by Penny Jordan
It was true that she had done several sketches for Miles of the main characters in his Indian novel, but then she had had some guidelines to work on. Ridiculously, when she tried to visualise Kit all she could see was an Elizabethan-clad image of Simon, which was illogical, Kit would probably have been fair…his hair bleached even fairer by the sun and the salt…his skin would have been tanned, of course…Images began to take shape in her imagination and her fingers itched for a pencil.
‘You mean you’d actually trust my judgment to that extent?’
Simon shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t I? You’ve already proved your ability, and if I don’t agree with what you produce I can always tell you.’
Harsh sunlight hit Christy’s eyes as they went back on deck, she put on her glasses and followed Simon back on to dry land, letting him grasp her hand, to pull her on to the jetty beside him. Her hand looked surprisingly slim and vulnerable, encased in the masculinity of his. She saw that he was looking at her, and wished a little uncomfortably that her shorts were less brief. They were old ones—shorts hadn’t been something she needed in India, and it had been so long since she had been away on a seaside holiday that most of her beach-type clothes were relics from her schooldays. Her shorts were denim and very old, but they were comfortable and sensible for clambering about a boat on. Mentally comparing her appearance with the delicately feminine one of Mary-Lou, Christy suppressed a shrug. What did it matter what she wore, she was here to work, not to act as an ornament.
‘Finished?’ she enquired sweetly as Simon lifted his eyes from his lazy inspection of her legs.
‘Just about.’ He grinned without any trace of embarrassment. ‘I’d forgotten just how long they were. Almost as long as mine.’ He said it softly, and Christy was powerless to prevent her sudden surge of colour as her mind dredged up an unexpectedly intimate picture of the two of them; their bodies entwined, Simon’s powerful thighs imprisoning hers. It had been one of those afternoons on the beach she remembered and her stomach quivered protestingly. To punish herself for allowing the memory to surface, and angry with Simon for deliberately encouraging it to do so, by injecting an unwarranted intimacy into their conversation, she said disinterestedly, ‘Were they? I can’t remember.’ The jetty was narrow and they were standing almost breast to breast. Wicked lights danced in Simon’s eyes as he leaned towards her, and murmured, ‘Want me to prove it?’
Her heart was thudding crazily but she managed to retort sedately, ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ She walked away from him, intent on escaping the powerfully hypnotic spell his proximity seemed to place on her, but as she did so, she thought she heard him saying teasingly, ‘Pity.’
She must not read anything more than a basic male instinct into his manner, she warned herself as they walked through the marina. If Simon suddenly seemed sexually interested in her it could only be out of boredom or because she represented a challenge, while she would be in danger of…
Of what? she asked herself, suddenly chilled. Of nothing surely? She was immune to Simon, wasn’t she? Tiny tremors of sensation coursed through her body. Of course she was immune; it was ridiculous to imagine anything else; the tense inner excitement she was experiencing was caused purely by her interest in Kit’s story—nothing else.
Firmly suppressing her thoughts she followed Simon towards the entrance to the marine store. She was here to do a job that was all. To do a job and exorcise a ghost. The ghost of her love for Simon.
* * *
They spent close on three hours in the shop. Simon was extremely meticulous over the purchase of Christy’s diving equipment. Although the water would be warm she would need a wet suit to protect her skin from cuts and grazes. ‘Remember, we’re talking about diving down to a coral reef,’ he told her, ‘and coral grazes can be extremely dangerous.’ The diving gear, although American, operated in a way that was familiar to her. It was some time since she had last dived but everything she had been taught came flooding back to her, and when eventually they left she was in an excited, happy frame of mind.
They went back to the hotel to collect their luggage, and after a light meal returned to the marina. As he had promised the shop owner had had their purchases delivered to the Stormsurf and Christy checked over them while Simon went ashore to collect provisions.
‘We’ll take mainly dried and frozen stuff,’ he told her. ‘I don’t envisage us having to stay on board for anything other than brief periods—two or three nights at the most. We’ll be based on St Paul’s and will only need to remain at sea if we find anything interesting.’
He returned just as Christy finished her task, and for several minutes they worked efficiently together stowing away his purchases.
‘This feels heavy.’ He handed her a small case.
‘My portable typewriter, I wasn’t sure if you had one. It’s always handy to have.’
‘Mmm. There’s a full-sized one at the house—not electric I’m afraid, the generator that supplies us with power is rather temperamental so I opted for a manual. Are we ready to cast off?’
Nodding her agreement Christy went up on deck to help him, standing at the side as she watched the harbour slide gently away.
As Simon had said, the ketch could be sailed single-handed. Today to save time he was using the engine and invited Christy to join him and take her turn at the wheel. When she had proved to his satisfaction that she could handle it he showed her some charts. ‘This one is of the seas round St Paul’s. You can see how deep the water outside the reef is. My guess is that St Paul’s was once a larger island which has partially submerged. These islands are volcanic and subject to structural change. In Kit Masterson’s time there was obviously only one safe way into the lagoon. Now there are several—natural fissures created by volcanic movement no doubt, but it does make it harder for us to pin down the exact spot where his ship is likely to have gone down. What makes it harder still is that the original house was destroyed. As you’ll see when we get there, the house is built on a projecting spit of land and so looks out to sea on three sides. From studying wind and current charts, my guess is that his channel was probably somewhere around here.’ Simon drew a pencil ring on the chart. ‘Unfortunately, that’s also the place where the currents are strongest.’ He put down his pencil and frowned. ‘When we do dive it will always be attached to a line and I don’t want you staying down for longer than an hour at a time at the most.’
