Crescendo

by Charlotte Lamb

  Crescendo

  Charlotte Lamb

  Marian was nothing but a romantic child, weaving childish fantasies—the seaside cottage where she lived with her grandfather, devoted to the old man and his music, had become almost a citadel. Then Gideon Firth came to Basslea, and suddenly nothing was the same. He was everything that she was not—sophisticated, urbane, powerful—and yet she found herself responding to his magnetism in a way that no unawakened girl should. He seemed to wield a power that she did not understand, and it was not until he forced her to recognise the truth tor herself that Marina realised what was happening to her... and

  what had happened.

  'If you let them, women will take you over completely,' was Gideon Firth's philosophy—a philosophy that had as a result ruined Marina's life. Could she hope that Gideon's heartless attitude would change—or would she, eventu­ally, come to her senses ?

  CHAPTER ONE

  MARINA closed the cottage gate behind her and turned along the cliff path with Ruffy running ahead, his short white legs covering the ground at an amazing speed. The late afternoon breeze blew through his coat, lifting the thick white tufts of hair like ragged petals. Far out over the sea the sun was sinking into an unseen horizon, colouring the sky with fire. Gold and orange and blue layered the sea and against that flew a gull. Marina turned her face up to it, smiling. Raucously shrieking, the bird dived down to the coloured waves, only to strike into them and pull upwards again.

  For a short distance the cliff path ran beside a road, little used by cars, generally only used by pedestrians, people making their way down to the rocky foreshore.

  Marina walked to the edge of the cliff and stared down at the great slate blue boulders, the small pebbles sucked white by the sea, the flaring drifts of gold where celandines tumbled down the cliff to the beach.

  She subconsciously heard the slam of brakes, the abrupt halting of a car some way behind her. A door crashed and then someone started running.

  Marina turned in surprise. A man was tearing to­wards her at a tremendous pace, his long legs cover­ing the grass as if he were in a race. She had an impression of black hair, lithe body, oddly white face..

  As she gazed at him open-mouthed, he suddenly came to a stop, a few feet away, standing poised on the balls of his feet as though to lunge at her. His eyes pierced her face.

  'Is something wrong?' Marina asked after waiting for him to speak in vain.

  He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving under a tailored white shirt. His dark jacket hung open and he wore no tie. The black hair was thick and crisp, windtossed at the moment, ruffled in wild peaks.

  'I thought ...' He spoke roughly and broke off with a sort of groan. 'Nothing.'

  She had never seen him before, so he could not live anywhere near here. Marina had lived at Basslea all her life. She had grown up in the isolated little cottage on the cliff. Everyone in the tiny community knew her and she knew everybody. It was a secure, sheltered environment, and one into which, for all her youth, Marina fitted perfectly. Most young people who grew up in this remote district on the north-west coast of England left for more populated spots as soon as they had finished school. Marina did not want to go away. She liked it here. She felt no yearning to go to London or Birmingham to find work.

  Eyeing the stranger closely, she suddenly smiled. It altered her whole face. In repose she had a melancholy fragility, her small oval face pale and wistful, the fine silvery threads of her hair hanging in limp coils around her head. When she was a child her hair had been lint-white. 'Cotton head,' Grandie had called her. The colour had darkened slightly as she grew older, but it was still closer to white than any other colour.

  The dark man seemed to stiffen when she smiled and the hands hanging at his side curled into balls. His eyes narrowed on her face as though her smile had amazed him. No, Marina thought in surprise! As though her smile had shocked him. Wasn't he used to being smiled at?

  That idea made her look at him questioningly, but although his face was tough and harshly modelled it was not unattractive. Far from it, she thought. She could not believe anyone would find his face anything but fascinating.

  'Did you think I might be going to jump off?' she asked him, faint amusement in her face.

  'It wasn't funny,' he retorted, his jawline taut.

