Moth to the Flame

by Maxine Barry

  ‘We’ll go and find Mr Jimson-Clark,’ Jared said firmly. ‘You know he’s arranged for us to see him in Chapel. He’s rehearsing the Easter Service.’

  Alicia nodded. ‘Let’s go now then?’ she urged him, her face pale, her eyes huge. ‘We shouldn’t wait any longer.’

  ‘No,’ Jared agreed sombrely. ‘I don’t think we should.’

  Alicia nodded and they left quietly. So quietly that when Rupert looked up to check on them, he found only a pair of empty seats instead. His heart lurched. Instantly, his hand went to the inside pocket of his raincoat, where he fingered the knife lovingly. Its cold sharp blade reassured him. No matter where they’d gone, he’d catch up with them again . . .

  * * *

  Rex Jimson-Clark glanced up as the Chapel door opened, and smiled. But his long years of experience told him instantly that something was amiss.

  As they finally reached the front pew, their footsteps echoing eerily in the cold room, Jared glanced at Alicia anxiously, reassured by her calm, if pale, face.

  Rex beamed at them. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said cheerfully. He patted the space on the intricately carved wooden pew beside him. ‘Now. What can I do for you?’

  Both the younger people noticed a certain steadiness in the man’s teddy-bear face. An integrity in the brown eyes that was comforting rather than off-putting. Jared and Alicia sat down. Jared looked at her, raising an eyebrow. Will you, or will I?

  Alicia took a deep breath and began to speak.

  * * *

  When they left the chapel nearly an hour later, they both felt infinitely better. Sadder, but better.

  Rex Jimson-Clark had heard Alicia out without interruption, without shock, surprise or censure as she told him about Rupert. They’d both been worried that Rupert’s title and money might influence the man, but Rex Jimson-Clark only asked one or two pertinent questions and then sat in quiet, thoughtful silence. Finally he’d thanked them for bringing the problem to his attention, and assured them he would handle matters from there. He advised them to keep out of Rupert’s way, and, at all costs, to avoid any kind of confrontation with him. Relieved, they’d promised to do as he asked, and now, walking across the lawns towards Jared’s room, they found themselves almost light-headed with relief. At last, it was no longer their burden alone. They both trusted Rex to do something to help Rupert. There had been a generous strength to the man that had impressed them both.

  A glint of light coming from one of the tall multi-paned windows in Hall reflected off Rupert’s binoculars as he followed their progress through the gardens. He knew he’d pick them up again. It had been written in the stars long ago . . .

  Jared’s room faced the main college gardens, and as soon as they were inside, he went to the small cupboard beside his bed. His room was neat, his bed in apple-pie order.

  ‘You’ll make someone a good husband one day,’ Alicia said cheekily, running a mocking finger across the top of his rather battered desk, and smiling when it come away clean.

  ‘Is that a proposal?’ Jared shot back, straightening up with a bottle of champagne in one hand, and a carton of orange juice in the other. ‘I thought we’d toast our success in buck’s fizz. Remember the first time?’ he added softly.

  Instantly, the afternoon in the punt sprang back to her mind. The weeping willows screening them. The duck that had quacked for some bread. Their first, long, lingering kiss . . . She took a deep breath. ‘I’ll never forget it,’ she assured him softly.

  Jared smiled and poured the champagne and orange juice into two mugs. ‘Sorry, but the crystal glasses have gone back to the chap who loaned them to me.’

  She accepted the mug as if it was the most fragile glass and solemnly clinked it against Jared’s. ‘To the success of the play,’ Jared murmured.

  ‘To us,’ Alicia corrected softly. ‘And yes. Actually, that was a proposal.’

  Jared blinked, his clear brown eyes went blank for a few seconds, and then he flushed. His eyes glowed, ‘You mean . . . ?’

  Alicia nodded. ‘Yes. Jared Cowan, will you marry me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  For a second neither of them moved. Neither spoke. Then, slowly, Jared placed his drink on the table, and reached for hers. It left her fingers unresistingly and she watched, her heart thumping, as he placed her mug beside his own.

