Invitation to a Cornish Christmas Page 7

  Even to his own ears, he sounded unsure. Emily looked at him quizzically. ‘You left twenty years ago, and have been home how many times?’

  Treeve shrugged. ‘My ship has always been home.’ He ushered Emily from the minstrels’ gallery. ‘The attics are reached by the back stairs. Take care when you climb, the treads are a little uneven.’

  In the attic, she seemed to be completely distracted by the view as he pointed out the various landmarks, but he was aware of her studying him. Indeed she made no attempt to disguise the fact, mulling over his words, turning them over in her mind, as if they were one of her silver boxes, to be inspected from every angle before she arrived at a judgement.

  ‘Did your brother make any significant changes to the house when he inherited?’ she asked.

  ‘Austol, like my father, thought Karrek House should be preserved rather than improved. Personally, I think there’s quite a lot of room for improvement. I’d do something about the plumbing for a start, and I’d have the chimneys seen to, they all billow smoke.’ Treeve frowned, taking a mental tour of the house. ‘The kitchens need to be ripped out and modernised. The stairs we’ve just climbed need attending to and this place...’ He studied the attics with a fresh eye. ‘If it were partitioned, I think this could make a very comfortable sitting room or study—it has the best view in the house.’

  ‘But apart from that,’ Emily said, smiling, ‘you wouldn’t make any changes.’

  Treeve was forced to laugh. ‘Actually, I think there’s a perfect place to build a walled garden over there, do you see? It faces south, and with a bit of protection from the winds—in fact a succession house or two would be perfectly placed there.’

  ‘Why not have a lake dug while you’re at it!’

  ‘Oh, no, if I were to spend my money on a water feature, it would be to have a pool built in the rocks at Karrek Sands. There’s a perfect place, you know it—it would be filled at high tide. And if we’re talking substantial building projects—well, that’s easy, it would be a lighthouse on The Beasts. I’d try to persuade Robert Stevenson to build it—his lighthouse at Bell Rock is a remarkable piece of engineering. And to make the harbour truly safe, we’d need to strengthen the walls, which could be done at the same time.’

  ‘Good heavens Treeve, that would surely cost a fortune. And it would take—I don’t know, months?’

  ‘Depending on the weather, perhaps longer. We’d need to bring in expert craftsmen—not just Stevenson, but engineers, if the harbour walls were to be reinforced. There’s a man I know, who has overseen a great deal of work in Plymouth. And the fact that we’re relatively close to Falmouth docks, too—there’s a good pool of experienced men there we could use. It would be difficult—the logistics would be complicated—but I’ve actually been involved in something similar before. You need—’ He broke off, taken aback by what sounded oddly like enthusiasm in his voice. ‘Of course, I’m just speculating.’

  Emily raised her brows. ‘But if it wasn’t only speculation?’

  ‘Oh, then Porth Karrek could rival Penzance, or even Newquay, as the biggest pilchard port in Cornwall.’

  ‘New fishermen and their families coming to live at Porth Karrek! Mr Bligh would have something to say about that.’

  ‘Would it be so wrong?’ Treeve frowned. ‘It’s very clear to me that Porth Karrek desperately needs some fresh blood, whether the people here will admit it or not. I can’t fault Bligh as an estate manager, but he values traditions over all else, and despises change, even when it is much needed. The soil on many of my farms is good enough only to produce what is needed for survival, and there seems to be no understanding of modern farming methods. There are always pilchards to be harvested from the sea, but fishing is hardly the most reliable of occupations, and there can be weeks here in the winter when the boats can’t be launched, which means there’s no money to put food on the tables of the villagers unless they have another occupation. Many of them combine fishing and farming, but on such a small scale it is a hand-to-mouth existence.’

  ‘Just like the crofters on Lewis.’

  ‘Exactly. I suspect if you went back there, you’d find a number of the younger people have left in search of better lives, Emily. It will be the same here, if things don’t change, and who can blame them?’

