Spell of the Island (10 page)

‘Drat the man!’ she exclaimed. ‘What makes him
so complex? And why should I concern myself anyway!’

The dining salon was illuminated with candles only, and the effect was both cosy and romantic. Madame Fanchette was dressed in a Paris creation of three-quarter length dress made of a soft, nylon-like material embellished with silver threads running through it. The colour was aquamarine—no, decided Emma, rather more blue than that, because it brought out the blue-grey of her perfectly coiffured hair. Eileen wore a sleek, ankle-length dress of satin, embroidered with silk of several bright colours. There was a Chinese style about it in the slits which reached the girl’s thighs and the high mandarin collar.

When Emma had entered the sitting-room, or main living salon as Louise called it, Paul’s eyes had immediately flickered to her in a brief but all-examining look which took in her whole appearance, from her gleaming, well-brushed hair, to her face and throat, lower to her curves and finally to her feet, clad in dainty, strapped sandals with high, slender heels.

She saw him swallow before quickly asking her what she would like to drink. He had turned away after serving her, giving his whole attention to Eileen.

At the dinner table he sat next to her—she was on his left, his mother on his right. Emma was next to Louise, and Pierre sat opposite to them. He was chatty, charming to be with, and Louise, in particular, seemed to be getting along splendidly with him. Afterwards, back in the main salon with its deep
armchairs and soft carpet, Pierre sat close to Louise, and Madame Fanchette chose to sit beside Emma on the couch. This left Paul and Eileen together, a little apart from the others, because the couch on which they were sitting was at the far end of the room. Conversation flowed between them all at times while at others there was a temporary pairing off, and it was then that Emma gave her attention to the handsome couple—Paul and the girl his mother would like him to marry. A weight settled on Emma’s stomach and she wondered why. Or did she . . . ? No use denying that she wished it was her to whom he was giving his attention.

Often, though, Emma found his eyes on her, his expression inexplicably embarrassing. It was so intense, she realised, and that made her uncomfortable.

Madame Fanchette was the first to leave; she was tired, she said, and bade them all good night. Louise and Pierre were in close conversation, and often Emma heard them laughing together. She herself began to feel restless, and the weight of dejection seemed to have spread itself evenly over her whole body. She felt left out, which was both humiliating and uncomfortable, but to get up and leave seemed a reluctant course, because it would draw everyone’s attention to her; and there would follow that awkward few moments while she made her way to the door and went out.

However, she decided on that course, and rising, she said quietly, embracing them all, ‘Good night; I’m for bed too.’ Her eyes met the swift glance of Paul, who had been conversing in what could only be
described as an intimate way with Eileen. The girl also sent Emma a glance, one of indifference, and she was quickly giving her attention to Paul again without even responding to Emma’s words.

‘Going so early?’ from Paul, and Emma shrugged carelessly and said yes, she was tired.

He rose to open the door for her; their eyes met again, to hold this time before Emma fluttered her lashes down, little knowing just how attractive the resulting shadows were as they fell on cheeks that were rather paler than usual. Somehow, their hands touched as she passed through the door and a tremor went through her.

‘Sleep well,’ he said softly, but she made no answer, for her throat was too dry for speech. She turned in silence and heard the door close quietly behind her.

In her room she undressed, then showered, because she knew that if she went to bed she would not sleep. After towelling she picked up a nightdress, held it for a while and heaved a deep sigh. Why go to bed when she was so restless, so confused in mind that she would only lie there wide awake?

On sudden impulse she donned a pair of slacks and a light sweater and went downstairs again and out to the garden. All was quiet but for the occasional call of a night bird or other creature. The moon was almost full, painting the landscape with an argent hue, while in the near distance the lagoon was a sheet of silver, smooth for the most part but beaten here and there as the ripple of a breeze passed over it. The reef sparkled with a million points of silver,
and way beyond, the endless sea was dark. She walked along now familiar pathways, stopping occasionally to admire in the moonlight what she had admired in the sunshine—a mango on the edge of an orchard, with an exotic creeper clinging to it, purple blossoms clustered and dangling like fuchsias; a meranti tree and a hedge of pink and white oleanders, a juniper tree. . . .

