[Stephanos 02] - Dragon Bay Page 10

  Kara gazed up at the catwalks above the various tanks and containers and she gave a shiver as she pictured the men at work above the great bubbling cauldrons. The chimneys of the tower would smoke dark into the sun and a hot toffee smell would seep out of the factory as the brown syrup was turned slowly into sugar.

  As they rode away they passed a knoll on which stood the ruins of a sugar mill where long ago the grinding had been done by wind-power. The sails now hung limp above the blackened tower, and the late afternoon sun peered through the broken windows. The place had a haunted air, a look of brooding disquiet, and Kara could not resist a backward glance … her breath caught in her throat, she could have sworn that someone, something moved in the tower and that for a moment she and Lucan were gazed at through the broken windows.

  ‘Do children play in that old ruin?’ she asked.

  ‘I very much doubt it.’ Lucan turned to look at her. ‘The place is a bit creepy and the coloured folk on the estate steer clear of it—I should like to pull it down, but Pryde likes the bit of mystery that clings to the old mill. It adds colour, he says, for he deplores the modern fac­tories we have to build in order to keep ourselves com­petitive.’

  ‘Lucan, I am sure I saw someone at that window,’ she pointed towards it with her riding-crop.

  ‘It was probably a bat, or your imagination.’ His stal­lion jibbed as he turned in the saddle to take a look at the old mill, with the sun burning red and outlining the bent old sails. A slight wind whispered through the cane and caught at one of the sails, which creaked and then fell silent.

  ‘The place does have an uncanny air.’ Then Lucan gave a laugh. ‘Perhaps Luella Savidge still waits there for her lover, the young overseer whom she used to meet clandestinely when her husband was away from home.’

  ‘Don’t joke, Lucan.’ Kara gave a shiver. ‘The unhappy dead do leave a kind of atmosphere behind them—’

  ‘Well, we are very much alive, and not unhappy, I hope.’ His eyes captured hers. ‘What did you think of Pryde?’

  ‘That he is proud, and that he lives in the past—’ And then she obeyed a wild impulse and gave her filly a flick of the whip on her silky haunches. With a bound the filly was away into the deepening afternoon light. Jet gave an excited bark, and Kara’s heart quickened with a pleasure almost primitive as she heard Lucan’s stallion racing after her mount.

  Along a corridor through the cane galloped the two riders, the sun swooning in the west as they came to the cocoa valley and reined in above the forest of cocoa trees, the ripe smell of the pods hanging rich in the warm air.

  Already the candleflies were glowing down in the dusky valley, and there were silvery tinkles from the tree-frogs.

  ‘Won’t it compensate?’ Lucan had asked. ‘The valley and the bay … for the giving of yourself?’

  Kara could feel him on the horse at her side, breathing deeply and looking hard and male in his khaki knee-breeches and white shirt. She could no longer see his fea­tures, for the tropical twilight had fallen, but she could imagine the bold outline of his mouth.

  A longing to be kissed by him shook her, to be held close and hard against him so there was nothing between them, no ghosts, no girl called Caprice.

  Caprice … had he parted from her in Paris because his love for her was not to be borne in his brother’s presence?

  In the deep, enclosing tropical shadows they rode home. Lanterns were alight in the courtyard and there was a smell of hay from the stables that made the horses snuff the air. Lucan was out of the saddle before Kara. His hands found her and almost savagely he swung her down off the filly and close to him.

  Wanting his touch, and yet afraid because she feared he did not want her heart’s love, she attempted to pull away from him. At once he caught her by the elbows and pulled her to him with impatience. The driving warmth of his mouth, the steam and smell of the horses, all combined to loosen the tension within her. Her hands clenched his shoulders, and then she let his wildness sweep her along with it.

  When his lips released hers, she opened her eyes and saw his reckless look, his tousled hair, his nostrils flaring as he pulled air into his lungs. ‘Well,’ he said, and he laughed.

  Kara drew back against a pillar that supported the stable beams, and her eyes were wide on his face. He had about him a look that reminded her of the night at Fort Fernand, when she had seen him returning from the card tables on the Scarlet Sloop.

  ‘What am I to you, Lucan?’ The words broke from her. ‘A throw of the dice, a spin of the wheel of chance ?’

