Witching Hour (13 page)

scowl. 'You could bear in mind that the quicker I see the rest of the

house and can make some sort of plan, the sooner I'll be away

from here. I do have other things to do. I have to be in Sweden

next week.'

'I'm sure we're all duly impressed,' Morgana said bitterly, and

walked out of the kitchen. She was halfway along the passage

when Lyall caught up with her.

'Pleased with yourself?' he asked drily. 'Feel that you've scored a

few points? Your little barbs aren't hurting me at all, lady, but they

are upsetting your mother for whom you express such profound

concern. I'd like to see some real evidence of it.'

'I'm staying here, aren't I?' she flashed. 'Wasn't that what it was all

about? I'm sorry if you don't like my attitude, but it's the only way

I know
to try
and convince you how totally unacceptable you are

to me.'

'Try convincing yourself first,' he came back at her, and Morgana

gasped, swift colour flooding her face.

'Your conceit is boundless!' she raged.

'And so is your capacity for self-deception.' He sounded weary

again. 'Now can we postpone this particular battle to another

occasion? I really would like to see those attics.'

'What do you plan for them?' she asked, turning resignedly

towards the stairs. 'A sauna and massage parlour?'

'I like your thinking,' he approved gravely. 'But as a matter of fact I

was wondering whether they'd convert into a self-contained flat for

your mother and yourself.'

'I suppose you're afraid we should intrude upon your guests.' she

said coldly.

'On the contrary, my main aim is to provide you with a little

privacy—or are you totally devoted to the present arrangement?'

Morgana was tempted to reply 'Yes' stonily, but common sense

prevailed.

'It would be better if we had a place of our own,' she admitted. 'My

father liked the idea of the guests living
en famille,
but it does get a

little wearing at times.'

'At least we can agree on something,' Lyall commented. 'What are

the attics used for at the moment?'

She shrugged. 'Not a great deal. We never come up here. There's

junk going back for generations. Daddy always meant to sort

everything out—but he didn't get around to it,' she added, giving

him a challenging glance.

Lyall nodded. 'I imagine the condition of the attics was the least of

his problems,' he said drily.

They went up the narrow, uncarpeted secondary stair case which

led to the top floor, Lyall bending his head to avoid the low beams

and arches of the gabled roof.

'I suspect there's worm in these timbers,' he said.

'I don't doubt it,' Morgana said indifferently. 'Well, here are the

attics. The doorway's rather low.'

'You shouldn't have warned me,' he said pleasantly. 'Think of the

enjoyment you could have derived from watching me fracture my

skull.'

The first room they went into was piled high with dusty furniture.

Lyall gave it a cursory glance.

'Infested as well, I expect,' he said. 'The best thing would be to

make a' bonfire of the lot.'

'You can't do that,' Morgana protested. 'There might be some

treasures among it.'

'I think if there were, they'd have found their way downstairs or

more probably to the saleroom by now,' he said coolly, eyeing a

wicker chair with a broken seat. 'However, if you want to sift

through it all, I have no objections.'

She said stiffly, 'You're probably quite right. There's nothing really

worth saving.'

'That's quite an admission,' he said mockingly. 'Can I be sure if I

organise the appropriate bonfire, that I won't be accused of being

an unfeeling vandal?'

She flushed slightly. 'I don't imagine that any accusations I might

level would make a great deal of difference, once your mind was

made up.'

Lyall inclined his head. 'I'm glad you're beginning to see my point

of view.' He stood still, looking around him. 'This room is really

quite spacious. Are the others like this?'

'Most of them are. I think the couple at the end are smaller.'

'So they could potentially convert to a kitchen and bathroom,' he

said thoughtfully.

She shrugged. 'Now that you mention it, I suppose— yes.' A

thought occurred to her. Staring down at the floorboards, and

tracing a pattern in the dust with her toe, she said slowly, 'If this

conversion goes ahead, just how self-contained and private will it

be?' He glanced at her his brows raised interrogatively, and she

hurried on. 'I mean, when you come here—or if you do—where

would you expect to stay?'

'You sound nervous,' he mocked.

'If I am,' she muttered between her teeth, 'then you have no one but

yourself to blame. Frankly, I'm not used to your brand of sexual

innuendo.'

'I thought I'd done more than hint,' he said coolly. 'What's the

matter, Morgana? Surely you aren't implying you don't know what

it is to be desired by a man?'

'I didn't say that,' she protested.

'I'm relieved to hear it,' he said sardonically. 'I wouldn't have liked

to think you could have reached your present ripe age, untouched

by human hand.'

'I appreciate your concern,' her voice was edged with sarcasm, 'but

it's both unnecessary and unwanted. My private life is my own

affair.'

'Do all these loaded references to your private life cover Robert

Donleven, or is there a string of eager swains queueing for your

favours?' he enquired.

'That's got nothing to do with you,' she snapped. 'And how do you

know about Rob anyway?'

'I think his name came up in conversation,' he said silkily.

'I bet it did,' she said furiously. 'You really enjoy prying, don't

you?'

He shrugged. 'You could put it like that. I prefer to think of it as

having all the relevant facts at my disposal.'

'Well, I don't see how Rob comes into that category.'

'Don't you?' He smiled slightly. 'I intend to have his woman. I

imagine he'd find that more than relevant.'

