Handful of stardust Page 10

  'Having trouble, Samantha?'

  'Brett!' Her heart leapt to her throat with a violence that almost choked her as she swung round to face the tall, menacing figure approaching her in the darkness.

  'I had an idea you were planning something like this,' he told her with a calmness that frightened her. 'That's why I invented the meeting and deliberately gave you the opportunity.'

  Samantha's limbs were numb with shock. 'You mean ... you've been here all the time?'

  'Yes, I parked the car further along among the trees and waited.' He seemed to tower over her trembling form. 'I must admit I never thought you'd have the nerve to try.'

  Samantha was too numb to speak sand she leaned weakly against the bonnet of the car while he removed her suitcases from the boot and slipped the keys into his pocket. He gestured that she should follow him and she did so meekly, her legs trembling to such an extent that she stumbled several times in the darkness from the garages to the house. When they reached his study he stood aside for her to enter and then closed the door 'behind them with his foot before dropping her suitcases on to the floor.

  She sat down thankfully in the first available chair and clasped her trembling hands in her lap. Her body quivered uncontrollably and her teeth were clamped

  so tightly together that her jaw ached.

  `Drink this,' Brett spoke beside her, a glass of amber-coloured liquid in his hand.

  She could hardly hold the glass properly and some of the liquid splashed on to her slacks. 'What is it?'

  `Brandy and water,' he said abruptly. 'It will steady your nerves. You're shaking like a leaf.'

  'I can't drink it!' she protested through clenched teeth, but the look in his eyes made any further protestations die on her lips. She coughed and spluttered as the first mouthful scalded her throat, but he forced the glass to her lips once more. She obediently took another mouthful before pressing the glass into his hand. 'Please, I've had enough. It's quite revolting!'

  She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes as she felt the welcome warmth steal through her veins and finally steadying her quivering nerves. What was Brett going to do? she wondered suddenly, glancing at his impassive face from beneath her eyelashes. She had expected him to be angered, but this calm acceptance he was displaying made it difficult for her to know just how to handle the situation. .

  'While making your plans of escape, Samantha, did you give a thought to where you would go?' he asked suddenly, leaning against his desk and folding his arms across his chest.

  'Well, I obviously can't go back to the flat, as it's been let to someone else, I presume.' She avoided the directness of his gaze. 'I'll find a room somewhere.'

  'Or you could move in with Wilmot.'

  'That's a vile thing to say!' she flared hotly, gripping the arms of her chair. 'What do you think I am?'

  Brett raised his eyebrows mockingly. 'You're not going to tell me he's never suggested it?'

  'Of course not He ...' She bit her lip suddenly, re-

  calling an incident she would have preferred to forget. Clive had insisted that there was no reason for them not not to live together until his salary could provide adequately for a wife, and she had refused adamantly. Now, with Brett waiting patiently for her to reply, she was forced to admit the truth. 'Yes.'

  'Well, then?' he persisted cynically.

  'I'm old-fashioned enough to believe that that sort of thing is for after the marriage.' She felt the tell-tale colour seeping into her cheeks, but she faced him with a touch of defiance. 'Am I going to be punished for trying to get away?'

  'Yes.'

  He took her hands and drew her to her feet, and quite suddenly she knew what he intended to do. She could have freed herself quite easily, for he did not take her into his arms, but for some unaccountable reason she remained perfectly still as he lowered his head. His lips moved over hers in a lingering kiss that made her tremble, and when his unusual chastisement finally ended, her eyes, deep blue and questioning, held his glance.

  'Is that all?' she heard herself asking almost with a sigh.

  'Am I to believe you're asking for more, Samantha?'

  'You know very well what I mean,' she bit out, furious with herself for inviting his mockery. 'The least I expected was a lashing with your tongue, if not with a whip.'

  'I'm not a barbarian to take a whip to a woman, or anyone else for that matter,' he stated harshly, releasing her hands and taking a pace away from her to allow his glance to slide over the length of her. 'There are other forms of punishment which are far more effective.'

