hands of her watch mocked her. Six-fifteen! Had she slept for barely an hour? It was impossible. She felt completely rested. Unless…
She pushed back the covers and swung her feet to the floor, finding the rug soft to her toes. The balcony doors had been closed by whoever had drawn the blinds and taken away the roses, but a window had been left ajar. Catherine unfastened the doors now and thrust them open, wrapping her robe closer about her as she stepped outside.
Her suspicions had been correct. Even without the golden orb of the sun spreading its brilliance over a sky translucently washed in pinks and lemon and turquoise, the coolness of the air compared to the softness of the evening before would have convinced her. A faint mist still hovered low over the meadow, and the scent of the ocean came strongly before the awakening blossoms in the garden overlaid the air with their perfume. There was no sound to be heard in the house, and she felt assured that no one would observe her standing here at this early hour. The balcony, which was a continuation of the one which ran across the front of the house, was separated from the rooms on either side by a vine-hung trellis, but that would prove no screen to prying eyes.
Fastening the cord of the bathrobe more tightly, she stretched her arms luxuriously above her head. She must have slept for twelve hours, and now she felt thoroughly wide awake and restless. The pool looked as inviting now as it had done the evening before, but somehow she was loath to use it and possibly arouse the other members of the household. The ocean beckoned, and she wondered whether it was possible to reach it across the paddocks. Even from this distance, she could see the line of foam where it surged over the reef, and her skin tingled at the prospect of plunging into its depths.
Turning back into the bedroom, she opened her suitcases and stared thoughtfully at their contents. The clothes she had discarded so untidily the night before had disappeared, and she guessed that whoever had drawn the covers over her and attended to the shutters, had taken them away for laundering. It was a curious sensation thinking she had been so soundly asleep that not even a servant's hands had awakened her.
She rummaged through the contents of one of the cases and brought out a pair of purple denim jeans and a spotted cotton smock with wide, elbow-length sleeves and a tie belt. The strap of a white bikini emerged from the disorder, and on impulse, she pulled the bikini out as well.
In her bathroom, she took a quick shower, taking care not to wet her hair, and then dressed, first in the bikini, and then in the jeans and smock. A brush brought a silky sheen to her thick straight hair, and she looped it back behind her ears but otherwise left it loose.
Her room door made no sound as she opened it, and she made her way along the hall and across the gallery to the stairs. Marble did not creak under her sandal-clad feet, but when she reached the hall the heavy doors were securely closed. Frowning, she turned through the archway leading to the room where she had taken tea with Elizabeth Royal, and finding that door went inside. French doors were easier to unfasten, and with impatient fingers she slid back the bolts and stepped outside.
She was at the side of the building where green leaves gave on to a trellised rose arbour, but she followed the line of the house around to the back and came upon the patio. The air was like wine, slightly sharp and invigorating, and she moved her shoulders in a gesture of complete indulgence of the senses.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a tall figure, moving beyond the bushes near the tennis courts. It was Jared, and hardly stopping to consider what she intended to do, Catherine ran around the swimming pool, pushed her way between laurel bushes and emerged on to a crazily-paved path. Jared was some way ahead now, astride a motor-cycle, she saw in surprise, but obviously waiting until he was out of sound of the house before starting the engine.
‘Hey!’ she called, running down the path after him. ‘Jared! Wait!'
Her voice came clearly on the still morning air, and he halted at once and swung round to stare at her. Not very amicably, she saw, as she came closer. Like her, he was wearing jeans, but nothing else, his skin smooth, and only lightly covered with hair.
‘Hello,’ she said determinedly. ‘Where are you going?'
Jared swung his leg over the motor-bike, stood it on its rest, and faced her squarely. ‘I might ask you the same question.'
Catherine refused to be put off. ‘I'm sorry I didn't make dinner last evening. I must have been more tired than I thought. But it was such a beautiful morning, I couldn't bear to stay in my room a moment longer.'
Jared acknowledged this small speech with a faint inclination of his head. ‘You must be hungry,' he said. ‘Lily's probably about by this time. If you go into the parlour and ring the bell, she'll get you anything you want.'
Catherine pursed her lips. ‘I'm not hungry! At least, not especially so. I don't feel like eating at this moment. I feel like swimming!'
Jared shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Feel free to use the pool any time you like.'
Catherine controlled her temper with difficulty. ‘But I don't want to use the pool either,’ she said, through her teeth. ‘I want to swim in the sea. It's warm, isn't it? I've never swum in the Caribbean before.'
Jared cast a lazy glance towards the ocean. ‘That's the Atlantic, actually,’ he drawled, and she glowered at him.
‘You know what I mean!'
Jared regarded her without emotion. ‘Ought you to—well, swim at all in your—condition?'
Catherine expelled her breath on a sigh. ‘Of course. Lots of women swim until they're seven or eight months. And—and I'm still measuring my pregnancy in weeks, not months!'
Jared's expression darkened. ‘Then I suggest you have Sylvester—he's the chauffeur—take you down to the beach later on this morning.'
Catherine looked up at him frustratedly. ‘You still haven't told me where you're going.'
‘No, I haven't.'
‘I want to come, too.'
‘What?’ For once she seemed to have succeeded in getting under his skin. ‘Miss Fulton, I don't know what kind of society you've been mixing in in England, but out here a girl waits to be invited before encumbering some man with her company!'
‘Really?’ Catherine managed to sound bored. ‘Well, you invited me out to Barbados, Mr Royal, and I think it's up to you to entertain me! Hmm?'
Jared looked furious, and just in case he suddenly decided to fling himself on to the motor-bike and ride off, Catherine swung her leg across the machine and perched herself precariously on the back.
‘Get off that bike!’ Jared glared at her, but she just put on her sweetest smile. ‘You're not about to tell me that pregnant women do that until they're seven or eight months!'
‘No,’ Catherine conceded, flicking a butterfly with exotic crimson and black colouring away from her face, ‘but it won't do me any harm—providing you take it easy.'
Jared moved his head slowly from side to side. ‘Do you want me to drag you off?'
‘Oh, would you do that?’ she exclaimed disbelievingly. ‘To an expectant mother?'
Jared looked angrier than ever, but he made no attempt to shift her, and Catherine realised she was enjoying this. It was stimulating and exciting, provoking him like this, but perhaps not entirely