  ‘Come here,’ he said softly. Alicia took a slow step forward. Then another one. Then she was in his arms. He reached for her, drawing her gently to him, loving the way the curve of her hip fitted against his own. The way his arm rested exactly at the curve of her waist. The way her nipples, clearly visible beneath the demure cream top, reacted to the touch of his own hot flesh. He looked into those lovely blue eyes, full of love, of confidence, of happiness, and felt his own eyes fill with tears.

  ‘I’m so happy, I can’t . . . say . . .’ he began, his voice trembling. Alicia nodded. She was a writer, but she didn’t have the right words for this moment either. ‘Kiss me,’ she said softly. And he willingly complied.

  * * *

  Rupert’s hands clenched around the binoculars as he watched them from Hall. His knuckles gleamed palely in the waning afternoon sunshine. Oh Alicia. Don’t! Please—don’t . . .

  * * *

  Rex Jimson-Clark knocked on the Principal’s door and went in. Sin-Jun looked up and smiled encouragingly. ‘Rex! How’s everything going with the Easter Service?’

  Rex slumped wearily down in the chair opposite the Principal’s desk, and Sin-Jun felt his smile fall away. ‘Trouble?’ he asked brusquely. Rex nodded. ‘I’m afraid I believe so.’

  * * *

  Alicia looped her arms around Jared’s neck, melting into his kiss as if she was wading into a warm swimming pool. She ran her fingers through his crisp dark hair, loving the way the mass of waves felt in her hand, tickling her finger-tips, and warming her palms . . .

  He smelt of pine forest and male arousal. She could feel the power in his arms as they held her tight, and gloried in the differences of their respective strengths. He might be able to crush her physically, but she knew all that male power was actually there to protect her. To guide her. To lean on in times of trouble. Jared’s hand splayed across her spine, his fingers covering almost the whole of her back. She felt fragile in his arms, and yet she filled them, as no other woman ever had, or ever would. Slowly, reluctantly, with sighs of regret, their lips parted. ‘I want to kiss you like that for ever,’ Alicia murmured.

  Jared nodded. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said gruffly. And lowered his lips again. It was not possible, of course. To kiss for ever . . . But, in that instant, if he was willing to try . . .

  * * *

  Rupert leaned against the pane of glass, feeling its coldness chill his skin, making him shiver uncontrollably. The binoculars began to shake, making the image of the lovers, locked in their private kiss, tremble in a kaleidoscope of colours. Tears ran down his face.

  ‘No more, Alicia,’ he whispered. ‘Please. No more.’

  * * *

  Jared lifted his lips from Alicia’s, his eyes reluctantly opening. Her head was pressed against his shoulder, her rapid shallow breaths making her breasts rise and fall against his chest, causing him to shudder in reaction to every intimate touch of her nipples. She looked up at him then, caught the expression in his eyes, and felt her own body tighten. She led him to the bed, and as they dropped on to it, they fell out of the range of sight of the man watching them.

  ‘Jared,’ she whispered, as he lay gently on top of her, his elbows resting on either side of her neck, as he looked down at her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she shook her head, her mass of black hair spreading like a fan across his pillow. ‘Just . . . Jared.’

  He dipped his head, and caught one nipple in his mouth. She gasped, arching her back off the bed as twin rivers of fire spread from her breasts and lodged in that secret, waiting, aching place at the very core of her womanhood. She felt him release the zip of her ski
rt, moving the material aside, his fingers tracing a circular pattern from her knee, to her thigh, his caress warm and knowing. She sighed, and let her legs fall apart. Gently he stroked his thumb over her yearning flesh, and she cried out softly, biting her lip, closing her eyes, lost in the sensation of his touch. She moved, her whole body following the touch of his thumb, and when she cried out and shuddered, her beautiful face rose-pink from the growing heat building inside her, Jared thought she had never looked more beautiful.

  Her eyes opened, as blue and sparkling as perfect sapphires. She reached up and cupped his face with her hands. ‘Your turn,’ she said softly, and moved her hand down, between them. He gasped as she unzipped his jeans and took him in her hand. He threw his head back, swallowing convulsively. He collapsed against her. His cheek pillowed to her breast, his body as taught as a violin string as she felt him harden helplessly.

