The Judas Trap

by Anne Mather

  ‘Why not?’ His eyes were burning amber. ‘After all, it’s not every day a girl is prepared to risk her—doubtful virginity to protect her best friend!’

  Sara’s face flamed. ‘She’s not my best friend—’ ‘And you say you’re not a virgin. Although I beg leave to doubt that,’ he mocked.

  ‘Besides, she wouldn’t expect you to—to—’

  ‘What?’ His eyes glinted. ‘Seduce you? No, probably not.’

  ‘Well then…’

  ‘I offered her much worse.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sara’s eyes were wary as her earlier fears were realised. ‘What—what did you say in that letter?’

  Michael hesitated. Then he said quietly: ‘Does it really matter? It was enough to frighten her. And she used you as her Judas sheep!’

  Sara winced. Put like that it sounded so cold, so callous, so unfeeling. Diane had treated her as she had treated Adam—and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Or was there? Surely the last thing Diane would expect her to do was to remain at Ravens Mill. No doubt she assumed Sara would return to London posthaste, bearing Adam’s message with her, eager for explanations. She probably thought she could neutralise Sara’s objections as easily as Sara herself had neutralised Adam’s, and perhaps if it had been her husband waiting at Ravens Mill, her plans would have succeeded.

  But Adam was dead, a fact that Diane did not know, and would not know until she, Sara, broke the news to her. What if Sara did not contact her? What if she let Diane sweat it out, as she had had to do? Let her suffer the pangs of anxiety, and possibly remorse? Let her wait and wonder, and worry what Adam might have done to her young associate?

  Michael had been watching the play of emotions across her young face with a curious expression in his eyes. Now he heaved a heavy sigh and said flatly: ‘All right. If you won’t let me persuade you—’

  ‘No! Wait!’ Sara put out a hand, withdrawing it again abruptly when it contacted the fine wool of his dark grey sweater. ‘I mean—I—I don’t know. I—I might stay—’

  Michael’s long lashes came to veil his eyes. ‘Why?’ he demanded now. ‘What has motivated your change of heart? Pity?’

  ‘Pity?’ she gasped. ‘Of course not. Not for you, anyway. For myself perhaps.’ She paused, drawing herself up with trembling dignity. ‘What—what you said about Diane—I—I believe you.’ She swallowed convulsively. ‘If—if I return to London, I would have to tell her that—that Adam is dead. Why—why should I do that?’

  A trace of admiration lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘Why indeed?’

  ‘I mean, why should I let her—let her off the hook?’

  ‘You don’t have to convince me,’ Michael retorted dryly, and her pulses raced at the recklessness she was feeling.

  ‘But,’ she continued carefully, ‘if—if I do stay here—’

  ‘Conditions?’ he enquired shortly, and she felt the familiar constriction in her chest that warned she had not had her medication that morning.

  ‘There—there have to be—certain arrangements made,’ she insisted. ‘We—that is, if I do stay here, I—I intend to work.’

  ‘I’m not arguing with that, am I?’

  ‘And—and of course—’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ His patience gave out. ‘I know what you’re going to say, and there’s no need. Haven’t I told you? You have nothing to fear from me. You don’t imagine I’d force myself on you, do you? All I suggested was that we should get to know one another. If you find you can’t go along with that, then just forget I’m here!’ And without another word he left her, striding out though the open door and slamming it noisily behind him.

  Forget he was here! Sara’s mouth was dry, as she silently repeated his words. She wondered what he would say if she told him it was not he who frightened her, but herself, the abandoned being who had welcomed his lovemaking the night before and whose demands might not always be controllable. Diane had taken a risk by sending her here, but she was taking a bigger risk by remaining. Would he still want her to stay if he found out she was not the robust young woman he imagined her to be? What would his reactions be if he discovered her secret? And why was it so important to her that he should not find out?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SARA WAS GIVEN a room in the west wing. Although it was on the landward side of the house, because of the vagaries of the coastline she could see the Atlantic breakers from her windows, coiling and swelling, and spitting their foam on to the ragged needle rocks. To the immediate west, the barren sweep of moorland was no more inviting, but with the sun turning its gorse-strewn slopes to gold, it had a stark beauty. She wondered where the house had got its name. There seemed nothing here to warrant the need for a mill, and certainly there was no mill-race rushing down into the boiling waters below the house.

