Miranda's Mount Page 6

  ‘Let’s forget him for now,’ said Theo, delivering a double whammy of relief and frustration. ‘I know you’re always busy but do you have time for a coffee? I wanted to talk to you about the Mount’s evacuation procedures. I doubt you’ll ever need them but there’s always the outside chance of a tidal wave or crazed gunman running amok through the castle.’

  ‘That’s not funny,’ said Miranda, a shiver running down her spine.

  Theo assumed a deadly serious expression. ‘I know, my jokes are terrible. Black humour goes with the job, I’m afraid. Now come on, I’ll pay for the coffee and I’ll try to make the experience as painless as possible.’

  Miranda smiled. ‘The coffee will be free.’

  He patted her on the shoulder and his touch felt comforting and tingly. Perhaps Theo did understand how she felt, more than she’d been willing to acknowledge.

  ‘And so is my advice,’ he said, as Miranda decided her day had just gone up several notches.

  An hour later, Miranda left the café with pages of notes which needed to be typed up into a risk assessment. Procedures in the event of waterspouts, fire, flood and mad axemen had all been covered, and only the possibility of aliens invading had been left out.

  As she watched Theo’s RIB power towards the mainland, the emptiness inside her returned at the thought that she might have to leave the Mount – and worse, leave Cornwall – and never see Theo and her friends again. Or was it disappointment that Theo had gone? Several times back in the café, as they’d chatted and laughed, he’d touched her hand briefly and she’d been almost sure that he was going to ask her out. He hadn’t but maybe Ronnie was right. Perhaps Theo did like her as more than a friend. She’d known him a few years, she’d begun to think of him as a friend but she’d never got any vibes that he thought of her as more. He was surely out of her league for a start … and why had he seemed to show more of an interest in her now after she’d found out the Mount was being sold and she might have to leave? Did he sense some kind of change in her, a willingness to move on or do something different with her life? Or was that her imagination?

  A few days after breaking the news about the sale to Miranda, Jago sat in his study in the tower of the Mount. Reading through the latest proposals from Southcastle was driving him mad. Wearily, he shoved the folder of papers away from him. No matter how resolved he was on the sale, seeing the details set out in black and white was not a pleasant experience.

  He’d gone through Southcastle’s proposals with his mother, not wanting to leave her out of the proceedings. Lady St Merryn had questioned many of the points in the draft contract, as Jago had expected, but, ultimately, she’d said the final details were up to him; it was his decision to sell and he must take responsibility.

  He knew she didn’t really agree with the sale and hoped he would change his mind, and he wouldn’t have expected anything less from her. At the end of the day, he was alone in this one.

  What was new about that? The previous decision he’d had to take had been the most lonely of his life, and he still wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing. His stomach knotted even now at the memory of the dilemma he’d had to face. He would never forget what he’d done, or rather what he hadn’t had the courage to do.

  A sudden squall rattled the window, wafting the sound of the ocean and the smell of ozone into the study. He could almost feel the salt tightening on his skin. He should be on the sea now – he smiled to himself – or more likely, in the sea. He hadn’t surfed a break in Cornwall for years and he’d probably get wiped out within thirty seconds.

  He crossed to the window and squinted at the beach. A calm sea licked the shore as the tide crept in and out each day. Waves battered the Mount in winter, but it was bucket and spade land. For surf, he’d need to head for Godrevy or Porthmeor.

  Not that he’d ever surf again.

  He saw someone enter the courtyard from the staff pathway and walk across the terrace. That rear view was unmistakable. Miranda, tight arsed in every way. She strode across the courtyard, carrying a clipboard – God, did anyone need a clipboard nowadays? He edged a little closer to the leaded panes.

  She’d stopped, apparently to inspect a litter bin and seemed to be marking the flapping sheet of paper on her clipboard. Surely she could have got one of the staff to do that. Hadn’t she heard of delegating responsibility?

