Witching Hour by Sara Craven Read Free Book Online Page B

us.'
    'Nonsense,' Morgana said robustly. 'She's wallowing in it. She's
    seen a fair man, and grief and woe in the cards, and she's in her
    element. We ought to start calling her Cassandra instead.' She
    caught her mother looking at her oddly, and demanded resignedly,
    'Now what's the matter?'
    'Nothing really, dear, except—oh, Morgana, that awful dress! I
    know it's a mark of respect, but poor Daddy would have loathed it
    so. Such a depressing colour, and it doesn't even fit you very well.
    I don't know what your cousin must have thought.'
    Morgana gave her reflection a rueful look. 'I think it's probably
    served its purpose,' she conceded. 'I'll give it to the next jumble
    sale. But I couldn't care less what Lyall Pentreath thinks about me,
    or my clothes,' she added defiantly. 'For two pins I'd wear the
    beastly thing every time he comes here.'
    Mrs Pentreath shuddered. 'Spare the rest of us, darling! And you
    couldn't possibly wear it to go out with Rob.' She gave a little sigh.
    'I'd better go downstairs and face the inquisition again. One can
    understand their concern, I suppose. This is as much their home,
    temporarily at least, as it is ours.' She gave an uncertain little
    smile, said, 'Have a lovely time, darling, and—don't worry. I'm
    sure everything is going to work out for the best,' and went out of
    the room.
    Morgana pulled off the despised dress and let it fall in a heap on
    the floor, before padding across to the wardrobe and viewing the
    contents. In the end, she decided to wear a pair of dark red corded
    jeans, and a cream Shetland wool sweater with a high collar. She
    had always liked simple clothes, and that was just as well, she
    thought wryly. She had found at school that she had a flair for
    dressmaking, and she had always ensured that the garments she
    made never had a home-made air, although nothing she wore could
    ever compete with the clothes of Elaine or Caroline Donleven,
    who bought many of their things from couture houses in London.
    Robert had already arrived when she went downstairs and was
    standing in front of the drawing room fire, chatting to her mother.
    Miss Meakins had disappeared, she was relieved to notice,
    presumably to dress for dinner. Only Major Lawson was left,
    sitting quietly near the fire, completing the Times crossword. He
    glanced up as Morgana entered, and rose, giving her his pleasant,
    rather shy smile, and she thought, not for the first time, what a nice
    man he seemed, and what a pity all the guests they'd had staying at
    Polzion House over the years couldn't have been like him.
    She said a swift goodbye to her mother, then she and Robert
    walked out to where his car was parked at the front of the house.
    'I hear your unwelcome visitor arrived after all,' Rob said casually
    as he opened the passenger door for her.
    'Yes, he did.' Morgana tried to keep her tone non-committal, but
    was aware, just the same, that an edge had crept in.
    'Was he as you expected? Your mother seems to have been quite
    charmed.'
    'Mummy always tends to meet everyone more than halfway.'
    Morgana said ruefully.
    'I gather that you weren't equally captivated?' Rob smiled.
    'I found him loathsome,' she said coldly.
    'Good,' he approved. 'From your mother's remarks, I'd begun to
    think I might have reason to be jealous.' It was said teasingly, but
    there was an underlying serious note.
    'No reason at all,' she said. She was glad the darkness in the car hid
    the sudden surge of colour in her face as she remembered
    unwillingly that uncontrolled response to his kiss that Lyall had
    forced from her. It made her feel sick with self-disgust to recall it
    to mind. If it had been a chance encounter, in some ways it would
    have been easier to forget, but Lyall had the right to return to
    Polzion House whenever he wanted, and every time she saw him,
    she was going to be haunted by the remembered searing pressure
    of his mouth on hers.
    She asked lightly, 'Where are we going?'
    'To the Polzion Arms. Mum