

  ‘From an encyclopaedia. When that film faws was showing, we did this project—–’

  ‘Yes, well, I’d rather not know.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Oh no—no, that’s not true.’ Charlotte felt frustrated. How could she explain to her independent son that he meant more to her than anyone else in the world? How could she describe the need she felt to protect him when she knew that Robert would regard her anxiety with typical male impatience of feminine weakness? ‘I mean—if that’s so, then—you’ll have to take care, won’t you …’ her voice trailed away.

  ‘I will, Mum. Don’t worry.’ Robert turned to look out of the window again. ‘I say, do you think this is our driver coming now? Gosh, have you ever seen anyone so fat?’

  ‘Robert!’ Charlotte reproved quietly, although she had to admit he was right. The man approaching the bus must be easily sixteen stones. ‘Don’t make personal comments.’

  But as the man caught hold of the handrail to haul himself aboard, the station wagon Charlotte had noticed earlier, making its descent to the harbour, swung sharply across the sun-bleached stones of the quay and ground to a halt beside him.

  Immediately the fat man turned, a broad grin splitting the deeply pigmented lips, and he nodded his head in greeting as the driver of the station wagon thrust open his door and got out. Tall, lean almost to the point of thinness, in close-fitting denim jeans, with roughly cut dark hair overlapping the collar of a faded denim shirt, the man who emerged grasped the hand the fat man extended. They exchanged a few barely audible words, and then they both turned to examine the occupants of the vehicle with close scrutiny.

  Charlotte, who had been watching the encounter with only scant interest, suddenly felt her breath catch in her throat, and all the blood drain away from her face. The resemblance between the newcomer and the man who had been occupying her thoughts for the past few minutes was startling. There again was the darkness which had been duplicated in Robert’s intelligent features, the lithe economy of movement that reminded her of the sinuous grace of a feline, the detached, appraising stare from eyes which she knew could change, as his emotions changed, from coolest hazel to burning amber.

  But she was imagining things, she told herself sickly and without much conviction. She had to be. The man with the undisguisedly cynical expression who was presently surveying the passengers aboard this ancient conveyance could not possibly be the same man who had abandoned her almost twelve years before, without even troubling to find out whether she had recovered from his assault. It was too great a coincidence. That she should travel half across the world to escape from one situation only to find herself facing something even worse was nothing short of disaster.

  Realising she had been holding her breath, she expelled it sharply, unwillingly attracting Robert’s attention. He frowned when he saw how pale she had become, and said, with what for him was an unusual show of concern: ‘Are you feeling all right, Mum? Your face is all sort of grey-looking. You’re not going to pass out or anything, are you?’

  Charlotte managed to shake her head. ‘I just felt a little dizzy for a minute,’ she replied hastily, looking down at her hands, their dampness moulding them together in her lap. ‘Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be fine.’

  Robert was more shrewd than she had given him credit for being. ‘Who’s that guy who keeps staring at us?’ he demanded in a whisper, bending his head so that no one could read his lips, and Charlotte made the excuse of reproving him for using the Americanism to give herself time to marshal an answer.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she denied, impatience giving an edge to her tone. ‘Robert, stop behaving like a poor imitation of James Bond! He’s probably a government official or something, come to check out the hired help.’

  Robert lifted his head to return the man’s stare, and then grimaced. ‘Blimey,’ he gulped. ‘he’s coming aboard ! Did we contravene Customs regulations, do you think?’

  Charlotte never failed to be amazed at Robert’s grasp of vocabulary. ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’ she was saying, when the dark man came down the aisle between the rows of seats and stopped beside them.

  ‘Mrs Derby?’ he queried politely, and she looked up into Logan’s critical gaze.

  ‘Y-yes,’ she stammered.

  He inclined his head. ‘Will you come with me? I’m here to escort you to Avocado Cay.’

  Charlotte’s mouth was dry. For several seconds she didn’t—couldn’t—say anything, remaining in her seat, staring at him through mists of confusion. It was Logan. She had no doubts about that now. Older, of course—he must be thirty-seven now—with lines etched upon his tanned features which had not been there before, but unmistakably the man who had ravaged her emotions and abandoned her. She ought to feel angry, she thought. She ought to feel resentful and cheated, capable of returning the contempt she could see glinting in those tawny eyes.

  Instead, she felt shaken, and apprehensive; terrified of the complications he could create. She glanced anxiously at Robert, half afraid her expression revealed the turmoil in her brain, but he seemed quite relaxed at this unexpected turn of events, obviously just waiting for her to make the first move.

  She took a deep breath. What could she do but go with Logan? If Madame Fabergé had asked him to pick them up she had no valid reason to refuse his offer, and certainly Robert would think it strange if she showed a preference for the bus now.

  She wondered what Logan was thinking, wishing she could see behind that cool mask he was presenting. Had he decided not to acknowledge her? Were they to behave as if they were the strangers Robert believed? Her heart thumped and she cast another covert look in her son’s direction, mentally trying to reassure herself that Logan could never suspect their relationship. Why should he, after all? She had been married, and so far as he was concerned, Robert was the son of that marriage. Yet if he had guessed who she was, why hadn’t he made any attempt to stop her from coming here? He must surely have as little desire to see her again as she had to see him.

