Witching Hour (4 page)

Morgana was out of breath by the time she reached the wishing

stone. The wind had been blowing steadily against her all the way,

and by all the natural laws the stone should already have been

rocking precariously on its pediment. But it wasn't, of course. She

leaned against the upright, regaining her breath, and looking about

her. She could see the lights of Polzion House below her, and

away on the right those of the Home Farm. She couldn't see the

village, because it was down in a hollow in the edge of the sea,

where the surrounding cliffs provided a safe harbour for the

fishing and pleasure boats.

She thought suddenly, 'This could be the last time—the very last

time that I stand here.' She put her hand on the stone and it felt

warm to the touch, but perhaps that was because she herself

suddenly felt so cold.

It couldn't happen, she told herself passionately. This was her

place, her land, and she refused to give it up to an uncaring

stranger.

She said quietly, but aloud because that was the rule, 'I wish that

he may never come here. I wish that he may renounce his

inheritance, and that we may never meet.' Then she began to walk

round the stone, slowly and carefully, the wind whipping her cloak

around her legs, her head thrown back slightly, her eyes narrowed

against the gloom as she watched for a sign of movement.

She had never really believed in the Wishing Stone, had always

dismissed it as an amusing local superstition, but now she

desperately wanted the legend to be true, and to work for her.

But when her circuit was completed, the great stone remained

where it was implacable, immovable. Her wish hadn't been

granted, and she could have thrown herself on to the ground and

wept and drummed her heels like a tired child.

She stared at the stone, and sighed despairingly, 'Oh, why didn't

you work?'

And from somewhere behind her, but altogether too close for

comfort a man's voice said, 'Perhaps you used the wrong spell. Or

simply asked for the wrong thing.'

Morgana spun round, her hand going to her mouth to stifle an

involuntary scream, and found herself caught, transfixed like a

butterfly to a cork, in the merciless, all-encompassing beam of a

powerful torch.

HER heart hammering, Morgana stared back, lifting her chin

defiantly. She didn't recognise the voice. Low-pitched and

resonant, with a trace of an unfamiliar accent, it struck no chord in

her memory. And she couldn't see him either, although she had the

impression that he was tall.

She wondered why she hadn't heard him approach, but supposed it

had been partly because of the noise of the wind, and principally,

because she had been so totally absorbed in what she was doing.

All of which he had observed, judging by his opening remark. She

felt the blood rush into her face with embarrassment, and her

temper rising at the same time as she visualised him skulking up

through the bracken, deliberately not using his torch, giving her no

hint that she was no longer alone until it was too late, and she had

made a complete and utter fool of herself.

She demanded sharply, 'Do you enjoy spying?'

'Not particularly, although I must confess it can be most

instructive,' he said. 'And it's not every day one gets the paces. But

isn't it a little early for this sort of thing? I always understood the

witching hour was midnight.'

There was a trace of amusement in his voice which he wasn't at all

concerned to hide, and it stung.

She said stiffly, 'I am not a witch.'

'I think that's just as well.' The laughter was open now. 'I don't

think you'd be very good at it. That stone's supposed to rock, isn't

it?'

'How did you know that?'

'From a book I bought in the village. I hope you didn't think it was

a closely guarded secret.'

'No, no, of course not.' The fright he had given her, and her own

anger, had knocked her slightly off balance, and she hated the way

he kept her trapped in the damned beam of light, so that he could

see her, but she could know nothing about him, except that

impression of height.

Her voice sharpened. 'Did your book also tell you that this is

private land?'

It was only a technicality, and no one at Polzion House had ever

dreamed of debarring any of the interested tourists from visiting

the stone, but there was something about this man that flicked her

on the raw, that made her want to put him down—to make him

feel small in his turn. It was abominable the way he had stood

there in the darkness and watched her, and listened, and then added

insult to injury by laughing at her.

He said slowly, 'Is it now? And do you think the owner would

mind?'

'We don't like trespassers round here—intruders.'

'I was always told the Cornish were very hospitable. And as for

intruding, actually I was here before you. I was standing back so I

could look at the stone from a distance when you appeared out of

nowhere and began your incantations.'

'I had every reason to believe I would be alone,' she said coldly.

'And do you think you could switch off that spotlight of yours—

always supposing you have seen all that you want,' she added with

icy sarcasm.

The torch remained on. He said, 'Tell me something, are you

always so prickly? Even in that weird cloak with your hair all over

your face, you're an attractive girl. You must have had men look at

you before this.'

'Oh, yes,' she said. 'But I've always been able to look at them too.

The present situation is a little too one-sided for my taste.'

He said, 'But easily remedied.' The torch beam swung up and away

from her and she saw him properly for the first time. He was tall,

his, face thin, with prominent cheekbones, a high-bridged nose and

firm mouth and chin. And his hair was fair, lighter altogether than

Rob's, and longer too, reaching almost to the collar of the black

leather coat he was wearing.

Morgana thought, 'A fair man—but it can't be ... it couldn't be! I

don't believe it.'

As if he could read her thoughts, he began to smile, deep laugh

lines appearing beside his mouth.

'You look as if you've seen a ghost.'