  The room which Mrs Penworthy had prepared for her was infinitely more appealing. It was old-fashioned, like the rest of the house, but the sprigged wallpaper and pastel-shaded curtains and coverlet seemed to indicate a more feminine touch. There was a chintz skirt on the dressing table, and a set of brushes with a petit-point motif, and the drawers were all scented with a distinctive perfume. Sara wondered whose room it had been. Diane’s perhaps? But she discounted this supposition. Diane would never use such a simple fragrance.

  Michael had carried her luggage upstairs, and then left her to her own devices. She didn’t know where he was, although she thought she had heard a car start up somewhere near the house after he had deposited her cases without ceremony on the bed. He had not looked at her as she stood hesitantly by the window and she had made no attempt to speak to him in this curiously withdrawn mood.

  Unpacking her belongings, she was again plagued with doubts as to the wisdom of what she was doing. It was all very well feeling resentment towards Diane, but was she behaving any more sensibly by staying, by risking another encounter such as the one she and Michael had had the night before? Apart from everything else, there was the growing awareness of what could result from such an encounter. If Michael had made love to her, without any thought of the outcome, she might have become pregnant. Pregnant! Her heart palpitated, and she grasped one of the bedposts for support. What would her doctor say to that? He had always maintained that she should avoid stress, and what was having a baby, if not stressful? She had no doubt that had Doctor Harding suspected that she might get seriously involved with some man, he would have warned her of the dangers of having children. But as she had never given him any cause for concern in that direction, naturally the subject had not really been considered. Like her mother, Doctor Harding had never encouraged her to get married, and anyone—any man, that was—who learned of her condition soon lost interest.

  Her arched brows drawing together, she moved to stand in front of the leaved mirrors of the dressing table. She saw a slim girl, though not painfully so, with high cheekbones and a generous mouth. The lower lip was slightly fuller than the upper one, a sensuous detail, though she was unaware of it, which matched the sultry darkness of green eyes, sheltering behind sweeping golden lashes. Her hair was long and silky, almost as pale as her face, the only revealing characteristic of her whole make-up. Men had been attracted to her in the past, but her mother had always been around to fend them off, to warn them of her fragility—and lock her inside the ivory tower of her weakness, like some delicate Sleeping Beauty, just waiting for her prince to appear and break the magic spell. But no prince appeared; only Tony, with his predictable approach, and his equally predictable reaction to the truth.

  Putting up both hands, she lifted her hair off her neck in an uncharacteristically defiant gesture. The movement sent her firm breasts surging against the thin silk of her shirt, outlining their fullness in curiously satisfying detail. She was reasonably attractive, she told herself half defensively, totally unaware of her own sensuality, only needing the reassurance that Michael had not been lying to her. She wasn’t beautiful, like Diane, she thought, whose skin had a rosy gl
ow, and whose hair was more yellow than gold. But she did have nice eyes, and her legs were quite good…

  With a feeling of frustration she dropped her arms and turned away from the mirror. What was the point of pretending? she asked herself impatiently. She couldn’t compete with Diane, and her health made it impossible for her to try. She was acting like a schoolgirl, wishing for the moon, and the sooner she came down to earth and faced reality, the better. Michael wouldn’t send her away, particularly if she told him the truth; but why, oh, why didn’t she want to stay on those terms? She was more like Cinderella than the Sleeping Beauty, she decided wryly. Living on borrowed time, waiting for midnight to strike.

  A tap on her door brought her round with a start, her pulses, as usual, reacting like frightened rabbits’.

  ‘Y-yes?’ she called, fighting the constriction in her throat. ‘Who—who is it?’

  ‘Only me, miss.’ The door opened and Mrs Penworthy appeared, carrying a tray. ‘I thought you might like some coffee, seeing as how you didn’t touch your breakfast. And what time would you like your lunch?’