She would miss it all so much! In spite of everything she felt at home here, especially in the gardens from where she could gaze out to the exquisite beauty of a palm-fringed shore, where she could stand and listen to the zephyr of a breeze soughing through the casuarinas, or wander to the less formal places to appreciate the tapestry of colour woven by a myriad of wild flowers whose heady perfume filled the air around her. Earlier the sky had been sapphire blue dotted with fine white, cirrus clouds, golden-lined. Now it was purple, star-spangled.

She wandered on, half inclined to walk along the shore, but before she could make up her mind she knew a tingling of nerves, a warning she was not alone out here, and she swung around in a full circle.

Paul . . .

He saw her shadowed figure against the grenadilla hedge through which argent light was slanting, and he came slowly towards her, steps long and light, head erect, set proudly on broad, arrogant shoulders. Quivers, nerves, racing heartbeats . . . once again she was alone with him in an isolated spot. . . .

‘I thought you said you were tired?’ Reaching her, he spoke softly and with a dry challenge. ‘Wanted to get away . . . from me?’

‘I—suppose so—’ Not a tactful admission, but she
could think of nothing else to say on the spur of the moment.

‘I have always liked your honesty.’ His tones were stiff, unemotional.

‘I’m sorry—I wasn’t thinking.’ She edged away, because he was too close; she could smell the lingering perfume of body lotion, and mingling with it, the almost intoxicating male odour of him. What was wrong with her to be affected like this! Desperate not to let him guess at her feelings, she found herself saying rather coldly, ‘I’m going in now; please allow me to pass.’

Paul stood where he was, blocking her path.

‘You were going in that direction,’ he reminded her. ‘Were you intending to walk along the beach?’

She coloured in the moonlight. She should have known it would gain her nothing to lie to him. She glanced towards the shore, where a little way out, Paul’s yacht was moored to a jetty, the white sails bending in the breeze, and above it and the sea, the endless canopy of the sky, filled with stars . . . billions of them, spreading away into eternity. Emma felt small and insignificant, lost somehow, and wanting reassurance and comfort. The cosmos was too vast; it frightened her.

Paul moved impatiently, and she was reminded that he had asked a question.

‘Yes, I was in fact half inclined to walk on the beach,’ she answered belatedly.

‘Because you could not sleep you came out here.’ The same dry challenge was there although he did not add to his words. He thought it was because of him that she could not sleep. Was he inwardly jeering at her, branding her one of those who ran
after him? Yet, how could he when she was so determined to go home at the end of the week? She could have stayed, at his invitation.

‘I admit I could not have slept,’ she returned, vitally aware of him as a man, of the fact that they were alone here, in this isolated, romantic place, sheltered, and yet with a view to the argent-sprayed seashore and the sleepy lagoon.

She recalled that Mark Twain had declared that: ‘God made Mauritius first and then Heaven, Heaven being copied from Mauritius.’

She heard Paul say, very softly . . . almost gently, ‘Where are your thoughts, Emma?’

‘I was thinking of Mark Twain and what he said about this lovely island.’

He nodded his head but said nothing, and after a while, Emma asked him how he came to be here.

‘Did you ever live in France?’ she added finally, and he shook his head.

‘We’ve been here for generations. We’re blanc Mauritians, not French.’

‘Oh, yes, I knew that; Louise told me. But I wondered if you’d lived in France.’

‘Originally we came over from France but a long time ago.’

She fell silent, mind confused, because with one part of it she wanted to escape to the safety of her room, but with the other part she wanted to stay. And yet if she did stay, whether by her own intention or his, there would be only one sequel. . . .

Safety was best, and she said, with an unconscious, little plea in her voice, ‘Let me pass, Paul—’ And then she stopped, remembering that she’d resolved never to address him as Paul again.

‘Not yet,’ he said and took her arm. ‘I was intending to take a stroll on the beach so we might as well go together.’

‘No, I—’

‘Afraid again?’

‘No, but. . . .’ She glanced up to see his expression, it was unreadable but for the ironical twist to his lips. ‘I really am tired,’ she ended, unaware of the plea in her wide, limpid eyes. ‘Do let me pass.’