  'No,' she said at once, contrite, realising that he war still disturbed by the fear he had felt when he saw her on the edge of the cliff. 'I'm sorry. I'm so used to walking along the cliff. My balance is very good and I have a clear head for heights.'

  He had taken two steps as she spoke and was standing close, staring at her in a way which puzzled her, his black eyes roving over her from head to toe. It was not an insolent stare. Marina had had young male tourists eyeing her in cheeky familiarity before now, but the way this man looked at her was quite different. He had a faint glitter in his eyes.

  His mouth was compressed, yet she felt he was ex­erting all his will-power to hold it steady, as though he were under some great strain. He was looking at her like someone revisiting a country they had not seen for years, and, oddly, Marina recognised that look because it was how she felt herself. Ever since she had set eyes on him she had had a disturbing sense of intimacy.

  'Do you live here?' he asked her now, his heavy lids half veiling his eyes.

  She had a curious impression that he was testing her. As he asked the question his voice had a de­liberate ring and he watched her closely.

  'Yes,' she said. 'In the cottage over there.' She waved her hand, but the stranger did not turn his black head to look at the distant cottage half hidden by its surrounding trees, and suddenly she felt that he had known the answer to her question. It occurred to her that he had seen her on the cliff walk before.

  He half turned to stare across the sea. The sun had sunk now and the horizon was less fiercely coloured. The clouds were swept into grey masses with rough streaks of flame running between them like chiffon scarves.

  'An idyllic spot,' he said, but she felt his mind was not on what he was saying.' She felt that he was turning something quite different over in his mind. There was a bar of black across his forehead, his brows tense.

  'In summer, yes,' she agreed.

  'Winter?' he asked.

  'Windy,' she laughed. 'The rain comes through

  the walls on stormy nights. It's a very old house. The walls are enormously thick and when the wind blows fiercely the rain pours through them.'

  He glanced down the cliff at where a bushy white tail was hunting among the rough grass. 'Your dog appears to be enjoying himself.'

  'Oh, Ruffy often starts rabbits on the cliff. If he's very quiet he can sometimes get quite close before they dive back into their burrows.'

  He nodded. 'You don't go down there too, do you?' His eyes skimmed the narrow, winding path worn by feet over the years. 'It looks very dangerous to me.'

  'I've used it all my life. I'm quite safe on it.' Marina gave him a little grin. 'Honestly.' Turning away she moved to the top of the path down the cliffs and heard him coming behind her. Looking back over her shoulder she caught his eyes fixed on her. It gave her a strange feeling to see his head at that angle, the hard dark features almost in­verted, peculiarly familiar to her. She knew she had never seen him before, yet when she looked at him she found nothing strange about him. She felt as if she had known him for years.

  'Let me go first,' he said roughly.

  Laughing, she shook her head. 'Really, there's no need. I'm quite safe on it.'

  'All the same ...' he said, and his hands went to her small waist, lifting her like a doll out of his path. Before she had realised what he meant to do he was in front of her, moving down the cliff. Marina fol­lowed with surprise and amusement.

  Halfway do
wn there was a grassy ledge, and al- most by silent consent they both sat down on it. At the edge a patch of short-stemmed pink flowers blew in the wind. The stranger flicked a finger over them.

  'Pretty. What are they called?'

  'Thrift,' she said.

  His fine brows rose. 'An unromantic name for such a pretty flower.'

  'I suppose it is.' She had never thought about it, and her blank face confessed as much. 'There are lots of them. They grow all over the cliff paths.'

  His eyes ran across the tussocky grass and gorse beyond them. 'There are flowers everywhere, aren't there? What are the white ones?'

  'Sea campion,' she said. 'You must have seen them as you drove through the lanes. Campion is every­where at this time of year.'

  She had the most curious impression that he was deliberately making conversation, talking about the flowers because they were a safe topic. He looked down at the grass, plucking it with restless fingers.

  'What's your name.?'

