in the village simply aren’t built to withstand that kind of vibration.’
‘Your concern does you credit,’ Rafe retorted shortly, but when he would have moved towards the door, she went on:
‘That’s without the destruction of the beauty of the valley. The river—would it become polluted, too? And what would they do with the rock they dig out? Would there be piles of debris everywhere?’
‘Miss Tempest—Catherine!’ He spoke through his teeth. ‘I know very little more about what’s involved here than you do. I’m as appalled as anyone else by the possible effects such a scheme might have on the ecology of this area, but there are other considerations. So far, all that’s been determined is that there are grounds for believing that a seam of ore may exist in the land above Penwyn. Your uncle knows there have been geologists working in the area. As yet, no actual drilling has been done, so all their work is purely speculative. It could be a cold trail. No one knows. Without further exploration, they never will.’
‘And—and that’s your decision. Whether or not to grant drilling rights?’
‘Yes.’
Catherine gazed at him, trying to read his mind, trying to penetrate the mask-like schooling of his features. For the first time she noticed the muscle jerking at his jawline, and the lines of weariness around his eyes. They were revealing aspects, and she realised, with a stirring of compassion, that he was not without a conscience. This was not easy for him, and after all, he need not have agreed to see her. For a moment the gulf between them narrowed, but as she parted her lips to utter some conventional words of gratitude for granting her this interview, the door opened behind him, and a slim, dark-haired young woman stood on the threshold.
Catherine recognised Lucy Glyndower at once. Apart from that occasion when she had accompanied her husband to the ball, she was regularly seen about the town. She drove a Volvo estate car, and Catherine had encountered her in the supermarket on more than one occasion. Not that Lucy acknowledged her. She seldom acknowledged anyone other than the manager of the store, and Catherine had heard the girls at the check-out grumbling about her haughty ways. Until this moment she had thought they exaggerated, but the look Mrs Glyndower cast in her direction was completely devoid of interest, and she turned immediately to her husband, almost as if Catherine wasn’t there.
‘I’ve just been speaking to Thomas!’ she declared, and there was a note of anger in her voice. ‘Are you aware—–’
Her husband’s intervention halted her tirade. ‘We have a guest, Lucy,’ he reminded her evenly. ‘Miss Tempest was just leaving. We can discuss Thomas later.’
His eyes held hers, and Catherine sensed the antipathy between them at that moment. Then, as if unwillingly accepting her husband’s injunction, Lucy Glyndower turned to face her.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘You’re Powys’s niece, aren’t you?’ The way she said it made Catherine’s resentment bristle, but she managed to disguise it. ‘My husband remembered your name. But you don’t live here in the valley, do you, Miss Tempest? So the loss of your uncle’s farm will mean little to you.’
Catherine squared her shoulders, glad that in height at least she had the advantage, although Lucy’s daintiness was obviously more feminine. ‘I live in Pendower, Mrs Glyndower,’ she retorted smoothly. ‘But I’ve always considered the valley my second home. Anything that affects Uncle Mervyn affects me, too.’
‘Oh, dear!’ Lucy didn’t sound at all sympathetic, though. ‘Still, I’m sure he’ll be well compensated.’
Catherine blinked. ‘Well—compensated?’
‘Yes,’ Lucy nodded. ‘When he has to move.’
Catherine’s eyes went straight to Rafe Glyndower’s face, and what she saw there in no way reassured her. ‘You mean—you mean the decision has been made, then?’
‘Oh, yes.’ It was Lucy who answered. ‘Didn’t my husband tell you?’
‘Lucy!’
Rafe Glyndower’s warning came a little too late, however, and Catherine was already gazing at him in angry disbelief.
‘You said—you said—–’
‘My husband was probably trying to avoid any unpleasantness,’ Lucy remarked, shaking her sleek head. ‘Surely you realise, Miss Tempest, that we cannot allow sentiment to stand in the way of business?’
‘Lucy, for God’s sake—–’
‘Oh, please. Let her go on!’ Catherine’s fingers clenched painfully. ‘I’d rather hear the truth than a pack of lies!’
‘Miss Tempest!’ It was Lucy’s protest that rang out then. ‘I must repeat, whatever loyalty you may feel towards your uncle, this is not your affair, and coming here in an abortive attempt to appeal to my husband’s good nature—presuming on a relationship you may once have thought you had—–’
Catherine gulped. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean this—childish aberration you nurtured for my husband …’
‘Shut up, Lucy!’
‘He told me about it,’ Lucy continued, ignoring Rafe’s furious command, and his fingers digging into her shoulder. ‘I suppose you thought it gave you an advantage. Your uncle thought so, obviously. But being insolent is not going to solve anything!’
‘I warn you, Lucy—–’
But Catherine had heard enough. She could feel the hot colour surging into her cheeks, and knew that if she didn’t get out of here soon she would be tempted to slap Lucy’s taunting little face. So he had remembered, she thought bitterly, but it gave her no satisfaction. What had he said? What could he have intimated for his wife to get such an impression? It was galling and humiliating, doubly so, because she had never dreamed he suspected her infantile infatuation.
Brushing a hand across her eyes, she hurried blindly towards the door. She had to get out of here. It had been a waste of time coming. The decision was already made, and Rafe Glyndower had only been humouring her. She hated him for that. Hated him, for making a fool of her, for humiliating her in front of his wife. She would never forgive him. Never!
She had the impression that there was somebody in the hall as she stumbled awkwardly across it, someone standing on the stairs who watched her uneven progress with wide, curious eyes. But she didn’t stop to look. She wrenched open the heavy door without waiting for anyone’s assistance, and ran down the steps to the Renault, uncaring of the rain.
Fortunately, she had not locked it, but her cold fingers fumbled with the handle, and she had just managed to jerk it open when other fingers closed around her arm. Hard fingers, they were, but long and sensitive, powerful in their determination not to let her go.
‘Catherine, wait!’
The voice was familiar, much too familiar, and she struggled urgently to free herself, her long honey-coloured hair falling forward in a curtain, hiding the heated contours of her face.
‘Let go of my arm, Mr Glyndower,’ she said, with what she hoped was convincing coolness, but she knew from his angry oath that he had no intention