She wanted to ask, 'Who are you?' but the words wouldn't come.

Then the torch snapped off, and there was only the darkness and

the howl of the wind, and the tall dimly seen figure who said

quietly, 'And perhaps you have, at that.'

He was coming towards her, and she recoiled involuntarily, her

hands flying up in front of her to keep him away. Then she

stumbled against a clump of grass and went flying.

'Dear God!' The torch flicked on again, as she lay there, winded

and humiliated, and he bent towards her pulling her up, his voice

abrupt as he asked, 'Have you hurt yourself? Are you all right?'

'I'm fine.' She'd twisted her ankle slightly and it hurt enough to

make her wince when she put her weight on it, but she wasn't

going admit it. She didn't want him to touch her again. He'd put his

hands under her arms and lifted her as if she was a child, and she'd

hated it.

He said harshly, 'When I said you'd seen a ghost, I wasn't trying to

frighten you. There was no need for you to leap away like that.

What I meant was that I thought I possibly reminded you of

someone.'

Morgana could have said quite truthfully, 'You remind me of a

number of people. You remind me of at least half the portraits

hanging in the long gallery at home, except that they're all dark,

and you're fair.' But she remained silent because there was still an

outside chance it might all be a coincidence, and she could be

wrong. Under her breath, she prayed that she was wrong.

He said sharply, 'Well?'

She shrugged. 'I don't spend my life looking for chance

resemblances to people I know in local tourists. We have too many

of them.'

'I wasn't talking about chance, and I think you know it.' His hand

gripped her arm, bruising her flesh, and she said with ice in her

voice, 'Would you let go of me, please?'

'When you've answered a few simple questions. For starters, what's

your name?'

'If this is a new version of the pick-up, then I'm not impressed,' she

shot at him.

'I'm tempted to make a very different impression on you.' His voice

slowed to a drawl, but now he didn't sound amused at all. The

torchlight was on her face again, and his hand moved from her arm

to grip her chin. She wanted to pull away, but she wasn't sure she

could evade his grasp, and it would be another humiliation to

struggle and lose. So she remained very still, making her eyes

blank, enduring his scrutiny.

At last he said slowly, 'I'm Lyall Pentreath. And unless I miss my

guess, you're my cousin Morgana.'

'Brilliantly deduced,' she said huskily. 'And what are we supposed

to do now—shake hands?'

'I think it's a little late for that.' His voice was dry.

'We expected you this morning.'

'I was held, up.' He let her go and stepped back, and her breath

escaped with a little gasp of relief.

'More business, I suppose.' She made no attempt to hide the

bitterness in her voice.

'Of a sort.'

'I suppose it didn't occur that my mother and I would be waiting

for you—would be worried?'

'Frankly it didn't.' A match flared as he lit a cheroot, his hands

sheltering the flame against the snatching wind, and she saw his

mouth twist cynically. 'I hardly imagined I would be the most

welcome visitor the Polzion House Hotel had ever had.'

She'd heard the edge in his voice when he mentioned the word

hotel, and she made her own tone blank and a little wondering.

'You resent the fact that the family home is now a commercial

enterprise? I'd have thought as a business man yourself, you'd have

been delighted.'

'But then,' he said coolly, 'I would hardly describe that particular

venture as a commercial enterprise.'

Morgana was silent for a moment, her brain working madly. Far

from lacking interest in his inheritance, it now seemed he was only

too well informed. But where had he gleaned his information? she

wondered. Was that where he'd been since this morning? Going

round Polzion, asking questions? She flinched inwardly as she

thought of some of the answers he might have been given. On the

other hand, it was far more likely that he'd found out all he wanted

to know through correspondence between his solicitors and Mr

Trevick, who would have been bound to be frank.

She decided to proceed cautiously. 'I admit we're not the Hilton,

but we make out.'

'Do you really? You seem to be alone in that opinion. From what

I've learned, the hotel seems to owe quite a lot of money to a

number of people.'

She was mortified, but she made herself reply quietly. 'Yes—we

do, unfortunately. But it's been a bad year.'

'It must have been a succession of bad years if all I've been told is

true.'

'If you want to put it that way,' Morgana agreed, numbly hating

him.

'I don't, believe me.' His tone was dry. 'After all—a hotel in

surroundings like these. It's hard to see how it could fail.'

'In the course of your snooping, you may also have noticed that

Polzion isn't exactly Newquay,' she said sharply. 'I'm sorry if we

haven't come up to your expectations, but no doubt you'll be able

to figure out the reasons why at your leisure.'

'Unfortunately, I don't have that much leisure to waste.' He

sounded abrupt again. 'I'm going to walk down to the house now,

and meet your mother. Are you going to come with me, or have

you got more spells to cast?'

'No,' she snapped. 'I'll come down with you.' She felt chilled to the

bone, and cold and sick inside.

'Good. I didn't relish the prospect of being turned into a frog as

soon as I turned my back.'

'I think in the circumstances,' she said tightly, 'a rat would be more

appropriate.'

'If we're playing at animal similes, I can think of one or two that

would fit you quite well too,', he returned equably, and Morgana

flushed in the darkness. After a moment's pause he turned away