  Sara was grateful for her consideration. ‘Coffee!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s exactly what I need. And—and I’ll have lunch whenever Mr Tregower is ready.’

  ‘Ah…’ Mrs Penworthy set down the tray on the folding table in the window embrasure. ‘Mr Tregower may not be back for lunch, miss. Didn’t he tell you? He’s away over to Falmouth to see Mr Adam’s solicitor.’

  ‘Oh!’ Sara absorbed this with what she hoped was casual interest. ‘He—er—he may have mentioned it.’ Looking down at the tray, she added: ‘Did he also tell you I intend to work while I’m here? I wondered—is there a desk in the house, other than in—in the library?’

  Mrs Penworthy looked doubtful. ‘Well, there’s Mr Adam’s study, miss. That’s never used these days. I suppose you might use that, but you’d have to ask Mr Tregower first.’

  ‘Of course.’ Sara nodded, fingering the spoon in its saucer, noticing that although Mrs Penworthy called Diane’s late husband by his name, she always said Mr Tregower, when she spoke of Michael. She wondered why. Was that really his name? If he was born on the wrong side of the blanket, as he maintained, might his name not be something else entirely?

  ‘What kind of work were you thinking of doing, miss?’ enquired Mrs Penworthy, no doubt emboldened, Sara thought wryly, by her own timid attitude.

  ‘I write,’ she said now, lifting her head and looking the woman squarely in the eyes. ‘I’m writing a book.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Mrs Penworthy was evidently impressed. ‘Well now, isn’t that interesting? A writer! You should have met Mr Adam’s wife. She’s an actress, you know. Quite a famous one, so I’m told. You and she would have got along famously, having so much in common.’

  Sara bent her head. So Michael had not mentioned who she was. Only her name, and that she was a friend of his, no doubt. She wondered what Mrs Penworthy really imagined their relationship to be. She had obviously surprised her when she told her she had come there to work. But had Michael been able to convince the housekeeper that her arrival had been as unexpected as he maintained?

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said now, in answer to the woman’s probing observation. ‘Writers are not like actresses, Mrs Penworthy. They like their—privacy. They don’t seek the limelight. At least, not usually.’

  ‘I expect some do and some don’t,’ retorted the housekeeper, her sharp eyes darting round the room as she spoke, taking in the tumble of Sara’s lingerie upon the bed, the woollens and pants that littered her opened cases. ‘Should I finish unpacking for you?’

  ‘Oh—no, thank you.’ This time Sara’s tone was firm. ‘I can manage.’

  ‘Very well, miss.’ Almost regretfully, Mrs Penworthy picked up a smoky-blue cashmere sweater and smoothed it over her arm. ‘This is pretty, isn’t it? But I can’t help noticing you don’t appear to have brought many dresses with you. Now, if there’s anything you want pressing, you have only to say.’

  ‘Thank you, but I came here for a working holiday, Mrs Penworthy, not to be entertained.’ Sara had difficulty in keeping her tone polite. ‘Now, I think if we have lunch at one o’clock, that should give—Mr Tregower time to get back if he’s coming, don’t you?’

  It was a dismissal, and Mrs Penworthy took it, but after she had gone Sara was not surprised to find she was shaking. She had never dismissed anybody before, and the relief was unnerving. Even so, she felt impatient with her own inadequacy. After all, the woman had only been curious, and who could blame her? Living in a place like this as she was, there was bound to be speculation.

  Nevertheless, Sara couldn’t prevent the impulse to push the cashmere sweater to the back of the drawer, and she quickly disposed of the rest of her clothes before Mrs Penworthy returned for the tray.

  Michael had not returned at lunch time, and Sara ate a silent meal in the room where he had baited her over dinner the night before. In daylight, she could see the scars of long usage on the furniture, and the worn tapestry of the chairs, and she thought how sad it was that the house should be abandoned now, when for years it had been home to generations of Tregowers. Was it Diane’s now, in truth, or were there other relatives to be contracted? She doubted Michael would ever want to live here, and given half a chance, she guessed Diane would sell it.