  Samantha's cheeks stung with humiliation, but fortunately Brett's back was turned towards her as he collected her suitcases. It was a silent, agonising walk up to her room, with Brett, cold and forbidding, directly behind her. He placed her suitcases just inside the door and then looked down at her disdainfully from his great height.

  `Goodnight, Samantha.'

  She stammered something, but he was gone before the words had formed properly on her lips. Disappointed and despondent, she bit back the tears. If only she could accept her father's explanation for agreeing that Brett should practically abduct her and keep her a prisoner. What right had they to interfere? If Clive was not the kind of man her father had had in mind for her, then surely he should have had the grace to accept the fact that she had made her choice, and that she was old enough to know what she wanted? Or was it merely that Brett's suggestion had been the easy way out for him, leaving him free to accept the transfer he had secretly desired since her mother's untimely death? she wondered unhappily. She had heard of parents objecting to their children's chosen escorts, but this was more than ridiculous and totally unreasonable.

  Her thoughts returned to Clive, and the most unnerving realisation swept through her. It was not so much Clive whom she wanted to rush to, but Brett she wanted to escape from. But what was she running from? An awareness; a sensing of danger? Was she afraid of allowing herself to become submerged in a whirlpool of emotions as yet unexplored by herself? Or was it perhaps the knowledge that Brett could awaken these emotions, where Clive had failed in the past?

  A shuddering sigh escaped her and she instantly shied away from these disturbing thoughts as she pre-

  pared for bed. It would perhaps be advisable not to delve too deeply into her reasons for wanting to get away from Carrington's Post, she decided tiredly, snapping off the light and acknowledging temporary defeat.

  Samantha was more determined than ever now to get away. At the first available opportunity to speak to Lucas without Brett breathing down her neck, she tried to persuade him to place one of the cars at her disposal, but Lucas could not be swayed.

  'Miss Samantha,' he said in that peculiarly accented voice attributed only to the Coloured people, 'my family have lived on this farm for many years, and this is where I want to live until I die.'

  Samantha could not prevent the smile that tugged at her lips. 'Does this mean that you won't help me?'

  'It means, Miss Samantha,' he replied, his expression apologetic, 'that I can't help you even if I wanted to. Master Brett gave his orders.'

  'Do you always obey your boss so implicitly?'

  Lucas' eyes widened in his brown face. 'Miss Samantha, if Master Brett said I must chop off my arm, I will chop it off.'

  Samantha swallowed her disappointment. 'Your loyalty is commendable, Lucas. Forgive me for asking you to go against your boss's wishes, and forget that I ever asked you to consider doing so.'

  Lucas smiled with relief and touched his hat respectfully before leaving her to contemplate the only other avenue of escape left open to her. She would have to get away from the house before dawn one morning and make her way on foot to the road before the heat of the day made such a feat impossible. If she managed to get a lift into Bosmansvlei, she could take a train from there to Port Elizabeth.

  It was three days before Samantha could put this plan into action. For two days it rained incessantly and on the third Brett kept her busy i
n his study, dictating letters which he had asked her to type. Her elation was almost impossible to bear when she eventually found herself on the road to Bosmansvlei at the first light of dawn with a change of clothing in her small vanity case, as well as her savings book and enough cash in her sling bag to pay for a train ticket. The rest of her possessions would just. have to remain at Carrington's Post to be collected later.

  Samantha walked at an easy pace, the wild smell of the Karoo bush permeating the air. It would be two hours before her disappearance would be noticed and that would give her more than enough time to get as far away as possible. By seven that morning the sun had dispersed the chill of early dawn, and the glistening dew drops on the grass and scrubs transformed the veld into a twinkling paradise.

  Several cars had passed her, going in the opposite direction, and she was close to giving up hope when she heard a car approaching from behind. She turned to thumb a lift but never completed the action, for the car approaching her was Brett's. He drew up alongside her and climbed out with those leisurely, panther-like movements that so often had held her spellbound, and came towards her, his thumbs tucked into the belt of his immaculate grey trousers.