  'Marina,' she said, watching him. His face showed no flicker of reaction. Without looking up he said quietly: 'Marina ... child of the sea. It suits you.'

  Most people who had never heard her name be­fore looked interested or surprised or even amused, but this man had shown nothing. Marina told her­self that she was letting her imagination run away with her, yet she could not suppress the feeling that he had known her name before he asked.

  'What's your name?' she asked, thinking that it ought to be something very masculine and fierce.

  He looked as though he ought to have had a name specially invented for him.

  She felt him hesitate. Instinct told her that he did not want to tell her his name. Why? she asked her­self. She stared at the hard clear profile etched against the sky. His mouth indented grimly.

  'Gideon,' he said, and looked at her in sharp prob­ing.

  She met his eyes curiously. Why was he staring like that?

  'Very Biblical,' she said, smiling. 'Gideon what?'

  She heard the odd short sigh he gave. 'Gideon Firth,' he said in flat tones.

  'Wasn't it Gideon who smote someone with the jawbone of an ass?'

  He smiled then, the black eyes filled with amuse­ment. 'He was a warrior, that's all I know.'

  'Are you?' she asked, because it was precisely the sort of name she had thought he should have and she was amused.

  'Me?' He drew a long breath. 'I'm a business­man.'

  'Are you here on holiday?'

  The black lashes covered his cheeks. He was silent for a moment, then he said, 'Yes.'

  Where are you staying?'

  Again he hesitated. Then he said: 'I'm looking for somewhere to stay. They told me in the village that someone up here takes in visitors now and then.'

  'Grandie does,' she said, laughing. 'That's who they meant—my grandfather. We've got a spare room at the cottage and in the season we often take in one or two guests. Married couples or two young- women.'

  'Is the room free now?' he asked, and again she felt he already knew the answer to that question.

  'Yes,' she said.

  'Do you think he would let me rent it?'

  'You would have to ask him that.'

  He leant back on his elbow staring at her, the wind whipping through that black hair. 'Would you have any objection if I stayed?'

  'Why should I?' she asked, meeting his stare. A little frown etched itself between her brows. What was he getting at? Why should she mind if he stayed?

  He shrugged and rose. Offering his hand, he took her extended fingers and pulled her to her feet. 'Shall we go and ask your grandfather?'

  Marina whistled to Ruffy, who reluctantly left the burrows around which he was scampering excitedly. He sometimes showed hostility to strangers, growl­ing and bristling. But he seemed delighted at the sight of the tall dark man, leaping up at him, lick­ing his hands, barking. Gideon Firth bent to pat him, rubbing those long sinewy brown hands over the dog's rough coat.

  Marina was impressed. If Ruffy liked him he must be safe. She trusted the dog's judgment. A few weeks ago a young man in a T-shirt and jeans had walked past her on the cliff path without her noting him. Ruffy had growled, hair standing on end. The young man had gone on, but as Marina returned - along the path later he had suddenly leapt out at her and tried to grab her and pull her into the thick

  shrub along the path. Ruffy had gone berserk and the young man had fled with the snarling little dog tearing at his ankles.

  They walked back up the cliff. As they passed Gideon Firth's car Marina stared at it with admira­tion and surprise. It was a bright yellow sports car, small and compact yet with very elegant lines, streamlined for speed. She glanced at him sideways and he appraised her face with lifted brows. 'Like it?' he queried.

  'It looks fast.'

  'It is,' he said drily.

  'Where do you live?' she asked him.

  'London.' He made the reply curt. A faint mist had begun to rise from the sea, hanging in veils upon the horizon, slowly drifting in to shore. An early moon floated in the midst of it, so pale it looked almost transparent.

  Marina led Gideon Firth up the shrouded garden path. The mist was already dripping from branch to branch above them, coiling around the small cottage in pale strands. Light flowered inside the small bow window looking over the garden.

  Grandie came to the window to draw the cur­tains. He looked out with a smile as he heard Marina's footsteps, then his eye passed over her and she saw his face jerk and go rigid as he caught sight of the man behind her.