  He inched open the leaded window, careful not to make a sound with the iron catch, and leaned out. She had her back to him, trying to tug her shorts and knickers out of her bottom. Oh dear, she was having trouble with those shorts. It was sweet, really, and strangely sexy, not that he was interested. Smiling in spite of himself, he nudged the window open wider.

  ‘Shit!’

  His head bumped the window, the catch slipped and the window crashed back against the masonry. Miranda flashed round, eyes instantly riveted on his guilty face. He wondered if he could detect a blush on her cheeks.

  Jago lifted a hand and nodded politely like he’d just met her walking the dog. He desperately wanted to laugh but Miranda’s expression was stormy. She marched off and disappeared down the steps that led to the dining hall.

  No more box-ticking for her today, he’d put a stop to that.

  He closed the window and trooped back to his desk, sat down in the leather chair and tried to read through some paperwork but no matter how many times he saw words on pages, none of them were making any sense to him. His mind seemed to seethe and boil with conflicting emotions like the currents around the Mount. He couldn’t shake off the image of Miranda, gazing up at him, in contempt and embarrassment and … Had there been something else in her expression other than hostility towards him? Was she in some bizarre way attracted to him? No matter how hard he tried to deny it, he was attracted to her physically and if, in spite of her attitude towards him, she felt the same way … what then?

  It would be bloody inconvenient, that’s what. And disturbing. He couldn’t let it happen, but what if it was already too late? A weird tingling had begun inside his cheek; a bizarre buzzing that spread through his whole body, right to the heart and lower. He hadn’t felt anything like it since Rhianna …

  The memory slammed into him, like a freak wave, dragging him under and spinning him out of control. He remembered the last time he’d made love with Rhianna before their world had imploded. They’d slipped away into the dunes on a remote beach, the grass shading them from the fierce heat of the Southern afternoon. The sex had been glorious, heart pounding, sweet and tender and then it had happened. When he opened his eyes, four stone walls confronted him – and Miranda.

  He hadn’t heard the door open. She stood in front of the desk, clutching the clipboard to her chest defensively. He thought of getting to his feet, like a gentleman would have done when a lady walked into the room.

  His bum stayed firmly in the chair. ‘Hello.’

  ‘I saw you were in. I hope I’m not interrupting you.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, you are, but it doesn’t follow that the interruption is unwelcome.’

  She pursed her lips at him, unsure how to take his remark. ‘I’d like to discuss the Festival of Fools,’ she said primly.

  ‘The Festival of Fools?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice grew higher. Maybe she was nervous or maybe her knickers were bothering her again. ‘The Festival of Fools,’ she repeated, enunciating each word as if he was an idiot, ‘is the Mount’s main event of the year. We have entertainers, stalls and attractions and all the proceeds go to good causes. I’m sure you must remember it.’

  He felt angry and knew it was because her barbs had begun to land too close to home and his heart whispered, because he’d been thinking of her in the same place in his mind as Rhianna and that was wrong. It had to be.

  He tried to keep his voice gruff. ‘I do remember. It’s been going on for years, even before my grandfather’s time when, as I’m sure you know, the proceeds went to the local poor fund. But why do you need to ask me about it?’

>   ‘Because,’ she said patiently, ‘the choice of charity each year lies with the owner of the Mount. In the past, I’ve asked your mother’s opinion, of course, but she said that this year it should be your decision. She did, however, suggest the local lifeboat fund as one option. It’s been fourteen years since they last benefited.’

  Clever Mummy, adding another tiny weight to his burden of guilt by reminding him of how many people depended on his role as landowner. No matter what his mother said, Jago was sure she hadn’t accepted his decision to sell. His mother would certainly hold out hope until the ink was dry on the contract. ‘The lifeboat sounds like a good idea,’ he said, glancing down at the papers on his desk.

  He heard Miranda click the top on her pen. ‘So that’s definite? I need to know so I can start the publicity campaign for the Festival. We need to let the lifeboat fundraisers know too, so they can promote it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Miranda made an exaggerated mark halfway down her form. Clearly, that was him ticked off the list.