  `Going somewhere?'

  Samantha swallowed' violently at the constriction in her throat when she met the cold fury of his glance. `Brett, I—'

  `Get in ' he thundered, wrenching open the door on the passenger side and helping her forcibly into the seat.

  With pounding temples she waited for him to get in beside her and turn the car round. An ominous silence lingered between them during the drive back to Carrington's Post, where he pulled her roughly from the car and marched her into the house and directly to his study.

  `Brett, you can't keep me a prisoner here on your farm,' she began bravely despite the chill of fear that curled along her spine. 'If I went to the police I could have you arrested.'

  Brett laughed harshly as he faced her across his desk. 'My dear child, you're here as my guest and, what's more, I have in my possession a letter signed by your father in which he assigned you to my guardianship until you reach the age of twenty-one.'

  'I don't believe you !'

  Brett unlocked the drawer of his desk with a savage movement and pushed a piece of paper towards her. 'Take a look at that. It's a photostat copy of the original.'

  Samantha's throat tightened, virtually choking off her breath as she read through the letter and discovered that Brett had spoken the truth. `So I've been tricked and trapped with the help of my own father ... the one person I've always thought I could trust implicitly!

  'Don't say that !' He came round his desk with a few quick strides and gripped her shoulders painfully. If you weren't so stubborn you would realise that your father has your welfare at heart, just as I do.'

  'Why?' her voice croaked as his face swam before her. 'Why should you care what happens to me?'

  'You're too lovely to have your life ruined by a cad like Clive Wilmot.'

  'You don't know Clive!' she protested, her lips quivering as she voiced the habitual complaint.

  'Don't I?' Brett released her and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke forcefully into the air. 'Samantha, if I bring you positive proof that Clive has not been faithful to you ... will you marry me?'

  She clenched her hands at her sides. 'That's unfair!'

  'If you're as sure of Clive as you say you are, then what have you to lose?' he challenged, his eyes watchful, his mouth twisting cynically.

  'Very well,' she agreed in angry defiance and with a confidence that was showing signs of crumbling. 'But you won't find any such proof.'

  'We shall see,' he mocked. 'Meanwhile, do you also give me your word that you'll remain here if I fly to Port Elizabeth this morning in order to obtain this proof ?'

  'You have my word that I'll remain here, but ... if you don't find the proof you seek?' Her blue gaze was raised to his imploringly.

  'Then I shall personally return you to Clive.' A look of distaste flashed across his face. `Do we have a bargain?'

  Samantha's heart pounded uncomfortably against her ribs. 'Yes ... but you'll be disappointed.'

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE homestead was ominously quiet after Brett's departure, and Samantha had plenty of time to regret her foolishness in allowing him to trap her into an agreement which could quite easily force her into marrying him. It had been madness; but it was done.

  Eventually, when she could bear the silence no longer, she went in search of Aunt Emma and found her in the garden, pottering among the plants with a wide-brimmed hat on her head as protection against the sun.

  'Can I help?' she asked, wishing there was something she could do to quell the frightening thoughts that raced madly through her mind.

  'Without garden gloves you'll spoil your lovely hands,' Aunt Emma remarked seriously. 'Sit down somewhere and we can talk if you like.'

  Samantha sat down on the grass beside the little stream and trailed her fingers in the water. If Aunt Emma knew about her attempt to hitch-hike to Bosmansvlei that morning, then she was diplomatic enough not to mention it, Samantha thought gratefully.

  'Tell me about Brett's parents, Aunt Emma.'

  The older woman glanced up briefly and smiled. 'There isn't much to tell. Brett's mother died not long after Nadine's birth, and as I was widowed at the time I came back to the farm to look after my brother, Brett's father, and the two children. Brett was fourteen when Nadine was born, and already an independent young man with ideas of his own.' She pushed the garden

  fork into the ground and removed her gloves. 'Of course, with his mother's untimely death, he developed a protective love for Nadine, and actually spoiled her tremendously. It was Brett who taught her to swim and to ride horses ... and to drive that dreadful little red sports car he'd given her on her nineteenth birthday.' Aunt Emma sighed and stared thoughtfully out across the veld to where the tractors were ploughing up the earth to plant lucerne for the winter. 'He blamed himself very much for her death. I think perhaps that's why ...'

