Flood Tide (2 page)

“Of course.”

“Would you show Ewart Morgan the shortcut to the cliffs? He said he’d like a breath of sea air before driving back to London. I know you often go that way.”

“All right. I’ll show him the way to the cliffs. I promise not to push him over. Not in term time anyway.”

Ewart Morgan was waiting outside. He had been making some notes on a small pad.

“I understand you’d like a breath of sea air before you return to muggy old London,” she said.

“We don’t have fog anymore,” he said, as if talking to a child. “Smokeless fuel, you know.”

Reah took the path through the shrubbery. It was a shortcut to the cliffs and to the road which led to her flint-walled cottage in the small hamlet of Southdean, about a mile away.

The atmosphere was brittle. She could not think of a thing to say to this confident and successful man in his expensive London clothes. At the same time, there was nothing soft about him. He looked tough and ruthless.

They reached the Downs where the grass was rough and coarse; pale blue meadow crane’s bills nodding fragile heads, yellow cowslips and ragwort growing among the gorse.

“This is National Trust land,” said Reah, breaking the silence.

In the distance were the verdant stretches of golf links and the estuary of the tidal river Cuckmere, flowing blue and peacefully between the fields to the sea. It was a view Reah loved. Below, the sea sparkled with dancing silver droplets.

“It’s very beautiful,” he said. “Well worth the wait.”

“I suppose you are used to having people at your beck and call, jumping to your every command,” she said.

“Something like that.”

“You
could have found your own way.”

“I wanted you to show me.”

“I might have had better things to do.”

“What a firebrand you are,” he said, strolling over to the cliff edge. “I suppose this is what comes from being a school teacher.”

“Your knowledge of the teaching profession is pretty naive,” said Reah, her hazel eyes flashing. “The days of the dried up spinster with her hair in a bun went out with the Ark.”

“And more’s the pity,” he said smoothly. “I hardly think patched jeans and an old hat are any improvement. Quite the reverse. I can’t see how your students can learn about being young ladies from your example.”

“Nor would they learn anything from your bad manners,” said Reah. “Except, of course, they would learn what kind of man to avoid.”

They stopped walking and their eyes met in a cold, steely clash. Reah did not know why she should feel so threatened just by the very presence of the man. He was undeniably attractive. Reah turned away abruptly.

Along this small area of coast, the cliffs were not high. They had not begun to tower as the sheer and awesome Beachy Head, nor the undulating Seven Sisters that rose across the far side of the estuary.

Reah had climbed these lower cliffs many times with her father. They held no fear. She turned her face into the wind and that was her undoing.

A sudden mischievous gust of sea breeze caught at the brim of her Trilby and tossed it first on the path, and then, as she scrambled to catch it, tipped the hat over the edge of the cliff. Reah was more annoyed than alarmed.

She put down her bag and the book and peered over the edge. The hat was only a few feet down, but out of reach caught in some rough bush.

It would be child’s play to retrieve it.

“Surely you’re not going to try and get it?”

“There’s no way I’m going to lose my father’s hat,” said Reah firmly.

“You’re a fool.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to stay and help. I hope you can find your way back to your car.” She waved vaguely in the direction he should take.

She eased herself over the top, slithering down a rain gully that gave sufficient grip for her feet, holding on to any sturdy root or jutting rock. She had to be quick. Any moment the errant wind might whip the hat into the air and spin it farther down the face of the cliff into the surging sea.

But she reached it in time. She stuffed it inside her sweater, giving herself a unique third bust. Then she began the ascent.

Afterwards she could never work out why she got stuck, but somehow she took a different angle of direction and lost the helpful rain gully. She had not been concentrating.

It was maddening when she could see she was only a few feet from the top. One good heave and she would be perfectly safe. But there was nothing near enough to hold on to. There must have been a minor landslide after the last rain storm, for Reah did not recognise a single feature of the area above her. She moved cautiously sideways but found no easier way up. She was stuck on a small ledge only a few feet below the top.

She heard footsteps crunching along the path and it was the most welcome sound in the world.

“Hello there,” she called out. “Can you help me? I’m down here. I can’t move.”

The footsteps stopped and Reah looked up hopefully. She longed to see a burly farm labourer or a rugged hiker, all brawn and muscles.

The dark brown eyes of the playwright studied her with circumspection. She felt herself shrinking under his gaze.

“You do some rash things, don’t you?” he said. “I suppose you need rescuing.”

“Not exactly,” said Reah crisply. “I could climb downwards, walk along the shore and then back inland along the estuary. But it would be much quicker and easier if you just gave me a hand up these last few feet.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?” he asked, peering over.

“Of course it’s safe,” said Reah. “I’ve climbed these cliffs a hundred times as a girl.”

“Why are you stuck then?“

“I don’t know,” she said, exasperated. “And I don’t wish to have a lengthy discussion about the situation. I just want a helping hand to get off this ledge.”

“Helping hand on its way,” he said coolly.

He lay full length on the ground and stretched down his arms. It was all she needed. She grasped his hands to use him as a lever, suddenly surprised by the crushing strength of his grip on her. In moments she was scrambling up, Ewart transferring his hold to her armpit, then grabbing her waist and buttocks till he pulled her over the edge and onto the path beside him. It was very undignified. She lay on the rough ground, gasping.

She sat up, aware that Ewart was staring at her hair. The red mane was tumbled over her face, strands whipped across her eyes, caught in the lashes and stuck to the moisture on her lips.

She fumbled under her sweater for her hat and crammed it down on her head, tucking her hair away furiously.