  After several long minutes of exquisite torture, he groaned, spasmed, then lay still, his breath harsh as he gulped for air. Slowly their bodies cooled. Eventually he raised himself on one elbow again, propping the side of his face against his hand as he looked down at her.

  ‘Well, how do you think you’re going to enjoy life as Mrs Cowan?’

  Alicia opened sleepy, contented, half-satiated eyes. She reached for his shirt buttons and began to undress him in earnest. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ she murmured throatily.

  * * *

  Rupert Greyling-Simms swayed against the window. His binoculars fell forgotten from his hand, and hit the wooden floorboards with a clatter. He raised stricken eyes to the window where he knew they were together, and bit back a wailing cry that seemed to rise up from the very depths of him. And then, as abruptly as it came, the desire to scream at the world left him. Instead, he began to smile.

  Of course. He should have known Alicia was only doing what she had to do. He should have trusted her. She and Jared had to . . . do . . . this thing . . . to him.

  He was the betrayed lover. In order to fulfil their destinies, in order to make their play real, she had to . . . spend this afternoon . . . like this. With him.

  She must know he was watching. Must have chosen this moment especially. Of course. It was time! How stupid he was being. How lucky he was to have Alicia to guide him.

  Rupert waited, as patient as the wind, until he saw her re-emerge into the gardens and make her way across them, back to her own room in Webster. Then he checked the knife in his pocket. It felt reassuringly solid to his touch. In a world dissolving around him, that knife felt wonderfully real.

  Alicia. Oh Alicia . . . it’s time at last.

  As he stepped into Webster and began to mount the stairs to her room, he was smiling. Rupert felt good.

  * * *

  In his office, Sin-Jun rang two telephone numbers. The first connected him to the Earl of Warrington, of whom he asked some very pertinent questions which demanded some very hard answers. And, having got those from the very reluctant Earl, the second call was to a psychiatrist Sin-Jun knew, who was attached to the John Radcliffe Hospital, and who had the power to order a committal to a mental home, should it be necessary.

  Both calls were, of course, made when it was already far too late . . .

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  At about the same time as Jared and Alicia parted, Davina Granger watched, with fatalistic eyes, as Gareth began to walk towards her, and backed a few steps away. Her heart was thumping with a mixture of fear, and dread, and delight. Although she’d planned to slip out of Oxford like a ghost, she couldn’t help but feel elated that she was to see him one last time. Even though it was agony.

  Gareth smiled at her grimly. ‘Davina!’ he chided cruelly. ‘You’re not afraid of me, surely?’ he asked softly. ‘You? Who are afraid of nothing and nobody?’

  Davina shrugged one shoulder. ‘You’ve always been someone to fear, Gareth,’ she admitted quietly. But not because she thought he might physically harm her. She knew him better than that. Gareth Lacey would never hit a woman. No. The danger was not physical. It was mental. Spiritual.

  Gareth’s grey eyes darkened, as if a cloud had moved across some internal sun. ‘And what, exactly, do you mean by that?’

  When he’d listened to Gavin Brock pour forth his stream of accusations, he simply hadn’t wanted to believe him, but finally he had been forced to the conclusion that this nightmare was real. Only then had he begun to think. To reason. Coldly. Logically. Rationally.

  Who else could come and go in his room without suspicion as easily as Davina? Who else would dare to do something so outrageous? Only Davina. His unique, bold, yet humanly flawed . . . Davina.

  As he watched her back away from him, a strange mixture of defiance and pain on her face, he had the grim feeling that he’d been very stupid. Somewhere, somehow, he’d been very stupid indeed.

  ‘You came here expressly to set up the exam paper scam, didn’t you?’ he asked quietly. He had physically to fight the urge to go to her and shake her, and demand to know why . . . why . . . why? At the same time, he wanted to carry her to that bed and make love to her with savagery and passion until they were both exhausted. To think that it had all been a sham. All their wonderful conversations. All their shared intimacies. Even the poem she’d written for him—‘The Flame Moth’—was a sham. Lies. None of it had been real. That’s what was killing him . . . He shook his head. He had to get things straight in his mind. Forget his heart—that could fall to pieces all on its own, without any attention or help from him. Right now, it was his world that he had to put back on to some sort of orbit, if he was to make any sense of Davina at all.

