Miranda's Mount (5 page)

‘I bet she’s called Jago back to take over. I just know it.’

Miranda couldn’t deny she thought the same way. ‘It looks like it. I hope he’s not going to make big changes.’

Ronnie’s face was grim. ‘Or bankrupt the place.’

‘I’m sure that won’t happen.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘OK, then I
hope
he won’t bankrupt the place.’ Miranda spotted the day’s post on her desk, secured with an elastic band, the top being from the Health and Safety Executive. Her heart sank a little. ‘Is there anything else I should know about while I’ve been in my meeting?’

‘Nothing life-threatening for once. But you have had a call.’

‘Who from?’

‘Theo
Martin.’ Ronnie said the words with relish, as if Theo was a cream doughnut or a giant block of chocolate.

‘And?’

‘He said he wants to review the Mount’s emergency evacuation procedures with you but I think he just wants an excuse to talk to you. He promised to try to drop by over the next few days.’

‘Right.’

Ronnie tutted loudly. ‘Miranda. Don’t.’

Miranda fingered the letters. ‘Don’t what?’

‘Play the Ice Maiden. Theo’s just about the best-looking guy in south-west Cornwall, if you like short men that is.’

At well over six feet herself, Ronnie had trouble finding a man who could look her in the eye or had an even chance of beating her in a fight. Theo, at a five ten-ish was considered almost a Munchkin by her standards. However he
was
a gorgeous Munchkin, Miranda was well aware of that, as were half of the girls within a fifty-mile radius. ‘Thanks for passing on the message,’ she said. ‘Now, I’d better make a start on the Health and Safety paperwork.’

‘Coward. I’ll be sure to show Theo right up if I see him before you.’ She hesitated before adding mischievously, ‘I wonder if he knows that Jago’s back yet.’

After Ronnie had left, Miranda picked up the desk calendar perched atop a pile of old
Country House
magazines. The current month featured a shot of the Nanjizal lifeboat vessel racing to a shout. She couldn’t see Theo in the photo but she knew he would have been at the helm. He was the coxswain of the lifeboat, the only salaried member of a crew which comprised volunteers from the local area. He was a proud man; devoted to his job and, if you cracked him open, Miranda reckoned he’d have Cornwall running through him like the letters in a stick of rock. He also had a fan club that ranged from teenagers to great grannies; the combination of rugged good looks and regularly risking his life for the community had made Theo the equivalent of royalty in Nanjizal.

Miranda
liked him too, he was sexy, he made her laugh and she admired his commitment to the village. But why had Ronnie been interested in his reaction to Jago? Theo wasn’t a fan of the St Merryns, that was true. As well as Cornwall running through his veins, he also had a chip on his shoulder about the family and their power and influence over the local community. Fair enough, Miranda acknowledged that he was entitled to voice his opinion and he’d certainly never mentioned Jago specifically to her face. Why would he? Ronnie was imagining things or, more likely, winding her up again.

Miranda heard her laptop ping as email messages started to pile up in her inbox. She put down the desk calendar, slipped the elastic band off the letters and reached for the paper knife. She smiled to herself. If only she’d had it when she’d found Jago in the armoury, she could have fought a duel with him.

Miranda was
a little surprised when Theo didn’t turn up as expected that week. He usually kept his promises, but the timing of his visit had been vague and, anyway, Miranda had other things to occupy her. For the past few days, Jago had kept out of the offices, but not out of her way. She’d bumped into him a dozen times or more, mostly on the back routes to the castle that were closed to visitors and once, after the property had closed, in the armoury. She wondered if he’d been trying to keep an eye on her or how hard she worked. That kind of pettiness didn’t seem his style, but you never knew.

She’d gone into the armoury one morning before opening time to find him examining the sword again. He’d laughed at her expression, which, she had to admit, had probably been a mixture of dismay and naked lust.

‘You’re quite safe this time,’ he said, replacing the sword on the display

‘If you wanted another tour, you only had to call me,’ she said, crossing to the cutlass and peering at it as if checking for damage. ‘Are you aware, my lord, that this is a rare early eighteenth-century cutlass captured by the fifth Lord St Merryn from a buccaneer in the West Indies?’

