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'Glad you enjoyed it.' His eyes well on her radiant face, but then, as the engine revved and the rotor arm begun to pick up speed, he put his arm round her and ran her out into the open.
'But where's he going?' The helicopter was already lifting off, and beneath her surprise she felt an inexplicable twinge of fear. She swung round on him. 'Why isn't he waiting for us?'
'He has another job to do before coming back for us.' Jared, sounding supremely uninterested, steered her through the small airport building and out to a waiting taxi. In minutes they had driven across the tiny island to Hugh Town, past the harbour, and then the taxi stopped outside a pleasant grey-stone villa overlooking the sea. The driver turned. 'This is Mrs Jenkins's house.'
'Thanks.' Jared took out his wallet.
'There's a nasty blow coming up.' The man pointed to where, low on the horizon, sombre clouds were massing. 'You'll never—'
'How much do I owe you?' Jared extracted a note and handed it to him. As they got out Petra inhaled deeply. What a wonderful scent. I suppose it's the daffodils they grow here—I've heard that you can smell them everywhere on the islands.'
'Maybe—or maybe it's just coming from them,' Jared replied prosaically, pointing to a large clump of yellow jonquil at the side of the path.
The door opened as they reached it, revealing a small white-haired old lady.
'Mrs Jenkins?' He smiled warmly down at her and held out his hand. 'I'm Jared Tremayne.'
'How nice to meet you, Mr Tremayne. And this is your young lady that you told me about.'
'Oh, but—' she began hastily, then Jared's hand was on her arm, squeezing her into silence. Mrs Jenkins led the way into a pretty sitting-room with a small conservatory beyond. The table was littered with papers, some yellowed with age, news cuttings, and a large scrapbook. Its cover was faded, and a faint smell of lavender came up from the pages.
'I hope I've found everything for you.' She was fidgeting with the papers. 'Only you took me rather by surprise with your phone call this morning.'
This morning? Petra looked sharply at Jared, who met her stare with a bland look, then, still holding her gaze, said, 'Oh, I'm sure you have, Mrs Jenkins ... ' another, even warmer smile ' ... and I'm only sorry I couldn't give you more warning. As I explained, my plans are so, well—
fluid, at the moment.'
Jared and the old lady sat down side by side on the chintz sofa. Petra settled herself in an armchair on the other side of the open fire while he took a preliminary glance through the papers.
'But this is wonderful, Mrs Jenkins. You must have spent years getting all this together.'
'Oh, no, my dear.' She laughed softly. It was Jack—my husband. The King -Arthur legends—
especially the Tristan and Iseult ones—they were a lifelong passion for him.'
Passion . . . Strange how that word was always cropping up.
'From when he was a boy he was proper amazed about them. He was always telling the stories—to our children, then the grandchildren . . . anyone who'd listen.'
'And can you remember them?'
'Well, I do . . . ' To Petra's surprise, she looked round at her, her cheeks peony-red ' . . . but some of them aren't very nice.'
'Oh, you needn't worry about embarrassing Petra,' Jared replied with a casualness that set her teeth on edge. 'She doesn't shock very easily, I assure you. And I'd be really grateful if you could tell me some—' a gently teasing smile '—any you want to, that is.'
'Well,' she began hesitantly with an anxious look at the portable tape-recorder which he had unobtrusively switched on, 'folks do say that the Scillies are all that's left of Prince Tristan's kingdom of Lyonesse, with all the rest long since drowned beneath the waves . . . '
And gradually the words began to flow as she relaxed under the spell of Jared's charm. Really, he could charm all the birds out of the trees if he wanted to . . . Sitting back into the depths of her armchair, Petra felt safe enough to let her eyes stay on him. In the warm room, he had discarded his jacket and tie—they lay in a heap on the floor. Now the top buttons of his white shirt were open, revealing the strong olive-toned shaft of his neck, and a little sprinkle of dark hairs. His black curls were dishevelled, where the blustery wind had ruffled through them. As she gazed at those rumpled curls he bent forward to pick up some of the papers. She watched as he flicked through them, frowning slightly; then he turned to smile encouragingly at Mrs Jenkins.
And in that moment, with his attention a million miles away from her, Petra's heart gave a sudden, sickening lurch. The fire of love that this man had kindled in her at sixteen—she'd thought it was long-dead ashes. But nothing had changed, and now, without a second's warning, it had blazed up in her face. A drowning man saw his whole life, and in one searing instant Petra saw everything. She didn't love Simon—she loved Jared, with the love she had denied for so long They were persuaded to stay for tea, and homemade scones and cream, and Petra went numbly through the meal, forcing down a scone and smiling stiff-lipped every time one of the others spoke to her. She barely looked at Jared, but every ounce of her being was alive with him, and when at last he got to his feet, casually buttoned up his shirt, put on his tie then his jacket, she could barely breathe for the pain.
Mrs Jenkins forced some of the papers on to him. 'Take them, my lover.' Petra, raw with emotion, felt her eyes brim with tears at the gentle endearment. 'Since my Jack died they've never been out of that old trunk upstairs. He'd be glad to think someone was interested.'
'Goodbye, Mrs Jenkins.' Impulsively Petra hugged her.
'Maybe you'll come back and see me one day when you're married.' And she patted her left hand with its diamond solitaire.
'I—' Petra's voice faltered as she felt a pair of coolly mocking eyes on her, but then at the wistfulness in the old lady's voice she forced a brilliant smile. 'Yes, of course. 'Then she followed Jared down the path.