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted quietly. ‘I came here just to destroy you.’ She swallowed back a huge aching lump in her throat as she spoke. He looked so . . . hurt. So . . . bewildered. She knew she should be glad. Fiercely glad. It must have been the way David had felt, for so long. This was the revenge she’d come seeking. So why was it like ashes in her mouth?

  No—she knew why. It was because she loved him. Had loved him for a long time. She took a deep breath. ‘Why don’t you just let me go, Gareth?’ she said quietly. ‘It would be easiest. For both of us.’

  Gareth nodded. ‘Oh yes. Undoubtedly it would be easiest.’ He cocked his head very slightly to one side, and a small, sad, grim smile turned his lips upwards. ‘But when have we ever done anything the easy way, Davina?’ he murmured.

  Davina sighed. ‘All right.’

  Gareth nodded. ‘So, you came here to destroy me? And part of that was to make me love you. Wasn’t it, Davina?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gareth nodded. ‘You succeeded very well. I love you, even now.’

  Davina laughed grimly. ‘That’s nothing to brag about,’ she snarled back. ‘I love you too.’

  Gareth stopped dead in the room. What? Then he laughed. ‘Poor Davina,’ he murmured. ‘You must have hated every moment of loving me.’ He pushed back the dark strands of hair which had fallen into his eyes, and she noticed that his hand was shaking as he did so. ‘Are you going to tell me why you’ve done this to us?’ he asked quietly.

  In response, Davina walked to her holdall and took out her purse, keeping a wary eye on him as she did so. She offered him a small, rather tattered, snapshot. ‘It’s because of him,’ she said softly. ‘Everything’s because of him.’

  Gareth moved just close enough to her to take the small square of cardboard. He looked down at it, and his face froze. ‘David Garrett,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. David,’ Davina said. ‘My stepbrother.’

  Gareth’s head shot up. His eyes fixed on hers, the ocean grey irises contracting. ‘Your brother?’ Whatever he’d been expecting, it was not this. ‘I see . . . that’s why I didn’t made the connection until now. You share vaguely similar facial characteristics, but the names are different . . .’

  * * *

  ‘Mum always used to say “Change the name and not the letter, marry for worse, but not for better”,’ Davina muttered flippantly. ‘Although
my stepfather was a sweetie, so she wasn’t worse off by marrying him. I think she meant that my father and stepfather not only shared the same initial letter in their surnames, but that mine and David’s Christian names were almost male and female versions of the same name.’ She paused, fighting back the tears which always threatened when she thought of her brother. ‘I was eight when Mum married Pete Garrett. David was two. His mother had died when David was a babe in arms, so he was the baby brother I’d always wanted but never had.’

  Gareth looked back at the photograph, a wary expression on his face, then slowly handed it back. ‘Just what do you think happened to David, Davina?’ he asked quietly.

  And Davina found herself stiffening. For there was something else in that lovely voice of his now. And Davina suddenly knew, instinctively, but beyond doubt, that Gareth Lacey knew something about her brother that she didn’t know.

  And it had her scared. Or rather, it had her cold, logical self, running scared. Her heart and spirit, on the other hand, were beginning to stir. To throb and expand with a desperate surge of hope . . .

  ‘Only what his letters told me,’ she answered him, but there was something . . . different now. The balance of power, somehow, had shifted. In Gareth’s favour. She shivered.

  ‘And what did those letters tell you?’ Gareth asked bleakly.

  Davina’s lips twisted. ‘Read them for yourself. I kept every one.’ And she stalked to her holdall, grabbed the pile of letters and thrust them under his nose. But as Gareth read the accusing, bitter pages that told the tale of a young man persecuted by an older, machiavellian monster, his expression became sadder, not angrier. Or guiltier.

  ‘I see,’ he said at last.

  Davina swallowed, her mouth suddenly as dry as dust.

  ‘You see?’ she echoed, trying to put as much scorn and hate in her voice as she could. ‘Is that all you can say?’

  Gareth turned to look at her then. All that fire. All for nothing . . . Oh Davina, he thought despairingly. If only you’d given that fire to me . . .