  ‘Right. Thank you. I’ll leave you to get on with your work.’

  He took in her tanned legs, her slight figure swamped by shorts and polo shirt like an urchin growing into a big sister’s clothes. She was the kind of woman who didn’t want to be noticed. She raised the clipboard. She definitely didn’t want to be noticed by him.

  Too late.

  ‘If you could spare a few minutes, I’d like to discuss something with you,’ he heard himself say.

  The clipboard shot up in front of her chest like a shield. Was she that scared of him? He only wanted to talk to her. Hadn’t known how much he wanted to talk to her until this moment. He stood up. ‘Do you fancy an ice cream?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘An ice cream. Cold stuff, comes in lots of flavours.’ He smiled. ‘It’s such a lovely day and I think I should make another inspection of the property.’

  ‘I really should be doing a risk assessment of the visitor facilities.’

  He felt reckless, and not quite in control, like the man who is terrified of heights yet is drawn to the edge of the cliff. ‘You can do a risk assessment of me if you like.’

  Christ, what was he saying?

  Miranda ignored him, her eyes telegraphing ‘twat’. ‘I thought you were busy with the Southcastle plans.’

  ‘How do you know that’s what I’m doing?’

  ‘An educated guess? Plus I saw the letterhead on your desk when I came in. You had your eyes closed so I realised it must be something riveting.’

  Ignoring her sarcasm, Jago flipped a thumb at the door. ‘Please?’

  Her eyes widened in surprise then she glanced at her watch although he suspected she was fully aware of the time. ‘I suppose I can spare ten minutes but that’s my limit.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of taking you beyond your limit.’

  Her lips twisted, but she led the way down the path that led from the library to the quayside.

  He followed her, fascinated as she skipped down the steps, a little too fast, in his opinion, obviously uncomfortable with being followed. Fascinated too by his own boldness and stupidity. Jesus, he was almost flirting with her back there and, worse, he’d been enjoying himself. It was wrong but he didn’t want to stop, not yet, not just yet …

  He quickened his step as Miranda speeded up. She took the steps two by two and he did the same, his longer stride bringing him closer to her. He knew she could hear him close behind. In fact, she almost had to jog to keep the distance between them. He lengthened his stride. If he reached out with his hand, he could touch her arm. He heard her breathing hard and felt guilty at taunting her. He slowed but she kept up her pace.

  His reaction to Miranda had shocked him, not only because he was attracted to her but because he reacted to her. She made him feel again – if only annoyance, amusement, frustration, a desire to provoke her. He hadn’t felt that way about another human being, of any sex, for a long long time.

  Since Rhianna had gone, he’d been numb for months, seeing the people around him, like figures who lived on the other side of a thick grey veil that separated him from the rest of the world. He’d certainly not been interested in women in any serious way and, God knows, there had been enough of them in Australia – sometimes literally throwing themselves at him. One, an ex-model, had broken into his bedroom at the surf centre and lain on his bed, stark naked.

  He’d ordered her out and thrown her clothes after her, earning himself a reputation as a bastard in the process. Sadly, his reputation had only served to attract even more women and, eventually, he’d given in to quite a few of them, for the touch of another human being, for the relief of uncomplicated, emotionless sex.

  It had certainly been emotionless on his part and, as for the girls, he knew he was sorry if they’d been hurt but, being brutally honest, he hadn’t truly felt sorry. All of his guilt had been used up on Rhianna. He’d had none left for any other woman.

  Soon, he found himself tarred with the image of the playboy aristocrat, and perhaps he deserved it. It was what was expected of him, and there was some comfort in that: doing what everyone expected.

  He guessed that word of his exploits had reached the Mount, probably distorted and enhanced by gossip and speculation and sheer boredom. Not a lot happened in Nanjizal. Before he’d arrived back at the castle, via his lawyers in London, he’d called into the local pub for a drink. He wasn’t sure quite why he’d gone in there. He didn’t need a pint, but did want to delay the moment when he finally set foot on the island again.