Morgana said in a stifled voice, 'I wish you'd stop saying things

like that. We—we have to try and get along together somehow, it

seems—and I don't find your remarks in the least amusing.'

'Neither do I. In fact, I was never more serious in my life,' he said.

His eyes met hers, and their expression made her moisten suddenly

dry lips with the tip of her tongue. There was a long, loaded pause,

then he added, 'But if it worries you, I can safely say that you and

your mother will have this flat to yourselves. Is that what you

wanted to hear?'

'Why—yes.' She felt foolish, suddenly.

He smiled slightly and walked on towards the door which

communicated with the next attic, and eventually Morgana made

herself follow him, to find him standing studying discoloured

patches on the plaster above him with a critical stare.

'The roof wants attention,' he commented.

Her lips parted helplessly as she stared at him. She couldn't fathom

these sudden changes of mood he seemed to display, the way his

attention could switch from stripping her naked with his eyes one

minute to the examination of a leaking roof the next.

He didn't, however, appear to notice her silence. 'What are these?'

He walked over to a stack of paintings in heavy frames, propped

against one wall. 'More family portraits?'

'I don't think so,' she said rather huskily. 'Mostly rather gloomy

landscapes and some bad studies of dogs and horses, from what I

can remember. I think we kept them for the frames.'

He nodded abstractedly, turning them over. Then he stiffened

slightly.

'Mostly, but not all,' he said, gesturing her to his side. 'Meet

Grandfather Pentreath—not yours, but mine. I suppose he was

banished here after the great rift.'

'I suppose he must have been,' she agreed rather awkwardly,

looking down at the thin, arrogant face that stared up at her from

the portrait. She said slowly, 'He must have been quite young when

this was painted, and when the quarrel took place. He was very

good-looking.' she added, realising too late and with dismay that

Mark Pentreath had been the image of the tall man who stood at

her side. She expected some sardonic remark, but Lyall remained

silent, and glancing at him, she realised that there was a slightly

bitter just to the firm mouth.

She said slowly, 'They're so stupid, these family feuds. They

begin—and no one has the guts to stop them. I wonder if either of

our grandfathers could remember if they were here now, how it all

began?'

'I understand it began over a woman,' he said. 'And don't look so

surprised. Our generation hasn't a monopoly on sexual passion,

although it sometimes gives that impression.'

'It isn't that.' Morgana flushed a little. 'It's—just my memories of

Grandfather. He was very old when I knew him, of course, but I

always had the idea that he was very upright and moral—and very

happily married to my grandmother. I didn't think he would have

been the type to have—adventures.'

'In other words, the rakes all come from our side of the family,'

said Lyall, faintly amused.

'Well, perhaps.' She lifted a defensive shoulder. 'There's always

been a wild streak in the Pentreaths. No one has ever pretended

differently.'

'And how does it evidence in you?' He put out a hand and lifted a

strand of thick waving hair which hung to her shoulders.

'It doesn't,' she said shortly, resisting an urge to pull away, and

trying to ignore the tremor which had possessed her as his

fingertips brushed lightly against her earlobe.

'No?' His smile widened. 'Dancing widdershins round standing

stones is quite usual for you, is it, Morgan le Fay?'

'Don't call me that,' she said pettishly. 'And I wasn't dancing

widder—whatever you call it. I was indulging in a silly

superstition. If I'd thought for one minute I was being watched . . .'

She paused and gave him a fulminating look.

He grinned mockingly, then bent and lifted the portrait of Mark

Pentreath clear of the other dusty frames.

'I think we might restore him to the family gallery,' he remarked.

'Or have you any objection?'

'Why should I? I've already said I think these feuds are silly.'

Lyall propped the picture with a certain amount of care against an

ancient chest of drawers. 'Does that mean you want to call a truce

between us, Morgana Pentreath?'

'No, it doesn't,' she said coldly, annoyed with herself for having

given even a hint of weakness.

'Good,' he said coolly. 'Because I warn you now, only your

unconditional surrender will do.' And ignoring her muffled gasp of

fury, he walked into the next room.

Morgana was sorely tempted to leave him to continue his tour of

the attics alone, and return downstairs, putting her foot through

Mark Pentreath's portrait on her way out, but she controlled herself

with something of an effort. If she could prove to him, and to

herself, that she would not rise to his bait, then life at Polzion

might become more tolerable. Like most tormentors, she thought,

Lyall would soon tire of a victim who made no response to his

goading.

She pinned on a cool smile and followed him.

'I'm sorry for all the mess,' she apologised sweetly. 'You won't find

any missing portraits in here, just a lot of old clothes and things.'

'So I see.' Lyall glanced around, his brows raised. 'Did anyone in

this family ever throw anything away.'

'Why, yes.' She hesitated. 'Actually, nearly all these things

belonged to my grandmother. When she died, Grandfather moved

everything up here—her clothes, letters, photographs. I imagine he

planned to go through it all eventually, but he never did.

Apparently once or twice he tried, but found it too painful.' She

swallowed, memory carrying her back to early childhood and a

magical afternoon spent alone up here going through the trunks,

unbeknownst to anyone, and finding a dress with floating gauzy

skirts in layers like the pointed petals of a flower, and a pair of

high-heeled silver shoes. She'd dressed up in them and made her

way slowly and carefully downstairs. After all, she was

Grandfather's little princess—he was always telling her so—and