Wild Enchantress. Anne Mather

think we can dispose of the formalities, don't you, Catherine? That is your name, isn't it? And mine is Elizabeth.'

      Catherine couldn't resist darting a glance at Jared's face to see how he was taking this, but he had turned away, ostensibly glancing through several letters laid on a silver salver set on a lacquered cabinet.

      ‘Oh, please do,’ she answered now, her nerves tightening a little when she contemplated what this woman's reaction might be if Jared turned round and told her their guest was apparently pregnant. But no, he wouldn't do that. If he did choose to tell his stepmother, it would be at some time when she was not present, when the revelation would not embarrass him.

      ‘Did you have a good journey?'

      Elizabeth seated herself on the sofa again and patted the seat beside her, indicating that Catherine should join her. Catherine went to do so, the heat beginning to cause her some discomfort as little trickles of sweat ran down her breasts on to her flat stomach.

      ‘I don't really like flying,’ she confessed, aware as she did so that Elizabeth wasn't really paying her a lot of attention. She continually glanced over her shoulder at Jared, and although he continued to ignore them both, Catherine felt the undercurrents in the air. ‘Do you?’ she finished, and Elizabeth was forced to reply.

      ‘I—why, I don't mind.’ She glanced round at Jared again. ‘Darling, did you order tea? I told Lily—'

      Jared half turned and looked up. ‘Yes.’ His gaze flicked to Catherine. ‘Perhaps—perhaps our guest might prefer to take tea in her room.'

      Catherine put her shoulder bag firmly down on the floor at her feet. ‘I'm fine,’ she said, aware of his antipathy. ‘I'm in no hurry to—wash my hands.’ She paused, looking about her. ‘What a beautiful house this is.'

      ‘Do you like it?’ Elizabeth successfully hid any feelings she had regarding her stepson's behaviour. ‘It was built almost a hundred years ago.'

      ‘I adore old houses.’ Catherine smiled. ‘I live in a very functional flat, and—and when Daddy was alive, I was always trying to persuade him to buy a house.'

      ‘Well, in six months you'll be able to buy one for yourself,’ remarked Jared offensively, but she chose to ignore him.

      ‘Have you lived here long, Mrs—er—Elizabeth?'

      ‘Twelve years.’ Was there the faintest hesitation before her reply? ‘I married Jared's father twelve years ago. Unfortunately, two years ago he died.'

      ‘I'm sorry.'

      ‘Yes.’ Elizabeth looked suitably nostalgic for a moment. Then she shook her head. ‘Of course, he was a lot older than I am.'

      ‘Of course.'

      Catherine caught the inner side of her lower lip between her teeth. There was something about Elizabeth Royal which she didn't altogether like. She didn't know what it was exactly. The woman had been perfectly civil to her. But somehow she felt she preferred Jared's open antagonism to his stepmother's restrained politeness. She was relieved when the squeal of trolley wheels heralded the arrival of tea, but she couldn't suppress the depressing realisation of how long six months could seem.

      The tea service was Crown Derby, and between bite-sized sandwiches and several cups of the strong, heavily sweetened beverage she seemed to prefer, Elizabeth kept up a steady inquisition: Did Catherine live in London? Had she always done so? Did she have her own flat? Had she many boy-friends?

      This latter question was delivered with a coy glance at Jared, who was standing with his back to the open french windows, feet slightly apart, drinking beer from the can despite his stepmother's protests. Catherine was tempted to make some outrageous reply, but a glimpse of his brooding malevolence changed her mind.

      ‘I have—boy-friends,’ she conceded slowly. ‘I have girl friends, too.'

      ‘But isn't there someone, some particular boy…'

      Elizabeth's voice trailed away and she sat regarding her expectantly. Catherine guessed to what she was referring. When news of her father's letter had first reached her, she had made Tony an excuse for wanting to remain in London. And indeed, he had not wanted her to come to Barbados.

      Choosing her words carefully, she replied: ‘There is one—young man I'm rather friendly with.’ She ventured another glance at Jared, but his eyes were fixed on some point above her head. ‘His name's Tony Bainbridge. We've known one another for a couple of years.'

      ‘Ah.’ Elizabeth seemed relieved, and Catherine wondered about this. Was she worried in case their house-guest began taking too close an interest in her stepson? He was a most attractive—and eligible—man, after all, heir to this estate, however large or small it might be, and a successful portrait painter into the bargain. No doubt all the matrons on the island, with unmarried daughters on their hands, beat a path to his door in an effort to cultivate his attentions, so what was one unmarried female more or less? Certainly nothing for Elizabeth to concern herself about, unless she had some other motive for hoping he remained single…

      At this point Catherine brought herself up short. She had absolutely no grounds for considering any such thing. Whatever his faults, she suspected that Jared Royal was an honourable man, and having an affair with his dead father's widow was hardly an honourable thing to do.

      ‘We must introduce you to Jared's fiancée,’ Elizabeth remarked, as if to confound Catherine's speculations, and nullify the intimacy of the look she exchanged with her stepson. ‘She's just a little older than you are, but I'm sure you'd find her good company. You could go swimming together, there's a pool out back, or the beach, and we have tennis courts—'

      ‘Perhaps you should let Miss Fulton get used to her new surroundings first,’ Jared interposed smoothly, and Catherine realised with a pang that he was actually making things easier for her; or so he thought! A pregnant woman might go easy on the swimming, and avoid tennis altogether.

      ‘Well, I love swimming,’ she murmured now, setting her empty teacup on its saucer and waving away Elizabeth's offer of more. ‘But I think perhaps Jared's right. I should settle in first.’ She looked sideways at him. ‘I'm looking forward to meeting your fiancée, though.'

      And so she was. She was curious to meet the girl who had succeeded in netting such an unpredictable catch!

      Elizabeth appeared to accept this. ‘As you wish. Laura—that's Jared's fiancée, by the way—Laura is coming to lunch tomorrow, so you'll meet her then. This evening there'll just be the three of us. Jared thought you might be—tired after your journey.'

      Catherine wondered exactly what Jared had thought. What were his motives for bringing her out here? Had it only been a feeling of obligation to her late father which had prompted him to offer her the hospitality of his home? Or might he, like his stepmother, have other reasons?

      Stifling a yawn, she realised she was tired. She had been up very early that morning, and the long flight had been singularly boring. The plane had not been full, and the seat beside hers had remained empty, but although she had been superbly comfortable, able to spread her belongings around without fear of disturbing anyone else, she had found it impossible to rest. The magazines offered by the stewardesses had failed to distract her thoughts from the anticipation of her arrival, and she had been impatient to reach her destination. But now she was here, she knew what she was up against, and within half an hour of her arrival she had placed herself in an entirely false position.

      Elizabeth had apparently noticed her efforts to hide her weariness, for she gave a sympathetic smile before getting to her feet and ringing a bell on the wall by the door. A young maid appeared, and her mistress gave her instructions to show Miss Fulton to her room.

      ‘I'm sure you'll find everything you need, Catherine,’ she said, as her guest stood up and walked towards the door. ‘If not, Susie'—she indicated the maid—‘will attend to it. We have dinner at about eight o'clock. I should rest for a while, if I were you.'

      ‘Thank you.’