  ‘Avocado Cay?’ she said now, stupidly she realised, and Logan nodded.

  ‘That is where you’re going, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. We’re going to Avocado Cay.’ Robert spoke up with his usual confidence. ‘But Mum’s feeling a bit funny, aren’t you?’ He smiled encouragingly at her before transferring his attention back to the tall man beside them. ‘Who’re you?’

&nbs
p; ‘Robert—–’

  Charlotte’s hasty reproval went unacknowledged. ‘I’m Logan Kennedy,’ he answered the boy evenly. ‘And as a matter of fact, your mother and I have met before—years ago.’ His lips twitched briefly. ‘I live at Avocado Cay, too.’

  ‘You do?’ Robert pushed back a lock of dark hair, his frown mirroring his confusion. ‘But Mum—–’

  ‘I expect your mother’s forgotten all about our brief encounter,’ Logan interposed smoothly. ‘I was an—er—associate of your father’s.’

  ‘Oh.’ Robert looked as though he might be about to say something about that too, but to Charlotte’s relief he gave in to other questions: ‘What’s Avocado Cay like? I can’t wait to see where we’re going to live. Is there a beach? Will I be able to swim in the sea?’

  A faint trace of humour touched Logan’s mouth. ‘There are miles of beach,’ he reassured him. ‘And swimming in the sea is possible. But perhaps your mother would prefer you to use the lagoon.’

  ‘The lagoon!’ Robert looked intrigued. ‘What’s that, Mr Kennedy?’

  Charlotte made a supreme effort and got to her feet. ‘Robert, Mr—Kennedy’s not here to answer your questions.’ She forced herself to look at Logan. ‘I’m ready when you are. Our luggage is stowed somewhere at the back of the bus.’

  ‘I know.’ Logan’s expression hardened as he looked at her. ‘Miguel is presently loading it into my car.’

  ‘Miguel?’ Charlotte glanced round in time to see the overweight bus driver closing the rear flap of the station wagon and her lips tightened. ‘You were sure we would agree, then?’ The words would not be denied.

  Logan’s heavy-lidded eyes flickered with an emotion she couldn’t identify. ‘Why not? The journey is rough, whatever the conveyance, and I’d hazard a guess that physically you’ll feel safer with me.’ He turned. ‘Come.’

  ‘Mum wasn’t looking forward to riding in this!’ agreed Robert, apparently unaware of the undercurrents in their conversation. ‘It’s a museum piece!’

  Following Logan along the aisle to the exit, Charlotte was aware of Robert’s voice carrying clearly to the man standing at the foot of the steps, and she wasn’t surprised when Miguel pulled a face at him.

  ‘What is this? You are calling my beautiful bus a museum piece!’ he exclaimed in mock fury, and Robert grinned widely.

  ‘I’d like to ride with you, Miguel,’ he offered placatingly, ‘but I don’t think Mum could stand the pace!’

  Miguel roared with laughter, and Charlotte, prepared to remonstrate with her son once again for his casual use of the man’s name, bit her tongue. She saw Logan watching Robert with a curious expression on his face and her heart turned over. What if he should guess the truth? she thought agonisingly, and turned back from the inevitable outcome of such a consequence.

  ‘Perhaps you might prefer to travel in the bus—er—Robert?’ suggested Logan quietly, and Charlotte’s nerves jangled at the terrifying possibility of having to make the journey to Avocado Cay alone with this man.

  But Robert took one look at her pale features and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, thanks. Not today anyway. I think I ought to stick with Mum, if you don’t mind.’

  Logan shrugged and swung open the nearside door of the station wagon. ‘De nada,’ he said indifferently, reminding Charlotte that in spite of his perfect English he was not European, and at his silent indication she subsided into the passenger seat with unconcealed relief.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE road up from the harbour was little more than a dusty track, that in wet weather might well become dangerous, Charlotte surmised. Within minutes, the harbour had fallen away below them, a natural basin, which from this height revealed light and colour invisible from the quay. As they climbed higher, the air grew fresher, and the wind through the open windows tumbled Charlotte’s hair about her shoulders.

  The palm groves which fringed the coastline had given way to dense undergrowth which was crushed beneath the wheels of the station wagon where it encroached on to the road. The trees, Charlotte could see, were overgrown with creepers, and their progress sent birds winging into the air, noisily indignant at being disturbed. They could hear water, clear rushing water, that revealed itself in streams and tiny waterfalls tumbling down the mountainside. Ferns and mossy rocks determined its course through pools and cascades, flowering plants clinging to its path for survival.

  They followed the curve of a ridge until the harbour was hidden by the shoulder of the island and thick vegetation gave way to waist-high grasses. From here it was possible to glimpse the shapes of other islands in the group, shadowy mounds rising out of the deepening colours of the sea.