He
scratched his chin. ‘And here was me thinking my great-grandfather acquired it from a market stall in the Portobello Road.’

‘There is, I suppose, some element of doubt about its provenance but I prefer the more picturesque version.’

Jago shook his head. ‘Oh God, a romantic. That’s all I need.’

‘Not really, the visitors prefer the pirate story too. It’s good for business.’

He seemed about to say something more but just said, ‘I’d better leave you to your work,’ and marched off.

She watched him jog down the stone steps of the armoury and across the now deserted castle courtyard until, finally, he disappeared down a narrow path that wound its way to the harbour. The way he’d dashed off made her think he was planning to run away from the Mount again. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

On balance, she thought with a shiver, she rather hoped Jago would stay.

When she finally got back to her cottage that evening, it was gone nine o’clock. She listened to a message from Theo saying he’d call in the next day and then fell asleep on the bed in her uniform.

When she awoke, the bedside clock said 1 am, Miranda’s heavy limbs said 6 am would come round all too soon, yet her thoughts tossed about like a skiff on a stormy sea. The curtains stirred in the breeze and the scent of salt and ozone wafted over her. She’d left the casement window open, hoping the air would circulate as she lay awake, and that she’d be lulled asleep by the halyards clanking on the yachts in the harbour. Instead, she tossed and turned in her bed. Grit prickled her eyelids and her legs ached. Years of walking up and down the steep slopes had kept her fit but she was exhausted by the events of the past few days. She thumped her pillow and flopped back against it with a sigh. The window creaked open as the wind from the Atlantic freshened and changed direction. Out here on the island, even though it was barely a mile from shore, the weather could change from mild to angry in minutes. She started to slide into that half-asleep state where fantasy and the real world mesh and the subconscious reigns.

A
shadowy figure climbed through the window.

‘My lord?’

Miranda gasped as Jago appeared at the foot of her bed, silhouetted against the moonlight streaming through the window. He wore a billowing white shirt and dark breeches tucked into leather top boots but she didn’t find his outfit at all strange.

‘Lord St Merryn. Wh-what are you doing here?’

He smiled in a way that made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickle. ‘Come now, you must know, Miranda.’

She pulled the sheet up to her neck; despite the fact that in her fantasy, she wore a full-length nightgown like her great-grandmother used to own.

‘Don’t do that.’ He crossed the room, his boots thudding on the floorboards.

She twisted the sheet tightly in her fists. ‘You shouldn’t be here!’

He sat
on the bed next to her, a wolfish smile on his lips. ‘I can do anything I want. This is my land, my home.’

‘But it’s my room.’

‘No, Miranda, it’s
my
room. Everything here is mine.’ He reached out and touched her cheek. ‘Including you.’

In a flash, Jago tore the sheet from her hands and flung it back, revealing Miranda’s nightgown. She tried to let out a shriek but her vocal cords were paralysed in contrast to every nerve which zinged and tingled.

‘You’ve heard about
droit de seigneur
. Well, I’m here to claim mine.’

He pulled off his boots and climbed onto the bed, making the mattress creak alarmingly. She tried to move her arms to fend him off but they seemed to be paralysed too. He sat astride her and lowered his head close to hers. His hair was loose. She made a monumental effort and found her voice but it sounded far away.

‘But I’m not getting married, my lord, and I’m um … actually not a virgin.’

Jago started to unbutton his breeches. ‘If you’re already a strumpet then I’m definitely going to take you.’

‘Um … no,’ she whispered, aware that she didn’t sound very convincing. ‘You really shouldn’t, my lord.’

‘Shouldn’t? Who are you to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do, wench?’

Jago grabbed the hem of her nightgown and ripped it apart, from bottom to top, exposing her naked body. She cried out and sank back onto the pillows, helpless to resist as he closed his mouth around her exposed nipple. As he sucked, she let out a groan as all her senses sprang into life. She felt his calloused hands parting her thighs and heard his ragged breathing. She didn’t mean to touch him back but found her hands tugging down his breeches anyway. Being an eighteenth-century brigand, of course, he wore no undergarments so she could clutch his muscular cheeks and squeeze them rather hard.

