Moth to the Flame (23 page)

‘This is the student I was telling you about,' Jack whispered abruptly to Gareth as Gavin approached.

Gareth felt himself stiffen, then thrust out his hand, leaving Gavin no other choice but to shake it.

‘Oh, yes. Er . . . Gavin Brock, this is Dr Gareth Lacey,' Jack introduced them. And the effect of Gareth's name on Gavin was immediate. He actually took a step back. Went deathly pale. Looking into Gareth's astute, level grey eyes, Gavin became suddenly very afraid. Very afraid indeed.

‘I want to have a word with you, Mr Brock,' Gareth said softly. ‘About an exam paper.'

Gavin gulped and immediately folded. It's all her fault!' he wailed. ‘I had nothing to do with it! She offered me money. She brought the photocopy. I . . .'

Gareth's eyes narrowed. Grimly he lowered the shaking boy into another of the chairs. ‘Now,' he said, his voice ominously quiet. ‘I suggest you start at the beginning. Start with exactly who “she” is?'

Davina was already packing when Gareth got back to St Bede's. He didn't bother
knocking
on her door, but opened it silently. He closed it just as silently again behind him, then leaned against the door, watching her pack.

There was no expression whatsoever on his face.

Only the stormy shadows in his grey eyes reflected the bitter pain of hurt bewilderment he was feeling.

Davina tossed the last of her things—the long white dress—into her hold-all and zipped it shut with a final jerking movement. She hoisted it off the bed, and looked slowly around. She was going to miss St Bede's. The place had a charm that had wormed its way into her very soul.

She shrugged, turned, and froze.

Gareth glanced from her suddenly tense, waiting, wary face, to her bag, then back again. ‘Leaving?' he asked softly.

This time it was the turn of Davina's hackles to rise, very slowly. Menace was in the room with her. The presence of a man on the hunt. She swallowed nervously, then elevated her chin. The defiant gesture was so typical of her.

So Davina. Gareth felt his heart contract. Even now, even knowing that all this time she'd been plotting to destroy him, he loved her. Part of him, a purely primitive part, even felt elated. She'd hated him enough to stalk him. Spent so much emotion on him. A savage primordial part of him could feel a sexual kick
of
awareness. He felt, absurdly, honoured. But that was not all he felt. He felt rage, too. And pain. So much pain. He'd thought she'd loved him, in her own unique, complicated way. To find that she never had was almost more than he could bear.

‘Yes, I'm leaving,' Davina confirmed. ‘As you can see,' she added loftily, swinging the holdall by her side.

‘You've finished the anthology?'

‘Of course.'

Gareth's lips twisted. ‘Of course. Far be it from the great Davina Granger to leave a job undone.'

Davina's green eyes flickered. What . . . ?

‘Weren't you even going to say goodbye?' Gareth asked calmly. ‘Don't I even merit a “So long sucker, thanks for the memory”?'

Davina shrugged. It was curious. She could actually feel her heart breaking inside her. And yet she was out of herself. Feeling hardly anything at all. ‘All right,' she said softly. ‘So long sucker. Thanks for the memory.'

Gareth laughed. ‘Oh Davina. You're a classic, you know that?'

She laughed too. But she was still feeling nothing. Nothing at all. The numbness was wonderful. But, somehow, she didn't think it was going to last for ever. She had to get out of there now. Before the pain came. Before she could no longer hide the fact that she loved him. Before she blurted out the whole, sordid
truth.

‘Oh, for pity's sake, Gareth,' she said mockingly. ‘Don't tell me you don't know when an affair's over? It was very nice, and all that, and I'll always remember you with affection. OK?' She put one hand on her hip. ‘Can I go now?'

Gareth smiled at her. ‘In just a minute. First I want to know why you wanted me broken.'

Davina blinked. ‘What?' she asked faintly.

Gareth walked slowly towards her. ‘You heard me,' he said softly. ‘I want to know what I ever did to you, Davina, to make you come after me.'

Davina dropped the holdall. Suddenly, all the numbness was gone.

The battlefield was now even.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

They'd all agreed to meet up in Theatre again at three o'clock the next afternoon in order to read the reviews, and Alicia, dressed in a demure tartan skirt and plain white blouse, clutched the sheaf of newspapers to her breast as she hurried along through Wallace Quad towards Webster.

Rupert Greyling-Simms watched her from his vantage point high up in Hall, and then slowly lowered his binoculars. He felt much
better
this morning. With the decision about what to do with his life taken out of his hands, he felt much calmer. All the despair caused by his uncertainty was just a distant, bad memory. It was all due to Alicia. He would thank her properly. Soon. Very soon.

In the theatre, the cast swooped on Alicia and her newspapers the moment she set foot in the door. There was a general sound of frantic page-turning, and then the usual ‘listen to this bit', and ‘look what he said about me' groans and ‘I can't believe I'm in the papers' jubilance.

Alicia read Neville's review aloud.

The annual St Bede's Hilary Term play was shown last night, and differed vastly from previous productions. Firstly, the play was not culled from the extensive College library, but was written especially for the College by Alicia Norman, a first-year English Literature student. Secondly, St Bede's daringly opted to try a much more modern approach than in previous years, putting on a very nice little murder mystery.

The review went on to praise the staging. Then continued:

The play itself was moderately well written, with a strong set of characters, a brave modern setting, and with a fairly intriguingly-plotted whodunit thrown in. It's a pity the second Act, instead of bolstering the first, and making way for the third, became a little bogged down. If the director had shorn off a good ten minutes in the
middle
of the play, the balance would have been a lot better.

‘I knew he'd have to get a dig in somewhere,' Jared murmured gloomily. Alicia glanced up at him, caught his eye and grinned widely. Jared, unabashed, grinned back.

Neville rounded it off with a few more pithy and pertinent comments, and Alicia sighed with relief. It could have been so much worse! Jared was shaking his head. ‘Well, well, well. Who'd have believed it? A word of praise for nearly everyone.'

Rupert, who'd just that moment come through the door, watched the teasing by-play with a stab of pain that was almost exquisite. He walked slowly forward, watching the couple out of the corner of his eye as the rest of the cast greeted him.

‘You're a hit, Rupe,' someone called over to him, and Alicia and Jared both quickly looked up. A feeling of anxiety settled on them as they watched Rupert smiling and joining in with the rest of the cast's revelry.

Alicia bent her head towards Jared. ‘What are we going to do?' she murmured, keeping a wary eye on Rupert, who showed no signs, at the moment, of coming over to them. She wished, guiltily, that she didn't feel so scared of him, so unhappy whenever he was around.

‘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.