His response was to tighten his hold on her arm and say, ‘Walk with me, Emma. I shan’t be able to sleep either.’

She had begun to shake her head, but the second sentence brought her up with a jerk. What was he trying to convey? There was incalculable quality about his words, and his expression was equally as puzzling.

She said slowly, ‘I shouldn’t have thought that you would ever have difficulty in sleeping.’ Emma found herself being gently propelled forward, and offering no resistance.

‘Why?’ he queried briefly.

‘Because you haven’t anything on your mind.’

He shot her a glance from his superior height.

‘And how, might I ask, do you know that?’

She coloured up.

‘I suppose I took it for granted that you hadn’t worrying things on your mind,’ she said. They were walking slowly towards the gate leading onto the deserted shore, her mind in turmoil because she could not understand this altogether new attitude he was showing towards her. It was only a short while ago that he had been giving all his attention to the lovely Eileen.

‘What things have you on your mind that are so worrying?’ inquired Paul after a long silence and the absence of any comment on what Emma had said.

‘I suppose . . . nothing much, really,’ she replied a little lamely, because she knew she was lying to him. But she could scarcely be honest and admit that it was
he
who was on her mind and that she was confused by feelings she wouldn’t have analysed even if she could. ‘Not now that Louise has agreed to come home with me.’

‘So your sister’s welfare was worrying you?’

‘You know it was, for otherwise I’d not have been begging you to sack her.’

‘I think you have other problems, Emma,’ he said blandly after a while. And, when she did not answer he added with a hint of persuasion, ‘Stay here; you know you’d like to—’

‘We’ve gone into that,’ she broke in swiftly. ‘It’s impossible.’

‘No such thing. In fact it’s more than ever possible now that your sister has decided to go home. Any slight risk there was of her finding out will be dispelled.’

‘If you continue to talk like this,’ she said tersely, ‘I shan’t walk with you.’

‘But you will if I don’t?’ He was amused, and it showed in his tone.

‘I wish I could understand your mood,’ she almost snapped, not having meant to say anything like that but her nerves were all awry, for this situation was too intimate, the surroundings too romantic . . . and Paul’s magnetism too powerful by far.

‘My mood?’ Paul slanted an eyebrow and added
smoothly, ‘I am sure you know that I’m in a mood to kiss you—’ And the next moment she was in his arms, her mouth possessed by moist demanding lips that crushed hers in a long and passionate kiss that left her fighting for breath. She tried to struggle but gave up, lacking even a modicum of strength that would compare with his. He held her very close; her soft breasts flattened against the muscled hardness of his chest, and both his hands were sliding downwards, caressing her thighs, lingering for a few seconds before continuing their masterful and possessive progress until sensuous, seeking fingers reached their target. Emma shuddered in ecstasy against him, arching her slender body to meld it with his. She was conscious of the heady, male smell of him mingling with that now familiar brand of body lotion, could feel his heart racing and, lower, his manhood rising with desire.

‘Come live with me,’ he quoted in a throaty bass tone. ‘Emma, you need me as much as I need you so don’t throw away the pleasure you will have—’

‘No!’ She did not want to struggle for freedom but she did, his words flashing sanity into her mind if not her body. But her mind could control her body, she told herself fiercely, and despite the agony of longing, she began to fight him in earnest. He held her with ease for a while and then, whether in impatience or for some other reason, he let her go. She was trembling all over, her legs like rubber, and if he hadn’t caught her to him again she would most certainly have fallen, or at best, staggered drunkenly to find support by the nearest tree. Her heart was racing, her emotions so heightened that they affect
ed every nerve cell in her body. She spoke to him in quivering accents, ‘Why do you do it? I don’t seem able to convince you that I don’t want an affair.’

‘Not an affair as such,’ he agreed, much to her surprise, but went on to add, ‘You want me, though, Emma, so denials would be untruths.’

‘You’re so sure of yourself!’

‘No, dear, of you.’

Dear . . . a slip of the tongue; it meant nothing.

‘Let me go back,’ she begged huskily.

‘Not yet—’

‘Oh, but—please?’