Lifting
himself off her, he kicked off his breeches, his cock standing proud and hard. Miranda screwed her eyes tight in shame.
Cock?
What a rude word to think, even in a fantasy.

‘I mustn’t,’ she said, ‘I mustn’t do you, I mean, do
this
. Or even think this!’

‘Lie back and think of England,’ he snarled.

‘If I must. Ohh … oh my God!’

She was vaguely aware that she was still crying ‘No, my lord!’ as Jago thrust into her hard.

‘Oh, Jago!’

Just as ‘Jago’ was having his very wicked way in her imagination, the window slammed back against the wall, instantly pulling her out of her fantasy. The breeze had whipped up into a squall and the window was banging away for dear life.

‘Miranda!’

Miranda snatched at the sheet to cover her shameful nakedness before realising she was actually still wearing her uniform. She stumbled to the window where the blast of chilly Atlantic air felt like a bucket of icy water had been sloshed over her flushed skin. The moon had disappeared behind a cloud but she could make out a tall figure on the quay beneath, staring up at her. She blinked as Ronnie shone a torch up at the window.

‘I
heard you scream and the banging. I thought you’d got burglars.’

‘Burglars? How would they get over to the island? It’s high tide.’

‘You can’t be too careful. Are you all right?’

‘F-fine. I must have left the window open and it blew back in the squall.’

The beam wavered as if Ronnie was trying to get a better look at her guilty face. ‘I thought I heard you call out Jago’s name.’

Miranda laughed. ‘Jago? Why would I call for him? He’s probably in bed.’

‘Yes, and not his own. I saw him head off to the mainland on the last boat. Bet you he’s with some village tart now.’

Miranda squinted at the torchlight. ‘I’m fine, as you can see.’

The beam of light dropped to the quayside, leaving her temporarily blinded. ‘Right then, if you’re OK, I’ll see you in the morning. Sweet dreams.’

‘Goodnight, Ronnie.’

Miranda picked her way through the darkness and back into bed, pulling the duvet over her. So Jago wasn’t even on the island and Ronnie might well be right; he could well be romping with some village girl – or girls or girls
and
boys right now. Outside, the rain pattered against the window and the distant thunder rumbled over the sea. As for sweet dreams, she had a feeling she wasn’t going to sleep well on the Mount ever again.

The next
morning, Miranda stood in the old library at the top of the Mount, unable to believe what Jago had just said. When he’d called her there, she’d braced herself for unwelcome news but not this.

He’d opened the door to her when she’d knocked and indicated the chaise longue under the window. ‘Thank you for coming. You’d better sit down.’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘OK. Have it your way, but my news is going to come as a blow, I’m afraid. My mother says you should be the first to know and, more importantly, I think you should be too.’

He’d stopped as there was a loud shriek from outside in the courtyard. It was children messing about and enjoying their visit but Jago frowned and seemed disturbed. Then he’d turned to face her.

‘I’m selling the Mount.’

Until
that moment, she hadn’t thought it possible that anyone’s jaw could drop to the floor but hers felt like it had plunged through the stone flagstones and ended up far below on the quayside. It wasn’t possible, either, that she heard those four words. Jago must be joking; that’s what he did. Threatened women with cutlasses and wound up security guards. Well, she wouldn’t be taken in.

She winked at him. ‘Selling the Mount? Oh, that’s a good one. However, I’m sorry, my lord, but I’m not falling for it this time.’

Jago’s expression didn’t waver. It was still serious with, she thought, a convincing touch of regret and even sadness. He really was very good at playing the game.

‘Miranda …’

Her stomach lurched again at the change in tone from almost brusque to gentle. ‘You are joking? You must be.’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Say you are. Please, stop this.’

‘I can’t stop it. It’s true.’

Miranda had always laughed at the way Victorian ladies sank back onto sofas in shock in novels but that is exactly what she did now. She collapsed onto the chaise longue with a thud. ‘Ow!’

Jago stepped forwards, his face creased in concern. ‘What’s the matter?’

Reaching under her, Miranda retrieved a spiky teasel head, placed there precisely to stop visitors parking their patrician bottoms on the family furniture.

‘I’m sorry, that was a nasty shock, like my news, I see,’ he added gently, taking the teasel from Miranda’s hand and dropping it into a Chinese bowl.