“You’re laughing at me,” she accused.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, brushing bits of grass and dust off his immaculate safari suit. “Aren’t you in the least bit grateful that I heard your call?”

Reah drew a deep, shuddering breath. It went against the grain to thank Ewart Morgan for anything, but he had helped her and she had to say it.

“Thank you,” she said, almost inaudibly. “I’m grateful for your help. It was very kind of you.”

“I am overwhelmed by the warmth of your thanks,” he said, his eyes passing over her, scant inches away. “But I think I deserve something better.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course, I forgot. Perhaps you are a little behind in the art of being a woman. The teaching profession is somewhat limiting in that sphere.”

He leaned forward, pulling her to him. His mouth came down on her lips before she could object or struggle. It was a burning kiss, his mouth expertly seeking her softness, recklessly imprinting his masculinity on her slim body. She tried furiously to free herself from his arms. Suddenly he let her go and stood up. He was already striding back over the Downs before she had even regained her breath.

Reah put her trembling fingers to her bruised lips. She had never been kissed like that before. Her senses were shattered. Every nerve of her body was tingling. How dare he kiss her so intimately, invading the cave of her mouth.

And yet something in her had almost leaped to meet his demand.

Taut and angry, Reah picked up her bag and parcel which she found farther along the path, and turned towards home. She needed the familiarity of her cottage at Southdean to wrap round her like a high, protective wall.

She kept Miss Hardcastle’s gift as a supper time treat.

It was a book, a big glossy coffee-table book of art. It was called simply “Florence”. The pages fell open stiffly, revealing the glory of the Renaissance city. Reah’s coffee grew cold as she pored over photographs of the magnificent medieval churches, bell towers, palaces and museums. The preserved world of 14th and 15th-century culture beckoned like some beautiful Florentine enchantress. It was all there in the valley below the Tuscan hills, a small perfect city in total harmony with the span of time.

Reah’s fingers twitched for a pencil, a pen. The great architecture drew her like a magnet.

Chapter Two

Reah was apprehensive at the prospect of her holiday. She had been no farther than Paris before, and that had been as a fifteen-year-old in the company of her father.

She sat on an upholstered sofa in the departure lounge at Gatwick, content just to be part of the throng of travellers. Memories of that stay in Paris came back, bringing pain and pleasure. Her father had been a wonderful companion, full of the joy of living.

“Everyone should see Paris in the spring,” her father had said. It was in Paris that she had first thought about teaching art, to impart enthusiasm and knowledge to young people.

Reah checked her flight number to Pisa on the television monitors. The British Airways flight was still a long way down the list, slowly creeping up as each flight closed and took off.

“Miss Lawrence, isn’t it?” a voice cut through the noise in the lounge. “I never forget people I rescue. Not stuck on a cliff this morning?”

Ewart Morgan was looking down at her, not exactly pleased, as if he had almost walked by and then for no reason at all changed his mind.

“How amazingly observant you are,” said Reah sweetly. “I had hoped never to see you again.”

“That hope was entirely mutual,” he said, sitting down beside her. He looked tired. She noticed faint shadows of fatigue deepening his eyes.

Everything about him was brown today. He wore coffee-coloured slacks, a cinnamon brown jacket with gold buttons, toning silk shirt, no tie, both collars turned up as usual. His shoes were a shiny brown leather, very expensive, probably hand-made.

“Do you always price everybody’s clothes?” he asked. “It’s a little disconcerting. I’ll save my bills if you like.”

Reah coloured slightly. She could not help approving of his style, and there was no doubt about the aura of success that clung to the man. He was about thirty-five, young to have already gained such an international reputation. Even Reah, who was not a television addict, could name half a dozen of his plays.

“I’ve no interest in clothes,” said Reah coolly.

“That’s obvious.”

The retort was not fair. Reah had made an effort that morning with her limited wardrobe. Her jeans were well cut; her crinkled dark peach blouson from French Connection; her slim feet in strappy bronze sandals. Her hair was looped back with two large tortoiseshell clips, and weeks of working in the garden of the cottage had given her skin the faintest tan. Several men had turned to look at her that morning and it was not just the colour of her hair which attracted their gaze.

Her BA flight to Pisa now had a gate number. Reah leaped to her feet, grabbing her bag, almost tripping over Ewart’s outstretched legs.

“Leaving it a bit late, are you?” he commented, his eyes half closed. “You’d better run. They might take off without you.”

She was pleased to find she had a window seat, fastened the clasp of the seat belt after stowing her bag by her feet, and waited for the plane to fill up.

She had never flown before but she was not going to tell anyone. Reah was not afraid, only apprehensive about a new experience.

“Excuse me, but you are sitting in my seat.” Reah’s spirits fell at the now recognisable voice. The accent was even more pronounced.

“I don’t believe it,” she said blankly.

“You
are in the right row, but the wrong seat,” said Ewart, glancing at the embarkation card still in her hand.

“Why are you here?”

“For the same reason as you—I want to get to Florence and this is the quickest way.”

So he was going to Florence, too. It was infuriating that Ewart Morgan should be going to the same city. He was the last person she wanted to see, anywhere.

“Don’t worry,” he said casually. “Although Florence is a small city, I doubt if we shall ever meet. My research will take me along different paths.”

“I
am going to sketch buildings.”

“I’m more interested in people,” he said. His eyes were fixed on her face.
“I
like to know what makes them tick, their motives for doing things, saying things. Buildings are just bricks and mortar.”

“Don’t forget buildings are designed and built by people. They become an expression of themselves.”