towards the coast, they came within sight and sound of the Atlantic breakers rolling in to plunging headlands and wild and lovely beaches. The further north they drove, the more spectacular the scenery became and eventually Catherine had to comment upon it.
‘It reminds me of Brittany,’ she said, leaning forward in her seat to get a better view. ‘I had a holiday there when I was about seventeen. Have you ever been to France, Jared?'
He shook his head. ‘No.'
She studied his unsmiling profile. ‘This—visit isn't going to be much fun if you persist in treating me like some kind of pariah. Look, can't we at least be civil with one another? I know my father would have wanted it that way.'
At the mention of her father, Jared felt a twinge of remorse. Glancing sideways at her, he saw how her eyes had darkened with remembered grief, and he felt a moment's sympathy.
‘I liked your father,’ he said quietly. ‘He was a fine man. I met him in my final year at Oxford. Your mother was alive in those days.'
‘Oh, Mummy. Yes.’ Catherine sank back in her seat. ‘I seem to have been singularly unlucky with my parents. Mummy dying in that car accident, and now Daddy…'
Her voice trailed away, and Jared's fingers tightened on the wheel. ‘Then it's just as well you can take care of yourself, isn't it?'
His words, not entirely intended to sound ironic, came out that way, and for once she was stung by them. ‘That's exactly the kind of remark you would make, isn't it?’ she demanded. ‘Just because you once got a great deal of satisfaction out of putting me down, you can't resist repeating the experiment, can you?'
‘My dear girl—'
‘I'm not your dear girl! Oh, how I wish Daddy had never written that letter. I don't know what possessed him to do so. I don't need your guardianship. I was quite happy in London—having a good time—'
‘With Tony!’ he inserted dryly, and she gave him an angry stare.
‘Yes, with Tony. Why not with Tony—or with anyone else, for that matter?'
Jared's expression was contemptuous after this outburst. ‘I'm beginning to understand why your father was so concerned about you,’ he drawled.
‘Oh, are you?’ Her eyes challenged his, dark lashes giving them a sooty outline. She examined his face with frank appraisal, and then she said: ‘You've got cat's eyes, do you know that? You should have been called Kit, or Christian, so they could have abbreviated your name. With your looks you could easily have been a pirate. What a pity your character doesn't match your appearance!'
‘I was not aware you were talking about me. It's obvious. Your father was afraid some man would—would—'
‘—put me in the family way? Make me marry him so that he could get his hands on my fortune and I could save my good name? How old-fashioned, Mr Royal,’ she taunted. ‘Haven't you heard of the pill? And besides, you don't imagine being pregnant would force me to marry anyone, do you?'
Jared's jaw clenched. ‘Easy to say, Miss Fulton, when the need doesn't arise!'
Her hands balled together in her lap. ‘How do you know?’ she demanded scathingly. ‘What makes you so sure I'm not pregnant at this moment?'
Jared dragged his eyes away from the road to stare at her, disbelief vying with the recollection of his first sight of her in that loose, flowing garment at the airport. His eyes narrowed, tawny slits between lashes thicker, but not as long, as her own. ‘And are you?’ he inquired coldly.
Catherine pressed her lips together, deepening colour darkening the soft velvety skin of her cheeks. ‘I—yes,’ she answered. ‘Yes, I am. What are you going to do about it?'
Now why had she said that?
Catherine could hardly believe she had allowed the words to pass her lips. What possible satisfaction could she hope to gain from such an announcement? How silly to allow him to get under her skin to that extent! It wasn't true. And how angry Tony would be if he ever found out.
And yet she couldn't help but smile at Jared's grim profile as he endeavoured to concentrate his attention on the traffic in the face of her outrageous statement. A small sigh escaped her as she considered how much she had wanted to see him again. Ever since he had come to the Open Day at her boarding school with her father, his image had lingered in her mind, accompanied by that tantalising memory of his reactions to her amateurish attempt to attract his attention.
All the girls had been envious of her attractive visitor. He had worn a denim suit, she remembered, and the closer-fitting styles of those days had accentuated the narrowness of his hips. In any event, she had been pleased to be taking part in the tennis tournament, which meant she had been able to wear a hip-length tennis dress which drew attention to the already curving length of her legs. When her match was over, she had joined her father and his friend for tea, and in the busy marquee it had not been difficult to find an occasion to press herself close to Jared Royal's lean, hard body. That he had swiftly detached himself from her with a few well-chosen words of rebuke had not been able to dispose of the fact that for a brief instant his body had responded to hers. She had not seen him again, but when she learned of her father's letter, she had not been entirely opposed to coming out here and meeting him again. She had thought he might well have forgotten that incident which she remembered so vividly, but it seemed he had not. And what was more, he was judging her present behaviour on one single reckless act. She squared her shoulders. Well, now he had something to justify his opinion of her.
She was so absorbed with her thoughts that she hardly noticed when they turned between griffin-mounted stone gateposts, but the tall palms lining the white-gravelled driveway brought her to the realisation that they were approaching the Royal house. She glanced frustratedly at Jared. Was he not going to say anything, then? Was he so uninterested in her affairs that even the announcement that she was expecting a baby had no reaction on him?
She hunched her shoulders. But what of the rest of his family? What was she going to tell them? She knew he had a stepmother. She could just imagine her reactions to learning her guest's condition. She should never have said what she did. But it was too late now. And besides, she wanted him to believe it. It would give her the greatest pleasure to explode his myth of self-confidence at the end of her stay. And it would also be interesting to see whether he was really as hostile to her as he would have her believe.
But she had to say something, and despising the faint tremor in her voice, she said: ‘Is this your home?'
‘Yes.’ There was a certain amount of pride in his voice now. ‘Amaryllis.'
‘Amaryllis.'
Catherine said the word experimentally. It rolled off her tongue, attractively different from the names of houses back home in England. The drive curved between banks of rhododendrons, and then she saw it. Amaryllis. A wide colonial house, with white-painted shutters, and a long balcony to the first floor, running the width of the house. On the lower floor, rattan chairs were set in the shade between wooden pillars overhung with morning glory and clematis.
‘Oh…’ She could not deny the words which tumbled from her lips. ‘It's beautiful! So clean—and picturesque. It's like everyone's dream of what a plantation