  ‘I suppose you could put it like that.’ He struck a match and lit a cheroot, and his eyes through the smoke had a cynical glint. ‘When a man takes a wife he stakes his liberty and he is unsure of the rewards. Yes, marriage is like a spin of the wheel of chance.’

  Kara turned away from him and gave a shiver as a breeze stirred through the stableyard. From where she stood she could see the windows of a long room, and a gleam of ruby lamplight. A figure moved in the room, not upright like her husband but confined to a wheel­chair. Her heart gave a curious jerk. Had Pryde seen Lucan kissing her from that window ?

  ‘I—I must go in and dress for dinner,’ she said, and walked quickly away from Lucan.

  Kara was dressing when there was a knock on her door. Her room had only one door, that which connected with Lucan’s room, and she told herself she could not cope with him right now. She ignored the knock.

  It was repeated. ‘Oh—come in,’ she said, and con­centrated on attaching pearl bobs to her earlobes. The door opened to admit a houseman, clad in a jacket that was very white against his brown skin. He carried a silver tankard on a small round tray, and with a flash of his teeth he said that Massa Lucan wished her to have the toddy.

  ‘Best rum toddy on the island,’ called out Lucan with­out appearing. Jet came and stood in her doorway, mas­sive and inquisitive.

  ‘Thank you,’ she took the toddy and because Samuel’s eyes were steady on her face, awaiting her approval, she took a sip. It was delicious, she assured him, and he went happily away, leaving her door open.

  ‘Estate rum,’ Lucan informed her. ‘With a finger of lime juice, a dash of passion-fruit, and a sprinkling of cinnamon. Do you like it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and felt its warmth stealing to the edges of her heart, which quickened and questioned as he came and hauled Jet out of her doorway. ‘I see you are not quite ready,’ his eyes flicked her Greek-styled dress, which had a girdle not yet tied. ‘Will you manage to find your way to the salon—the room with the double doors on the left of the hall?’

  She nodded, and he closed the door between them and a moment later she heard Jet bark out on the gallery as he and his master made their way downstairs.

  Kara finished her toddy and traced with her fingertips the dragon chased on the front of the tankard. The Savidge dragon was everywhere in this house … where the brides were so unloved that they either took a lover, or met sudden death on the Dragon’s Stairway.

  With fingers not quite steady she arranged the folds of her dress. It was one she had bought in Athens while there with Domini for a few days of shopping. How carefree they had been! Domini looking lovelier with each pass­ing day, made so by the deep love she and Paul had for each other. She and Kara had gone to a fashion show, where the dress had caught her eye. A soft, very feminine creation, unlike the casual clothes Kara usually wore.

  White, embroidered silk and chiffon to the tips of her slippers. In it she was fragile, touching. She had meant to wear it when Nikos returned from America for the Christmas festivities. But he had not returned. He had written instead to say that he was married and would not be returning to Andelos just yet.

  Kara stared at the delicate stranger in the mirror … now it was Maytime and she was married.

  She turned from the mirror and gazed around her bed­room, dominated by the fourposter which Lucan had every right and every intention of sharing. The adjoining room into which she stepped was a d
ressing-room with a divan bed in it. Here his cheroot smoke lingered, and a tang of after-shave lotion. A handsome foulard robe hung behind the door, and dark silk pyjamas were laid out on the divan.

  ‘The Wagnerian sword will not always share our bed,’ he had warned her, and Kara took a deep steadying breath as she stepped out of the room on to the gallery and closed the door behind her.

  The gallery was lit here and there by scrolled wall-lamps, and on her way down the staircase she paused to take a look at the golden lady in the window above the horseshoe curve of the stairs. For a bewildering moment the golden figure seemed to have vanished, and then Kara realized that it was a trick of the shadows, they disturbed the pattern of colours that formed the figure and it was only in sunlight that she was clearly visible.

  It was an illusion and no doubt gave rise to the super­stition that the golden lady walked out of her frame and haunted the galleries of the house.

  Kara gave a little shiver. This was a house that played on the imagination, with its history of drama and intrigue, its darkly panelled walls and alcoves. It needed livening up with music and laughter—a party, perhaps. She would suggest one to Lucan when she was more settled in and not such a stranger to everyone.