  In the short time he’d spent in the bar, he’d realised that he was still hot property in the village. He’d had phone numbers scrawled on his arm and shoved into his jeans pocket, not to mention being felt up while he’d been washing his hands in the Gents. Some bloke had asked him to a gay night in Penzance and three girls had invited him for a ménage à quatre in their tent.

  The village had changed a bit since he’d left for university.

  Maybe that was why he was so intrigued by Miranda, because she was one woman who clearly hated his patrician guts. Because he couldn’t have her and so was safe from hurting her or himself.

  ‘Oh dear, just look at the roof on the toilets! There’s a slate missing.’ As they reached the quayside, Jago landed back on planet Earth with a thud. Miranda stood with her hands on her hips, tutting at the lavatory block opposite the icecream kiosk. ‘I must go and phone the roofers right away.’

  She started to walk away from him but he took her arm. ‘No you don’t.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Later. Compulsory ice cream first.’ He steered her in the direction of the kiosk.

  ‘There’s a queue,’ she protested, looking panicky at the trail of people waiting at the open window in front of the kiosk.

  ‘Then we’d better wait our turn.’

  Miranda was in dire need of cooling off by the time they reached the front of the queue. This might be crazy but Jago had seemed almost to be … hunting her. She’d tried to get out of their ice cream date by spotting the damaged loo roof but he’d had none of it and now here they were. Daisy, the woman who managed the ice-cream shop, raised her eyebrows when she saw them together. She cultivated a local wench image, which went down brilliantly with the visitors, particularly the male ones. It was an unorthodox business strategy but Miranda approved wholeheartedly. Icecream sales had increased by a third since Daisy had taken over the kiosk.

  She scooped a generous dollop of strawberry ice cream into a cone for Miranda. ‘There you go, my lover.’

  ‘Thanks, Daisy. Business good?’

  ‘As ever. Be even better when the schools break up proper and the dads and grandads are on holiday.’ She winked at Jago. ‘And what can I do for you, Lord St Merryn?’

  Jago seemed amused, his mouth twisted in a smile. ‘A double mint choc chip cornet, please.’

  ‘Coming up.’ Daisy crammed the double cone with ice cream. ‘You want clotted cream on top
of that? And chocolate sprinkles?’

  She made the offer sound positively obscene. Miranda tried hard to keep a straight face.

  ‘Yes, please. To both.’

  Leaning forward out of the kiosk window, Daisy’s ample bosom squashed together as tightly as Jago’s twin scoops of mint choc chip. ‘That’ll be four pounds twenty please, my lord.’

  Jago fumbled in his jeans pocket, while holding the cone in one hand. He pulled an apologetic face. ‘Bugger.’

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Miranda.

  ‘I don’t appear to have brought any cash with me.’

  ‘Like the Queen?’ she said, relishing his sheepish face. ‘I’ll get these.’ She handed over the cash. ‘Thanks, Daisy.’

  ‘A pleasure, my dears. Now, who’s next?’

  Jago walked with Miranda to the sea wall. ‘Look, I think we need to make a fresh start. You must think I’m a bit of a prat,’ he said.

  Miranda took a long lick of her ice cream before replying. ‘Not a bit of one.’

  He laughed then rescued the trail of minty cream about to drip onto his T-shirt. ‘Shall we?’ he said, waving his cone in the direction of the harbour. The gulls squawked overhead as they strolled along by the water, licking their ice creams. Miranda had the urge to avoid stepping on the mortared cracks in the great slabs of stone that had been dragged from the mainland to make the harbour. If you didn’t step on them, then you could become invisible.

  As a child, she’d tried that trick a lot, especially when her mum’s boyfriends had been around. They’d thought she was an alien for wanting to read in the stuffy caravan when it was sunny outside. One of them had threatened to throw her books on a bonfire.

  ‘Amazing that they managed to build this place,’ said Jago, watching her.