‘The tanks hold enough air for two hours plus twenty minutes emergency supply.’
‘I know, but I don’t intend to take any chances. One hour will be our maximum.’
‘Have you thought about aerial photography?’ Christy asked him. ‘Several wrecks have been located using it.’
‘It did occur to me but if she’s there I suspect the Golden Fleece has broken up and is now covered in coral. I don’t think there’ll be enough of her left to show up on a photograph.’
A pleasant breeze was blowing, its buffet invigorating. She had forgotten the pleasure of being at sea, Christy reflected although Simon’s ketch was far more luxurious than the dinghies she had sailed in as a teenager.
‘A bit different from the Channel,’ she commented to him, throwing her head back so that the wind could lift her hair and cool her scalp. ‘Where did you learn to sail?’ She had never questioned about his past; he had simply arrived in her life and dominated it. What did she really know about him, Christy mused. The blurb on his book jackets gave away very little about him, and she could never recall him talking about his family or childhood.
‘I was taught by an extremely dour Scotsman.’
She waited for him to continue. ‘Unlike you I did not have an enchanted childhood, Christy. I was illegitimate and my mother abandoned me. I was adopted but it didn’t work out. The couple who adopted me had a child of their own a couple of years later, and rightly or wrongly I always felt second-best. I ran away when I was twelve and ended up in front of the juvenile court for pinching fruit from a barrow—luckily
for me. I’d only been in London a couple of days—living rough as hundreds of kids do every year. The Judge counselled that I was to spend a month at a special rehabilitation centre in Scotland. It was run by a Liverpudlian couple—he was ex-army, a disciplinarian with the proverbial heart of gold. I suppose I can best describe the place as a sort of an outward bound course for would-be juvenile delinquents. It taught me a lot—about myself as well as about others. By the time the month was up I could understand why I had felt the need to rebel. The same Scotsman who taught me to sail also told me that education was the golden key that unlocked all doors. At first I didn’t believe him—I was a tough little cynic, convinced that I knew it all, but he had made me wonder…I went back home, worked harder at school, found that I enjoyed channelling my energies and using them. Eventually I got a scholarship to Oxford. When I left I tried my hand at several things; roamed round the world a bit. I worked in a winery in California…a cattle station in Australia. I went to South Africa, India and came back not really knowing what I wanted to do. I met Jeremy at a cocktail party in London and it was something he said that made me wonder if I could write.’
‘And your…parents?’ Christy probed gently. She was stunned by what he had told her; and the cool manner in which he had related it as though he were talking about someone else. Was that careless indifference a shield he used to protect himself from pain, she wondered perceptively.
‘We meet occasionally. All my teenage bitterness is gone now. They did their best by me and with hindsight I can see that even had I been brought up by my natural parents things might have turned out the same. I was always rebellious…restless…’
‘And…and your real mother?’
His eyebrows rose.
‘Have you ever thought of trying to trace her?’ Christy asked when it was obvious that he wasn’t going to help her. How crassly curious she felt, and how much she wished the question unvoiced.
‘Not in the last ten years. Once perhaps yes, but I’ve long since come to believe that we are what we make ourselves. To search for an unknown mother in the belief that finding her would put right whatever deficiencies there might be in my life seems childish. She was only young—I know that from my adoptive parents. No doubt she’s made a fresh life for herself—I certainly hope so. We’d be meeting as strangers, each feeling compelled to feel an emotion for the other we might not necessarily be able to feel. The day I finally stopped thinking that if I found my mother, it would solve all my problems, I knew I was adult,’ he told her with a wry grimace.
While she could see the sense of what he was saying, Christy could also see now why he was so restless, so reluctant to commit himself to a permanent relationship; so determined to be free of emotional bondage.
‘Look.’ His command distracted her, and she focused on the horizon. ‘There’s St Paul’s now.’
It was no more than a faint blur, but as she watched it gew larger until she could actually make out wooded slopes and a steep hill rising above them.
‘Although it’s much smaller in many ways it’s very similar to St Lucia,’ Simon told her. ‘If you look to your left, you should soon be able to make out the promontory and the house.’
By straining her eyes she was just able to do so, and a tiny thrill of excitement seized her. The island looked so tranquil, floating on the dense blue of the Caribbean; was this how Kit Masterson had felt the first time he saw it? A peaceful island haven? Suddenly she itched for her sketch pad, images crowding into her mind. Dashing down to her cabin she snatched it up, racing back topside, sketching furiously as the island drew nearer. Simon said nothing, concentrating on sailing the ketch, and for once Christy was barely conscious of him.