  'Yes?' Samantha prompted, her interest quickening as Aunt Emma's voice trailed off into a guilty silence.

  'Nothing,' she shook her head firmly. 'Let's go back to the house, it's almost time to have tea.'

  Samantha slipped her arm through Aunt Emma's as they walked slowly along the path. 'You haven't told me much about Brett's father. What was he like?'

  A reminiscent smile hovered about Aunt Emma's lips. 'Brett is very much like his father. He was also tall and dark, but a much gentler man than Brett. He was very much a dreamer, whereas Brett has always had his feet planted firmly on the ground. He died ten years ago after suffering a very bad thrombosis,' she added almost abruptly, but Samantha noticed the film of tears in her eyes and thought it best not to pursue the subject.

  Tea was served on the stoep with the usual melt-in the-mouth jam tarts, but Samantha was too agitated to enjoy them. She eventually left Aunt Emma in the kitchen, supervising lunch, and had Meisie saddled in the hope that a ride in the veld might dispel the awful feeling of dread in her heart, but she returned an hour later feeling slightly worse than when she had started out.

  Samantha finally ended up pacing the living-room floor as the lunch hour drew near. Brett had said he would be back before one, with or without the proof he had gone in search of, and, as the time for his re-' turn grew near, she became aware of a terrifying anxiety building up within her.

  Aunt Emma set aside her embroidery and glanced up at her with concern. 'Samantha ... my dear, aren't you happy here with us? Haven't we done our best to make you settle in comfortably?'

  Samantha allowed her gaze to wander out across the sunlit garden and watched the restless progress of a butterfly on the crimson poppies. 'I could be very happy here, if only ...'

  'If only the man you loved could be here to share it with you,' Aunt Emma finished for her, nodding understandingly.

  Samantha frowned and turned away from the window. 'Aunt Emma, what am I going to do?'
she asked hoarsely, and then, without intending to, it all came tumbling out, her words falling over one another as she explained the true reason for Brett's sudden trip to Port Elizabeth.

  'Don't you think it was rather foolish of you to enter into such an agreement with Brett?' Aunt Emma asked when she had finished.

  'I had no choice. My faith in Clive was challenged, and besides, he won't find the proof he seeks.'

  Aunt Emma raised her eyebrows with a touch of unaccustomed cynicism and picked up her embroidery. 'I hope for your sake that you're right.'

  Samantha observed for a moment those surprisingly supple fingers as they worked deftly with needle and thread, before she resumed her pacing with renewed energy. What if Brett had succeeded in his mission and

  HANDFUL OF STARDUST

  returned with proof? She shuddered inwardly as she thought of the result. Surely he would not insist on her honouring their ridiculous agreement?

  'For goodness' sake, child I Come and sit down, you're wearing out the carpet,' Aunt Emma exclaimed impatiently.

  'I'm sorry,' Samantha muttered, perching nervously on the arm of a nearby chair, but, even as she did so, she heard the distant droning of Brett's plane and jumped swiftly to her feet. 'He's here! '

  'Sit down, Samantha,' Aunt Emma instructed firmly. 'You'll have your answer soon enough.'

  It seemed an eternity before they heard the Land-Rover come up the drive and seconds later Brett entered the house, tall and broad-shouldered, his tie askew, the top button of his shirt undone, and the jacket of his dark grey suit slung across his arm. Samantha glanced nervously at Aunt Emma before returning her glance to Brett where he stood in the doorway, his face dark with suppressed anger.

  `Well ...' he said harshly, 'you have a choice.' 'A ... choice?'

  `Yes! ' He gestured with his briefcase. `Do you want the results now, or would you prefer to enjoy your lunch first?'