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The Colour Of Midnight
Robyn Donald
For my mother, Iris Leabourn Hutching, who, forced by circumstances to give up some of her dreams, made sure that each of her six children got the chance to follow theirs. She kept her sense of humor and compassion intact through it all, and is the best cook in New Zealand, which is only one of the reasons her children love her.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
‘THERE should,’ Minerva Robertson muttered as she peered through the rain, ‘be signs on that signpost, damn it. Wretched vandals.’
Her voice, oddly deep for such a slight person, was tinged by a British accent, the inevitable outcome of two years spent as the cook on a yacht owned by a British billionaire and crewed by British sailors. Now back in New Zealand, she was working hard to get rid of it.
Unless she could work out which road she should take, she was going to have to go back. Somewhere, not too far away, was a huge sheep and cattle station called Spanish Castle. The place might, she thought with an irritation that was tinged with foreboding, as well be in Spain.
For the last five days she had slowly meandered north from Auckland, telling herself she was on holiday. At a loose end when her father and stepmother had left for a business trip to North America, she’d decided to see a little of New Zealand’s long northern peninsula. Even as close as Kerikeri, twenty kilometres or so away, she had had no intention of visiting the place where her stepsister had spent the last year of her life.
Until she’d seen the signpost. Spanish Castle, it had said, and pointed inland.
Without really making a conscious decision Minerva had followed that imperative finger.
Not, she thought now, switching warm air up on to the windscreen in an effort to clean the thick film of condensation from it, one of my better ideas.
Both roads looked equally dismal; both seemed to dwindle into pot-holed tracks beneath the huge, primeval presence of the kauri forest. If she hadn’t seen that signpost at the bottom of the hill she’d be wondering whether she’d taken a wrong turning somewhere.
As it was, she had to say out loud, ‘You know you’re on the right road, idiot. Spanish Castle is somewhere up here, down one of these hopeless-looking roads. And the weather is pure coincidence—in New Zealand it always rains in the spring!’
Muttering, she opened an umbrella and dashed through the merciless rain, skidding to a halt in the tangle of long, exceedingly wet grass that surrounded the base of the signpost. A few mustard-coloured splinters lurking coyly in the mud put paid to her idea of fitting the smashed signs to the jagged stumps and working out which road led where.
Gloomily, she turned back towards the car.
And gasped.
Unheard above the persistent drumming of raindrops on the umbrella, a man had solidified from the mist and the murk. Clad in a riding coat, he was on the back of a large grey horse; a black and white sheepdog lay in front of him over the shoulders of the horse. All three, dog, man, horse, were regarding her with an aloof surprise that wasn’t mitigated in the least by the slow, almost involuntary wag of the dog’s tail.
Minerva essayed a tentative smile, trying to forget that she hadn’t seen a house for the last three miles, and that around them were several thousand hectares of bush, sombre and dank and almost pathless.
As though on cue the rain eased off, then miraculously stopped. All she could hear was the distant rush of some stream and the faint drip of diverted raindrops in the bush.
‘Don’t wave that umbrella around,’ the man said curtly, the lean hand holding the reins moving slightly as the horse danced sideways. Almost immediately the animal subsided into stillness again, although it eyed her with the same wary caution as the man and the dog.
Even with rain trickling down the austere angles of his face, the rider emanated a controlled power and strength that was very intimidating.
Minerva’s hand clenched on the handle of the umbrella. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said gruffly, hoping that her nervousness didn’t show in her tone. ‘Can you tell me which road leads to Spanish Castle?’
He surveyed her with unnervingly pale eyes that looked through her rather than at her, although she was prepared to bet that nothing escaped his notice. He reminded her, she thought foolishly, of some grim conquistador viewing yet another country to be plundered, without passion, without even a rage for riches, to be looted and sacked simply because it was there.
The horse moved restlessly, flicking its ears. A shiver tightened Minerva’s skin. The man and his mount were taking on an almost mythic quality, remote, clothed in darkly shimmering veils of fantasy and legend. Even the dog, unnaturally sapient, looked like a being from another world!
‘It’s a cattle station around here somewhere,’ she said politely, striving to regain her normal pragmatic outlook. ‘It belongs to a Mr Peveril. Nick Peveril.’
‘I know who it belongs to.’ The even, darkly textured voice was toneless. ‘Why do you want to go there?’
Minerva’s indigo eyes glittered as her chin came up. ‘Is that any business of yours?’
He inclined his head, his gaze never leaving her heart-shaped face. ‘I think so. I own Spanish Castle.’
She should have known. She’d seen photographs, but the groom who had smiled back from the prints had looked completely different from this man. Of course, they were wedding photos. Everyone always looked happy in wedding photos.
‘Mr Peveril,’ she said, looking, she hoped, confident and in control, ‘I’m Minerva Robertson.’
His brows drew together. ‘Are