Under her gifted fingers images took shape on her pad; a small, sturdy English vessel, built for speed and agility, its captain standing on deck, watching as his men let down the lead-weighted line to check the depth of the channel. Christy drew him bare-headed, lean and muscular, calling on her knowledge of the Elizabethan period to give him that same clever, educated intelligence she had seen in so many of Nicholas Hilliard’s miniatures. The Elizabethans had been men of letters and guile, skilled with the tongue as well as the sword. Would Isabella have loved him? Surely, yes…He would have been vastly different from the rigidly correct Spaniards she must have known; and she was his captive…had she known then, watching the island take shape as she herself was doing, what was to be her fate? That she was to be his wife; bear his children…and then die for the sake of his gold, Christy reminded herself with a sudden chill shiver.
Not wanting to draw any more she closed her sketchbook and put down her pencil. For a moment then the past had been too real.
They were in a small natural harbour with a rickety wooden jetty, and Simon was already dropping anchor.
‘They’ll have seen us from the house and will send someone down for our stuff,’ he told her. ‘The roads are so bad the only form of transport worth using is a Land-Rover, but the beaches are superb.’
‘Are there many privately owned villages?’ Christy asked him. He had mentioned once that the island was as yet undeveloped, and she sensed that he preferred it that way.
‘Half a dozen or so, and there’s only one coastal town if you can call it that, and another inland village. The town’s in the next but one bay, the island’s main source of income comes from bananas, you’ll see them growing further inland.’ He stopped speaking and glanced along the dusty track leading from the beach. Listening, Christy heard the unmistakable sound of an engine.
‘Here comes our transport.’
It was the oldest Land-Rover Christy had ever seen, driven by a beaming teenager, dressed in bright red cut-off shorts.
‘Pierre’s grandson, Georges,’ Simon told her. ‘Come and meet him.’
It didn’t take them long to get their things stacked in the back of the Land-Rover. It possessed only one bench seat and Christy found herself wedged between Simon and the door.
‘Hang on a minute,’ he told her, turning slightly and lifting his arm, curving it round her. ‘That gives us a little more room.’
Christy was uncomfortably aware of the maleness of Simon’s body. What’s the matter with you? she chided herself, relax for heaven’s sake. She was relieved when their drive turned out to be a very brief one, her discomfort forgotten as she stared in delight at the house.
It was a colonial mansion in miniature, passion flowers rambling over its lower storey. Bright blue shutters flanked the windows, colourful shrubs broke up the impossible green of the lawn.
‘Come on we’re here,’ Simon told her unnecessarily, removing his arm. She felt curiously bereft without it, almost stumbling out into the heat.
‘Leave your things, we’ll get those later,’ Simon commanded. ‘Let’s go inside.’
Inside a fan whirred soporifically from the ceiling, dispersing the heavy heat of the afternoon, white walls and a polished floor gleamed immaculately in the empty hallway.
‘In here.’ Simon opened a door and pushed her gently inside. Here the walls were a delicate pale green, the floor once again polished and covered by several off-white rugs. The furniture was cane and painted a slightly deeper shade of green than the walls. A delicately striped fabric covered the cushions and hung at the windows.
‘I bought it furnished,’ Simon told her laconically. ‘The previous owner had bought it for his second wife. When he divorced her to marry his third, she refused to set foot in it?’ He moved to the door and opened it calling out, ‘Helen, how about some tea?’
Ten minutes later Christy heard footsteps outside and the rattle of a trolley.
‘Helen is Georges’ mother and Pierre’s daughter,’ Simon informed her. ‘She’s a widow, and between them the three of them, they run the house.’
The woman who came in was fat by European standards, her print dress straining across her ample body as she beamed at them.
‘Well, well, this be the lady who’s going to help you find that ol
d wreck then?’
‘The same,’ Simon said with a smile, ‘Christy, come and meet Helen.’
Shrewd black eyes studied her and Christy felt as though she were undergoing some sort of test. She must have passed because Helen beamed at her. ‘I can see you and me’s going to git along just fine,’ she told Christy in her sing-song English. ‘If you like I’ll show you up to your room.’
‘Yes, you go with her,’ Simon told her, ‘but don’t be too long, otherwise your tea will go cold.’
She followed Helen up two flights of stairs to a galleried landing. ‘This here be the top floor,’ Helen told her, wheezing slightly, ‘and Mr Simon he said you were to have this room especially.’ She stopped and opened a door, and Christy followed her inside, gasping with pleasure as she saw the view from her window. She could see right over the promontory and into the distance, the sea so incredibly blue that it looked almost unreal. The bedroom was decorated in delicate grey and white and had she saw, its own en suite bathroom.
‘Miss Anabelle, she had all new bathrooms put in when she was mistress here,’ Helen told her proudly. ‘Finest house on the island this be.’
‘The room’s lovely,’ Christy told her. Everything was crisply clean, the bedlinen starched and white, and as for the view…Long after Helen had gone Christy stood there, too entranced by it to move away.
At last she forced herself to go downstairs. Simon was sitting in a chair drinking a cup of tea. She thanked him for his forethought in selecting her room, knowing she sounded stilted and irritated with herself for doing so.
