Anne Mather - Scorpion's Dance

‘But he left you?’

‘Yes.’ She gulped despairingly. ‘Can I go home now?’

He straightened, flexing his shoulders. ‘In a moment. There’s one more thing.’

‘What?’

‘Why did you assume that I might know what had been going on?’

Miranda sighed. ‘Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you didn’t.’

Jaime’s mouth was a thin line. ‘Nevertheless, I think I deserve an explanation.’

‘Oh, can’t it wait?’

‘No.’

Miranda shifted restlessly. ‘Why should I give you explanations? You’re on their side, not mine.’

‘I am not on any side,’ he declared coldly. ‘And what is all this talk of sides? You’re marrying Mark, aren’t you? You’ll marry him anyway, whatever he’s done.’

Miranda gasped at the callousness in his voice. ‘Why should you assume that?’ she demanded, but he merely shook his head.

‘I’ll take you home,’ he said, starting the motor. ‘Perhaps we’ll find your fiancé is there, waiting to make amends.’

But Mark was not at the Hall. Only Lady Sanders awaited them, pacing impatiently about the polished floor, and gasping in horror when she saw Miranda’s dishevelled appearance. Miranda had not wanted to confront her future mother-in-law like this. She had wanted to slip round the side of the building and let herself in through the kitchen as she had always done. But Jaime’s hard fingers around her wrist had prevented this, and her strength was too depleted to put up much of a struggle.

‘My God, what’s happened!’ Lady Sanders grasped her shoulder, and then dropped her hand aghast when Miranda winced painfully. ‘There’s been an accident, hasn’t there?’ Her eyes lifted to her nephew’s face. ‘Jaime … tell me! Tell me! Where’s Mark?’

Unhurriedly, Jaime unfastened the studs at his wrists, and folded back his cuffs. ‘I thought you might know that, Aunt Lydia,’ he remarked levelly. ‘I haven’t seen him.’

‘You haven’t? But …’ Lady Sanders gestured towards Miranda. ‘Then how …’ She broke off to moisten her upper lip with her tongue. ‘Miranda! Where is my son?’

Miranda wished the floor would open up and swallow her. She had had just about enough, and she swayed on to her heels. ‘Mark … Mark left me at the cottage,’ she was beginning, when Jaime interrupted her.

‘Don’t you want to know how Miranda got into this condition?’ he inquired, the mildness of his tone belying the glitter of his eyes, but Lady Sanders was in no state to look for hidden meanings.

‘I … well, of course,’ she said agitatedly. ‘If it has any bearing on the matter.’

‘Oh, it has bearing on the matter,’ retorted Jaime tautly. ‘Believe me!’

At last, his aunt seemed to gauge the tenor of his mood, and took a moment to give him her full attention. ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘What happened?’

Jaime’s nostrils flared. ‘Your son did this,’ he said coldly. ‘Your son attempted to rape his own fiancée! Now why do you suppose he did that?’

Lady Sanders gasped, one hand going automatically to her throat. ‘You can’t be serious!’

‘Oh, but I am,’ declared Jaime heavily, and Miranda felt Lady Sanders’ eyes going over her with almost tangible distaste.

‘How do you know?’ Mark’s mother countered swiftly. ‘Who told you that? You said you hadn’t seen Mark.’

‘Miranda told me—’

‘Oh, please …’ Miranda began to protest again, but they both ignored her.

‘So you’d take her word against the word of my son,’ Lady Sanders was saying now, and Jaime swore violently.

‘We don’t have any word but Miranda’s,’ he retorted. ‘But you don’t imagine she did this to herself, do you?’ and with forceful fingers he plucked his jacket from her shoulders.

It was like a scene from some Victorian melodrama, thought Miranda, an hysterical sob rising in her throat. Behold, the villain’s perfidy! Will wicked Sir Jasper win the day? The difficulty was in deciding who was the wicked Sir Jasper. Was it Mark, the victim of his own inadequacies? Or was it Lady Sanders, whose overriding ambition for her son blinded her to his faults? Or could it possibly be Jaime Knevett, whose motives were as enigmatic as he was? Miranda was too tired to figure it out.

Lady Sanders plucked with nervous fingers at the diamond necklace circling her throat. ‘That still doesn’t explain where Mark has gone, does it? What was this Miranda said about the cottage?’

‘We went to the cottage,’ said Miranda dully. ‘My mother’s cottage. There—there was a scene. Mark left. Afterwards, Mr Knevett found me walking back to the Hall.’

‘How convenient!’ Lady Sanders’ voice was taut with malice, but her nephew intervened.

‘Convenient?’ he asked. ‘Convenient for whom?’

‘Oh, Jaime!’ Lady Sanders waved away his questioning. ‘Don’t get involved in all this.’

‘But I am involved,’ he insisted harshly. ‘However, I do believe no useful purpose is being served by standing here arguing about it. I suggest we allow Miranda to go to bed. She looks—exhausted. We can talk again in the morning.’

‘But what about Mark?’ cried Lady Sanders, aghast. ‘Aren’t you going to look for him?’

‘If you want me to, of course I will,’ he replied gravely. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll escort Miranda to her part of the house.’

‘That’s not necessary—’ Miranda began, but he ignored her, dropping his coat about her shoulders again and urging her forward with his hand in the small of her back.

Miranda was glad to escape from the accusation in Mark’s mother’s eyes. It had been a long evening, a strange evening, and one she never hoped to repeat. But it wasn’t over yet.

Jaime opened the door and accompanied her along the corridor towards the kitchens. But Miranda halted so far along, and turning to him said stiffly: ‘There’s really no need to come any further. I shall be quite all right now.’

In the dim illumination of wall-lights, his face was curiously shadowed, giving it an almost malevolent cast. His eyes seemed deeper set, heavy-lidded, the flaring hollows of his nostrils expelling the heat of his body upon her. She felt suddenly uneasy, apprehensive of the future and she could not dismiss her fears as fancies. She had the overpowering conviction that nothing was ever going to be the same again.

‘Will your mother be up?’ he asked now, and she shivered to dispel the chill that had wrapped itself about her.

‘Perhaps,’ she answered. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Will you explain?’

Miranda bent her head helplessly. ‘I don’t know.’

She heard his harsh intake of breath. ‘You should,’ he said. ‘Then perhaps your mother can bring you to your senses!’

Her head jerked up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I think you know.’ His eyes were cold, glittering black diamonds in the muted light. ‘You can’t marry Mark now. Not after what’s happened. Not considering what might be to come. I don’t think even becoming mistress of the Hall is worth that, do you, Miranda?’

She gasped. ‘You think I’m marrying him for his money?’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘No!’

‘Oh, come on. You’re not telling me you love that little punk! After what’s happened?’

Miranda’s breasts rose and fell in her agitation, and her fingers holding his jacket in place trembled. She wanted to tear it off and throw it at his feet and trample on it, but the desire to retain her dignity was stronger.

‘You’re his cousin!’ she declared. ‘How can you speak of him like that?’

Jaime’s mouth curled. ‘Our relationship is remote, thank God! Do you think I want to be associated with someone who does this?’