  A frown touched her face. Grandie had gone white. He was staring at Gideon Firth as if he were seeing things.

  She turned her head to look up at Gideon, her blue eyes asking him what was the matter.

  Gideon was staring back at Grandie without ex­pression. Feeling her eyes on him he looked down suddenly, the black eyes narrowed.

  'Does Grandie know you?' she asked in bewilder­ment.

  'No,' said Gideon Firth, and there was a dry irony in his tone. 'No, he doesn't know me at all.'

  The door of the cottage opened and Grandie hobbled out, bent as usual, his short body contorted with the pain of years of rheumatism.

  Gideon Firth stepped towards him, hand ex­tended. 'Good evening, sir. My name is Firth— Gideon Firth. I understand you have a room to let.'

  Grandie stared at him under bushy iron-grey brows. There was a silence. He ignored Gideon's outstretched hand. Slowly his blue eyes moved on past him to Marina. She stared back at her grand­father with curiosity and puzzled distress in her eyes. What was it? Why was Grandie looking so strange?

  Her grandfather's stare delved into her face, reading the emotions etched clearly in the frank features.

  After a long moment he looked back at Gideon Firth and his gnarled hand came out.

  Gideon shook it gently and she realised that he was aware of her grandfather's physical pain, careful of the stiff, bowed fingers.

  'We have got a room,' Grandie said roughly. 'But I'm afraid I've stopped letting it. I can't cope with visitors.'

  She was amazed. Only a fortnight ago they had had a fishing couple staying with them, two men who had been before and who spent all their time out at sea in a rowing boat. Grandie had said to her then what a change it made to have visitors. He and Marina had cooked special meals for the two men and it had been tremendous fun to cook the fish their visitors brought back each evening.

  Grandie caught her surprised face and looked away. Gideon Firth said quietly, 'I shan't cause any trouble.'

  Again she picked up that hint of something un­spoken, something of which both men were very aware. Grandie was looking into Gideon's eyes with a heavy frown.

  'It wouldn't be a good idea,' he said.

  'I need it,' said Gideon with an abrupt ring, adding, 'A holiday. I haven't had time off for a year and I'm in need of some peace and quiet.'

  Grandie looked at him less antagonistically now, his face uncertain. 'I don't want to be unsympathe­tic, b
ut there are problems.'

  'I won't cause any,' said Gideon, his eyes on Grandie.

  'I wish I could be sure of that.' Grandie sounded angry, rather bitter.

  Marina caught a sudden movement in Gideon's wide shoulders. He had almost flinched, she thought. Grandie was being very unfriendly. She moved involuntarily to Gideon's side and looked at her grandfather. 'I'll do all the cooking, Grandie. Honestly, it won't cause much trouble.'

  Grandie turned his heavy old head to look at her and she saw his pale mouth tighten. After a pause he nodded, shrugging.

  Gideon turned the black head to look down at her. She smiled easily at him and slid her hand through his arm. 'There you are! Grandie says you can stay. Come and see your room. You couldn't have a more peaceful view. It looks right out over the sea, miles and miles of sea.'

  The cottage was very old, built in the seventeenth century of local stone, the walls twice as deep as normal to withstand the battering of gales, the windows jutting deep into the rooms with solid windowseats in them. 'Bend your head,' said Marina, laughing, because every man who came into the cottage for the first time banged his head on the ceilings.

  Gideon, though, was already stooped as though in premonition of what would befall him if he stood upright. He was such a tall man that no doubt he had learnt to take such precautions.

  He straightened as they went up the stairs. Marina opened the door of the spare room and Gideon walked into the room in front of her. He went to the window and leaned his elbows on the sill, staring at the darkened sea. The moon had swum out of the mists and was sending faint shafts of pale light over the waves. The tide was coming in fast, the sound of the running water and the grate of pebbles reaching them clearly.