the matter? Afraid he might come and exact his own revenge?’
Sara shuddered. ‘No.’ But she looked over her shoulder as she followed Michael along the landing. ‘Who—who is he? Adam’s grandfather?’
He halted before double panelled doors, and looked at her with scornful eyes. ‘As if you didn’t know,’ he retorted. ‘Do you know why he went to Portugal to choose a wife? Because he found the English women too forward—they had too much to say for themselves. Can you imagine what he would have thought of someone like you?’
Sara chose not to answer, and Michael swung open the doors into what was obviously the master bedroom of the house. A switch brought several lamps into warm illumination, and she saw a room of generous proportions, squarely dominated by a large fourposter bed. The walls were hung with cream silk damask, which matched the covers on the bed; the furniture was dark wood, oak or mahogany, tallboys vying with the triple-mirrored dressing table for space. There were two striped Regency chairs, a matching chaise-longue, and an antique writing desk stood in the window embrasure. The room had been clearly used, there were no dust-sheets here, and various articles of male usage were draped over the backs of the chairs or set upon the dressing table.
‘This—this is your room,’ said Sara faintly, as he gestured her inside. ‘I can’t use your room.’
Michael made a sound of disgust. ‘You’ll have to. It’s the only bed that’s made up, and if sleeping between my sheets is distasteful to you, I should tell you Mrs Penworthy changed them this morning.’ Sara gulped. ‘Where—where will you sleep?’
‘You care!’ he sneered. ‘Well, not here, at any rate. You can face your ghosts alone.’
Sara made a helpless movement of her hands. ‘Mr Tregower—’
‘Go to sleep!’ he retorted, and strode out of the room.
The door slammed dully behind him, and she heard his footsteps receding along the landing. Only then did she realise exactly how tautly she had been holding herself, and her shoulders sagged beneath a weight of unexpected depression.
It had been an incredible evening, but now that it was over the anti-climactic feeling of dejection was crippling. For the past few hours she had been living on a high stimulus that was all the more debilitating to someone who had never experienced it before. Fencing with Michael Tregower had been an intoxicating game that left her feeling drained and weary.
Looking round the room again, she remembered with a pang that she had left her handbag downstairs. The bottle with the tablets she was supposed to take was inside it, and the prospect of going downstairs again and braving Michael’s anger and his cynicism was more than she could anticipate. She would just have to wait until he was in bed—however long that might be.
The bathroom adjoining the bedroom was just as luxurious. Cream tiles, inset with yellow roses, chrome-plated taps, and a metal shower compartment. There were fluffy yellow towels, and a dark blue bathrobe hung behind the door, a suitable garment to wear after she had shed her clothes.
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