this has gone far enough—’
‘No, damn you, it hasn’t,’ he snapped violently. ‘Not half far enough!’
With a muffled exclamation his arms were around her, forcing her back on the planks until her shoulder blades were digging painfully into the wood. Then he threw himself upon her, his lips wet and slippery against the shrinking coldness of her flesh.
Miranda was so shocked that for minutes she could do nothing but lie there. Then, as his intentions became clear to her, she began to struggle desperately, digging her nails into his arms, fighting in any way she could to escape his revolting caresses. He was no longer the gentle man she had imagined him to be, but a drink-crazed beast who cared for nothing but his own sexual appeasement.
And she was no match for him. Slender though he was, he had no difficulty in overcoming her frantic efforts to evade him, and tears were streaming down her face when she heard his groan of defeat. Not understanding, she was too shocked and shaking to move when he rolled off her, buttoning his clothes and muttering to himself in tones of distress.
Blinking, hardly capable of coherent thought, she propped herself up on one elbow, staring at him through the wild disorder of her hair. Holding the bodice of her gown together with trembling fingers, she thought at first he had come to his senses, but the ravaged face he turned to her disabused her of that fact.
‘M-Mark!’ she got out unsteadily, but his face just contorted more savagely.
‘Don’t speak to me!’ He spat the words at her. ‘Don’t speak to me!’
Miranda pushed back her hair with an unsteady hand and got to her feet. ‘Mark, you’re drunk—’
‘Drunk, am I?’ He lurched a step towards her, and then shaking his head, he stared broodingly down at the floor.
‘Drunk! Huh, that’s a laugh! God, I wish I was!’
Miranda was trying to understand what he was saying, but her mind wouldn’t work very well. Yet common sense told her that something had happened to bring Mark to his senses, and she desperately wanted to find some good in this awful mess.
‘Mark, you’ll feel better in the morning—’
‘Will I? Will I?’ He glared at her. ‘What do you know about it? What do you know about anything?’ His breathing had quickened again, and as she watched him she saw to her astonishment that there were tears in his eyes.
It was a revealing moment, and compassion swept over her, dispelling the revulsion she had felt for him. ‘Mark, let me help you—’
‘You! Help me?’ His laugh was bitter. ‘I don’t need your help. I don’t want you. I don’t need you. I never did. Don’t you understand, I don’t need anyone!’ And with a muttered oath he flung himself across the room and out the door.
Miranda stared after him blankly, not immediately comprehending the import of what he was saying. But suddenly she knew, suddenly she guessed why he had not finished what he had started. He couldn’t! That was what was eating him up. He couldn’t love anyone.
She turned back to the fire, her hands pressed to her mouth, and as she did so she heard the sound of the sports car starting up outside. With a cry, she turned and darted to the door. He couldn’t go! He couldn’t leave her here like this, without even a coat to cover her torn gown.
But he had. The tail lights of the sports car were already disappearing into the light mist which had fallen when she reached the door, and she stood there watching them until they disappeared from sight. Then she turned and went back into the cottage.
There was no phone, so she could not even ring her mother to ask someone to come and get her. But equally, she could not spend the night here. Apart from anything else, her mother would worry about her, and besides, she wanted to get home, to close the door of her own room and shake away the horrifying implications of the night’s revelations.
She turned out the gas fire, and running combing hands through her hair, walked to the door. The freezing air made her hesitate, and on impulse she went back and gathered up the piece of carpeting to hold like a cloak about her shoulders. Her dress was light, and therefore noticeable, but she couldn’t help that. It was a quarter of a mile to the turn off to the Hall, and another half to the Hall itself.
Miranda had scarcely gone two hundred yards, however, when the headlights of a car picked her up, and she bent her head in agony, praying it was no one she knew. The village attracted 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.