  Diane! Everything seemed to come back to Diane, she thought irritably, getting up from the table without doing real justice to Mrs Penworthy’s Cornish pasty. Why couldn’t she put the other girl out of her mind and concentrate on the reasons why she had agreed to come to Cornwall in the first place?

  Deciding some fresh air was what she needed, she went upstairs to change, coming down again warmly attired, with dark red woollen pants tucked into knee-length suede boots. Her dark blue sweater was hidden beneath a grey sheepskin jacket, whose hem and hood were attractively edged with grey and white flecked fur. With her pale silky hair escaping from the sides of the hood, she felt reasonably satisfied with her appearance, but as Michael was not around, there was no one to observe her departure.

  The wind had risen again, bringing a bite to the temperature that in turn whipped colour into her otherwise pale cheeks. Someone, Michael she guessed, had moved the Mini around the side of the house, and although she was tempted to revise her original plan of going for a walk, she refused to give in to what she told herself was a purely lazy impulse. After all, walking was good for her, so long as she didn’t walk too far, and the salty taste of the air was invigorating.

  Beyond the overgrown garden the cliffs fell away to a sheltered cove, which in summer was probably very appealing. A winding path seemed to give access to the cove, but it was too steep for Sara to tackle, even had she wanted to. Inland, she could see the coast road, also winding down to sea level, and the cluster of cottages that must be Torleven. There were one or two fishing boats out in the bay, and others bobbing about near the harbour. She could even see some drawn up on to the shingle, which would also float when the tide came in. At present the ocean was receding, drawing back upon itself, exposing the ugly rocks that could tear a ship’s keel to shreds. And probably had, too, Sara guessed, grimacing as she remembered the tales she had read. A wrecker’s coast, this, with many a vessel floundering on these rocks, lured into the deadly harbour by a treacherous light.

  Turning back from the cliffs, she surveyed the house behind her. It was still stark and forbidding, without any of the gentling touches of ivy or Virginia creeper, but, now she had spent a night within its walls, it was no longer the unfamiliar place it had been. She could even pick out the windows of her room, and the imposing façade that fronted the master bedroom, where she had slept the night before.

  Picking her way along the cliffs, she watched the sea-birds swooping and diving in their continuous search for food. Gannets and guillemots, terns and gulls, their screeching cries carrying on the wind, they offered their objections to this invader into their territory, and after a while Sara turned in
land, away from their noisy clamour.

  The moors offered less variety, but were infinitely more peaceful. Stretches of rough turf, hillocks, and gorse, and wind-torn stunted vegetation. There didn’t appear to be a house for miles, and the further she came from Ravens Mill the easier it was to believe she had actually stepped back in time. Shades of Jamaica Inn, she thought wryly, realising that if Joss Merlyn himself had come riding across the moor towards her, she would hardly have been surprised.

  Once, she thought she saw a fox. The reddish-brown body slunk away into the undergrowth at her approach, but she was sure she had startled it as much as it had startled her. She saw a number of rabbit holes, twisting her ankle in one of them, and guessed the wily predator would not go short of food here.

  The sun had lost all heat by the time she turned back to Ravens Mill. It wasn’t late, but it was still early in the year, and it had been a particularly cold spring. Her fingertips were frozen, but her feet were warm enough in the thick boots, and she thrust her gloved hands into the pockets of her sheepskin jacket.

  Trudging back towards the house, she wondered if Michael had returned. No doubt he had by now, and her heart warned her of the effect even thinking of him had on her. During the walk, she had achieved a certain detachment from the more personal aspects of her situation, but the prospect of meeting Michael again drove all other thoughts from her head.

  The ankle she had twisted was aching by the time she reached the fenced boundary that marked the immediate surroundings of Ravens Mill, and the walk had tired her more than she had anticipated. Truthfully, she had felt perfectly fit until she started to think about Michael, and she guessed it was emotion that had sapped her strength.

  However, she was given little chance to recover from the exercise. As she came through the shrubbery towards the house, the man she had been thinking about came striding towards her, his face and demeanour indicating more than a casual interest in her whereabouts.