  Robert, who, like Charlotte, had been silent on the journey up from the quay, now exclaimed eagerly: ‘How big is the island?’

  ‘I don’t know—–’ Charlotte was beginning, when Logan interrupted her.

  ‘San Cristobal is approximately twelve kilometres long and seven across at its widest point,’ he stated calmly. ‘Not very big, as you can see.’

  Robert rested his arms along the backs of their seats, obviously regarding this as an invitation for more questions. ‘They’re volcanic islands, aren’t they?’

  ‘Twenty-five million years ago,’ agreed Logan dryly.

  ‘Twenty-five million years! Gosh!’ Even Robert was impressed by this. ‘I can’t imagine that—twenty-five million years!’

  ‘Nobody can,’ replied Logan, swerving to avoid the protruding buttress of a thickly rooted evergreen. ‘But geologically the oldest islands in the Antilles were formed about a hundred and fifty million years ago.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Robert frowned. ‘Have you made a study of the islands, Mr Kennedy?’

  Logan glanced sideways at Charlotte. ‘I’m a scientist, Robert. All—behaviour interests me.’

  Robert was intrigued. ‘What kind of a scientist?’

  ‘Oh, Robert, please—–’ Charlotte glanced round at him, nervously impatient, and then felt dismayed at his obvious lack of comprehension. ‘I—Mr Kennedy can’t want to answer all these questions!’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ Logan was infuriatingly casual. ‘I’m a marine biologist, Robert. I study underwater life, among other things.’

  ‘How terrific!’ Robert was really impressed now. ‘Do you go scuba diving—that sort of thing? Like Jacques Cousteau?’

  A touch of humour lifted the corners of Logan’s mouth. ‘Well, I would not put myself in the class of Monsieur Cousteau, but yes—I do spend some of my time underwater. It’s a fascinating world.’

  ‘I’d love to see it—–’ Robert was beginning wistfully, when Charlotte determined that this conversation had gone far enough.

  ‘How well do you know the Fabergés, Mr Kennedy?’ she inquired politely, as much from a need to penetrate the wall of isolation she could feel closing around her as a desire to prelude her introduction to her employers.

  Logan’s long, narrow fingers slid effortlessly round the wheel. ‘Quite well,’ he replied, after a moment’s pause.

  Charlotte forced herself to go on. ‘I believe Madame Fabergé’s husband is working here on the island. Does he work with you, by any chance?’

  Logan turned to look at her and for a moment their eyes met and held. But the coldness in his was chilling and she looked away as he answered: ‘Madame Fabergé’s husband is dead, Mrs Derby. I thought you knew that.’

  For a moment, Charlotte’s brain spun dizzily. She tried to remember what it was Mr Lewis had said, and she could almost swear that he had told her that her employer’s husband was living and working at Avocado Cay.

  Grasping the frame of the open window for support, she said faintly: ‘I didn’t know that, Mr Kennedy. How could I?’

  Logan shrugged. They had been descending a steep slope for some minutes, and below them stretched the serried ranks of a plantation of some kind. Thick leaves disguised their fruit, but Robert recognised the fleshy green fingers beneath.

  ‘Hey, they
’re bananas,’ he cried excitedly. ‘Rows and rows of banana plants!’

  Logan gave him an inscrutable smile, his benevolence fading when he again encountered Charlotte’s troubled gaze. But he went on to explain that this was the only crop grown in any quantity on the island. They had an unusual amount of rainfall, he explained, and its hilly contours were not suitable for acres of sugar cane. The island was not overly populated either. Apart from the village they could see ahead of them, and Avocado Cay, the small township of San Cristobal was its main settlement.

  The village was a thriving community, with weatherboard houses and stores fronting a narrow main street. Charlotte saw the schoolhouse and beside it the Episcopalian church, the churchyard incongruously ordered among such tropical disorder. She wondered how many other white people lived on the island. She had seen mostly black faces.

  Logan was instantly recognised, and their progress was slowed by his casual exchanges with passers-by. Occasionally, someone would approach the car to take a look at the newcomers, and once a child clung to Logan’s open window, cheekily demanding when he was going to be taken sailing again.

  ‘You ought to be in school, Peter,’ Logan retorted, smiling to take the edge off the reproof, and in the moments before his features hardened again, Charlotte glimpsed the man who had awakened her to an awareness of her own femininity.

  ‘Will I go to school there?’ asked Robert, as the outskirts of the village were left behind, and they passed beneath the hanging branches of a belt of thickly rooted trees.

  ‘That depends,’ Logan replied quietly, and Robert, seizing on something else he had heard, went on:

  ‘Do you sail, too? What kind of a boat do you have?’

  Charlotte licked her dry lips. ‘Perhaps you could explain why you thought I should have known Madame Fabergé’s husband was dead,’ she suggested tautly, ignoring Robert’s impatient sigh.

  Logan reached forward and pulled a case of cheroots from the glove compartment, expertly flicking the pack until his lips could fasten round one slender stem and withdraw it. Then he felt in his pocket for a lighter, and applied the flame to its tip before replying.