  Absorbed in her thoughts, she didn’t hear footsteps stealing up behind her. When warm hands suddenly masked her eyes, she cried out in alarm. ‘Who is that?’ She spoke in Greek, her natural language when frightened.

  ‘Forgive me—’ The hands released her and she swung round and found herself face to face with a fair-haired man who looked stunned. ‘I took you for someone else—standing there you looked just like her—’

  ‘Who ?’ Kara’s heart was pounding.

  ‘Now I see that you are not at all like her—it was an illusion of the shadows and the slenderness—’

  ‘Who are you talking about ?’ Kara felt almost desperate to know.

  ‘Why, Caprice.’

  Caprice! Kara sagged back into the deep curve of the staircase. ‘So you know Caprice,’ she said. ‘I have never met her, but I gather she is a close friend of my—hus­band’s.’

  He frowned, this thin but strong-looking man in the white dinner-jacket, whose fingers had felt so supple across her eyes. ‘Now I understand. You are Lucan’s wife,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I am the surprise he brought home.’ She strove to speak lightly. ‘Pryde mistook me for Caprice, so he could never have met her?’

  ‘She has never been to Dragon Bay.’ He had pale blue eyes and an accent that was almost unnoticeable. ‘It was in Paris that I knew her, and where I met Clare Savidge. Clare was studying art. Caprice was working as a model, and I was trying to write the great Danish hovel. I have still not written it.’ His smile was self-derisive. ‘Here at Dragon Bay I am tutor for Rue, and a masseur for the seigneur. He suffers the pain of cramp in the limbs he cannot use, and I was trained in Denmark as a masseur.’

  ‘I see.’ Kara smiled, and at once he responded, his fea­tures relaxing into a charm she was at once aware of.

  ‘My name is Nils Ericsson,’ he said, and he gave her a brisk continental bow. ‘I am happy to know you, Mrs. Savidge.’

  ‘Thank you—Nils. May I call you by your first name ? I am such a stranger here, and it would be nice to have a friend.’

  ‘I am good at being a—a friend.’ Once again his smile was wry. ‘Shall we go down? The seigneur likes us to be punctual for meals, and for everything else. He is like that, I think, because he has to regard his body as a machine which will run down if not attended to at regular intervals.’

  ‘He strikes me as a man of great power despite his dis­ability,’ she said, as they walked side by side down the stairs which had been carved out of the strong dark wood of a corsair galleon. ‘He is stern and unconquered—Nils, how long have you been at the Great House?’

  ‘About a year.’ Nils gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Does all its grandeur overwhelm you?’

  She nodded. ‘The Savidges themselves are overwhelm­ing.’

  ‘Even your husband?’ he laughed, sweeping a side glance over her slight young figure in white silk-chiffon.

  ‘I know it sounds naïve,’ she met the fjord blue of Nils eyes, ‘but Lucan is such a complex person. I feel that I know him less than I know you, Nils, and it is but ten minutes since we met.’

  They reached the hall and turned towards the double door of the salon. Nils swept open the doors, and a log fire met Kara’s gaze as she entered the room, warm and welcoming, evidently lit for Pryde because he would feel the cold more than other people. Its glow was reflected in the antique furniture and the glass fronts of the cabinets with gable tops.

  ‘You are both a little late.’ Pryde swept Kara with his grey eyes, taking in every detail of her dress.

  ‘Time was made for slaves,’ drawled the girl who sat with cool grace on the arm of a velvet sofa. She held a wine glass and was a slender, tawny-blonde with features so classical they made her look sculptured. Her mouth was lightly painted and scornful. She looked as though she had never had a warm emotion, and the blue dress she wore had the sheen of ice.

  ‘Clare, meet Kara,’ said Lucan, and he strolled to the sidetable where the decanters were clustered. ‘Name your poison, Nils. My wife likes a small dry sherry.’

  ‘A vodka and lime for me.’ Nils put his hands in his pockets, and then withdrew them as though he were ner­vous of Pryde … or Clare.

  Clare adjusted a pair of hornrimmed glasses and studied Kara. ‘You are pagan Greek rather than classi­cal,’ she said, and her concise voice matched her looks. ‘Your eyes are Byzantine. You must sit for me one day.’

