Scorpion's Dance. Anne Mather

a fair number of evening commuters to its two public houses, and it was after closing time.

      The car slowed, but she hurried on determinedly, aware of the dangers of a casual pick-up, but when a window was rolled down and a harsh voice said: ‘Miranda!’ she was forced to turn and look.

      The car, a red Daimler, was familiar to her. It belonged to Lady Sanders. But Mark’s mother was not driving, she was not even in the car. Jaime Knevett was behind the wheel.

      His raking gaze swept her dishevelled appearance, and even in the shadowed street lights she knew she must present a ragged figure. She was reminded of that other occasion when he had seen her torn and bedraggled, and she thought with a rising sense of fury that indirectly he was again the cause of her distress.

      ‘Get in!’ he said, but she just returned his stare, determined not to be beholden to him for anything. ‘I said—get in!’ he repeated forcefully, and telling herself it was because she was cold and the Hall was still a good distance away and not anything to do with the bleak fury in his eyes, she complied. Gathering her mist-dampened skirts about her, she huddled into the seat beside him, and he leant across her to slam the door with controlled violence.

      ‘Now,’ he said, his profile hard in the gloomy light, ‘what in God’s name has been going on?’

      Miranda cast him a sidelong glance. ‘I’d like to go home,’ she said pointedly, but he ignored her, tossing the disreputable piece of carpet into the back and shrugging out of his own jacket to wrap it about her shoulders. Miranda wanted to protest that she needed nothing from him, but the jacket was so blessedly warm and soft after the scrubby pile of the carpeting that she gave in without argument.

      ‘If we have to stay here all night, you’re going to tell me where you’ve been,’ he intoned grimly, and she had the feeling he meant it.

      ‘Don’t you know?’ she demanded, drawing an unsteady breath. ‘Or didn’t your imagination stretch that far?’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      Miranda’s composure was slipping. She didn’t want to sit here discussing what had happened with him. It was still too raw, too vulnerable, and to consider breaking down in front of him was too frightful to be borne.

      ‘Please,’ she said tremulously, ‘I want to go home. Can’t you restrain your curiosity until the morning? I’m sure Mark will be only too happy to regale you with the details!’

      ‘Mark?’ His heavy black brows drew together. ‘Mark is responsible for—this?’

      His fingers flicked the tangled strands of hair that clung to the mohair of his jacket, but she flinched away from his touch with the nervous mobility of fear. Immediately his eyes narrowed, and uncaring of prying eyes, he switched on the interior light and saw what the masking shadows had concealed. Miranda’s face was pale and haunted, and there were bruises around her throat, just visible above the encompassing shoulders of his jacket. Wordlessly, he tugged the jacket out of her resisting grasp and spread the lapels to reveal the scratches on her arms, and the torn material of the bodice of her dress. Miranda spread her arms crosswise over her breasts, but she had the feeling he was not seeing her as a woman at all, but as the victim of some sexual attack.

      With a savage oath, he wrapped the jacket around her again and switched out the light. Then he drew several deep breaths before saying quite calmly: ‘I’ll kill him!’

      ‘No!’ Somehow from the depths of her being, Miranda managed to articulate the words. ‘It’s not what you think. He … didn’t. That is … he tried to, but … he didn’t.’

      Jaime rested his forehead against the steering wheel. ‘Where is he now?’

      Miranda shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘You mean he just left you? He put you out of the car …’

      ‘Oh, no, no!’ Miranda had never felt so weary in her life. ‘We … went to the cottage. Mark … he bought my mother a cottage, you see. Back there.’ She gestured feebly. ‘We went there.’

      ‘But he left you?’

      ‘Yes.’ She gulped despairingly. ‘Can I go home now?’

      He straightened, flexing his shoulders. ‘In a moment. There’s one more thing.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Why did you assume that I might know what had been going on?’

      Miranda sighed. ‘Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you didn’t.’

      Jaime’s mouth was a thin line. ‘Nevertheless, I think I deserve an explanation.’

      ‘Oh, can’t it wait?’

      ‘No.’

      Miranda shifted restlessly. ‘Why should I give you explanations? You’re on their side, not mine.’

      ‘I am not on any side,’ he declared coldly. ‘And what is all this talk of sides? You’re marrying Mark, aren’t you? You’ll marry him anyway, whatever he’s done.’

      Miranda gasped at the callousness in his voice. ‘Why should you assume that?’ she demanded, but he merely shook his head.

      ‘I’ll take you home,’ he said, starting the motor. ‘Perhaps we’ll find your fiancé is there, waiting to make amends.’

      But Mark was not at the Hall. Only Lady Sanders awaited them, pacing impatiently about the polished floor, and gasping in horror when she saw Miranda’s dishevelled appearance. Miranda had not wanted to confront her future mother-in-law like this. She had wanted to slip round the side of the building and let herself in through the kitchen as she had always done. But Jaime’s hard fingers around her wrist had prevented this, and her strength was too depleted to put up much of a struggle.

      ‘My God, what’s happened!’ Lady Sanders grasped her shoulder, and then dropped her hand aghast when Miranda winced painfully. ‘There’s been an accident, hasn’t there?’ Her eyes lifted to her nephew’s face. ‘Jaime … tell me! Tell me! Where’s Mark?’

      Unhurriedly, Jaime unfastened the studs at his wrists, and folded back his cuffs. ‘I thought you might know that, Aunt Lydia,’ he remarked levelly. ‘I haven’t seen him.’

      ‘You haven’t? But …’ Lady Sanders gestured towards Miranda. ‘Then how …’ She broke off to moisten her upper lip with her tongue. ‘Miranda! Where is my son?’

      Miranda wished the floor would open up and swallow her. She had had just about enough, and she swayed on to her heels. ‘Mark … Mark left me at the cottage,’ she was beginning, when Jaime interrupted her.

      ‘Don’t you want to know how Miranda got into this condition?’ he inquired, the mildness of his tone belying the glitter of his eyes, but Lady Sanders was in no state to look for hidden meanings.

      ‘I … well, of course,’ she said agitatedly. ‘If it has any bearing on the matter.’

      ‘Oh, it has bearing on the matter,’ retorted Jaime tautly. ‘Believe me!’

      At last, his aunt seemed to gauge the tenor of his mood, and took a moment to give him her full attention. ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘What happened?’

      Jaime’s nostrils flared. ‘Your son did this,’ he said coldly. ‘Your son attempted to rape his own fiancée! Now why do you suppose he did that?’

      Lady Sanders gasped, one hand going automatically to her throat. ‘You can’t be serious!’

      ‘Oh, but I am,’ declared Jaime heavily, and Miranda felt Lady Sanders’ eyes going over her with almost tangible distaste.

      ‘How do you know?’ Mark’s mother countered swiftly. ‘Who told you that? You said you hadn’t seen Mark.’

      ‘Miranda told me—’

      ‘Oh,