  ‘Don’t be flattered,’ laughed Lucan. ‘Clare is of the modern school of sculpture and you will never recognize yourself.’

  ‘Clare’s work is recognized in Scandinavian countries.’ Nils had that rigid look that concealed the charm of his smile.

  You Danes are a cold race.’ Lucan handed Nils his drink. ‘I prefer something I can recognize as a human being, and a chunk of marble with a hole in its middle is not my idea of a woman.’

  You are old-fashioned—a throwback to the past,’ said Clare, half indulgent. ‘I wonder, Kara, that you did not run a thousand miles from this brother of mine. Savidge by name, savage by nature, that is what people say about him.’

  ‘I am amazed at my own temerity.’ Kara took a sip at her drink, and a glance at the man she had married. He had retreated beyond the ring of firelight and lamplight, as though his own strength was a burden in his brother’s presence. But nothing, least of all shadows, could hide the casual grandeur of his body, the vitality of his hair and his gaze. As he caressed the great head of the dog at his side, Kara saw Pryde looking at him.

  ‘That creature moped while you were away,’ he said.

  ‘He is just as fond of you, Pryde.’ Lucan’s hand with­drew from the animal’s head.

  ‘Nonsense. I can’t provide him with exercise, and dogs, as well as women, like to chase at a man’s heels.’

  ‘There are exceptions, Pryde.’ Clare’s dress made a rustling sound as she leant forward to flick cigarette ash into the fire. ‘I don’t chase after men.’

  ‘Clare would have us believe she is all art and no heart,’ Lucan drawled. ‘Those who work so intently have some­thing to forget.’

  Something … or someone, Kara thought, and she felt befriended by Nils on the arm of her chair.

  ‘To men I am the marble and the stone I work in,’ Clare rejoined. ‘Could I be a slave, do I look a flower, am I made to be the muse of a man when I love the touch of cold stone?’

  ‘You are a woman,’ Lucan said wryly. ‘Don’t fight it, Clare.’

  ‘Be a woman and enjoy "sorrow’s sauce for every kiss?"‘ Clare gave a laugh in which ice seemed to tinkle. ‘Happiness for me is involvement with my work, not with a man. Love? Love demands every fibre, every heartbeat, every nerve. I am sure Kara agrees. She is Greek, and they have always been a passionate people with a strain of sadne
ss in them. Passion needs to be answered, and sad­ness to be assuaged.’

  Kara was embarrassed, for everyone seemed to glance at her as though seeking the look of love in her eyes and on her lips. It was a relief when the clock chimed eight and the doors of an adjoining room were opened. They went in to dinner, where at the head of the table a space was left for Pryde’s wheelchair.

  Soup was served from a sideboard supported upon a carved dragon, and the silver candelabra cast islands of flickering light between the diners.

  ‘We must drink a toast to the bride and groom,’ said Clare, and she held up her wine glass by its long hollow stem. ‘I am going to quote Wilde because he was so deli­riously wicked and wise—here’s to "sweet things changed to bitterness, and bitter things that may be turned into joy." ‘

  ‘One moment,’ said Pryde, and he beckoned to Samuel and spoke to him in a low voice. There was silence at the table as Samuel went out of the room, and Kara caught Lucan’s eyes upon her. Her heart beat fast, for what Clare had quoted was so full of meaning for both of them. Kara had known contentment, then disillusion ­and now she faced a new, strange life that held under­currents as deep and dangerous as those beyond the rocks of Dragon Bay.

  Samuel reappeared and handed to Pryde the gold, dragon-crested cup of the Savidges. He half filled it with wine and handed the cup to Lucan, and he watched with piercing eyes as Lucan shared the wine with his bride.

  ‘It’s like a Greek drama,’ Clare’s laughter had a break in it. ‘With all of us sitting at the family table, hiding behind our masks.’

  ‘I am not one of the family,’ Nils pointed out, and it seemed to Kara that he avoided looking at Clare.

  ‘Well, you can console yourself with the thought that you are indispensable as a tutor—why, Rue would not tolerate any of those tame governesses that we hired.’ Clare gave a laugh as she selected a beautifully browned cutlet from Samuel’s serving-dish. ‘That child has a Savidge temper.’

  Kara took buttered vegetables from Samuel, and saw Clare glance significantly at Lucan.