  ‘‘What about tin mining? Are there any deposits on your lands?’

  Treeve shook his head. ‘Some small seams, but not sufficient to justify the cost of a steam pump and the building to house it.’

  ‘Then what is the answer?’

  ‘I have no idea, save that it’s not to carry on regardless.’

  ‘Though that is what Mr Bligh will do, in your absence. You say that what is needed here is fresh blood, has it occurred to you that might be you?’

  ‘You think I should stay here, give up the navy? I know no more about modern farming methods than the people here. I’m a sea captain. Modernisation for me, is all about steamships. Besides, people here don’t want modernisation. My brother and my father would be turning in their graves, to hear me.’

  ‘People here want to stay here, first and foremost. Your ideas—they would change things for the better, wouldn’t they? If they understood that, they’d see you very differently. A lord of the manor, but a benefactor, with people’s welfare at heart.’

  Treeve gazed out of the window. A customs cutter was heading out into the Channel from Penzance. ‘“A steady hand at the tiller. A man who isn’t afraid to make tough decisions, who can inspire loyalty and command respect.” That’s more or less what you said, isn’t it? You know me better than anyone else here—indeed, I think sometimes you can see inside my head. Do you really think I could be happy here?’

  Emily looked uncomfortable. ‘All I know is that you came here very certain that you would not stay and now you seem more ambivalent.’

  ‘You’re right, it’s been keeping me awake at nights.’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps I should have left well alone, and stayed away completely. If I’d refrained from spending so much time these last few days trying to come to terms with my inheritance, left it in Bligh’s capable hands, then I wouldn’t be so worried. Ignorance is supposed to be bliss, after all.’

  To his surprise she flinched. ‘Trust me, you could not be more wrong. Far better to know the truth, no matter how unpalatable. Then at least you know what you have to face up to.’

  ‘That sounds to me like the bitter voice of experience. Emily?’ he added, when she shook her head.

  ‘You could bring your telescope up here,’ she said, ignoring the question.

  ‘Someone already has, I found a tripod stand behind an offcut of carpet over in the corner. Please, don’t turn the subject. Didn’t we promise to be honest with each other?’

  ‘I came here to escape from—from my life. I’m happy here, Treeve. I don’t want to talk about the past.’

  ‘Someone hurt you,’ he said, gently. ‘The man you wore this dress for, on your birthday, perhaps?’

  She nodded, her eyes fixed on the floor.

  ‘Emily, I don’t want to reopen old wounds.’

  ‘Oh, I am not still in love with him, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ she said fervently. ‘He killed any feelings I had for him when he—I promise you, Treeve, he is well and truly in the past.’

  Feelings! The word caused something that was unmistakably jealousy to stab him in the gut. Feelings that this unknown man had killed. Jealousy gave way to a fierce, protective anger.

  ‘You must not be thinking that I am broken-hearted,’ she said, with that knack she had of reading his mind. ‘I’m a very different person now. I was thinking that, only a few moments ago downstairs. Which is why I don’t want to talk about it.’

  But she had been hurt. And there was the question of her money too, Treeve thought. Had that man—he caught himself short. ‘You’re right,’ he said, for she was eyeing
him askance. ‘I’ve no business asking. To be perfectly honest, I’d rather not know.’

  ‘Treeve, you should know that I’m not—It was a—It was not an innocent relationship. Do you understand?’

  ‘He took advantage of...’

  ‘No! At least—no, not in that way.’ Emily’s cheeks were dark red, though she met his gaze directly. ‘You said we should be honest. I am trying to be. As far as I can.’

  He was momentarily overcome, not with the disgust or condemnation she seemed to expect, but with admiration at her courage. ‘Emily.’ He couldn’t resist pulling her into his arms, kissing the top of her head. ‘You shouldn’t be ashamed to admit such a thing. It’s the most natural thing in the world, to want to—to make love, though by the stars, the world makes it difficult enough for women to admit to wanting, never mind indulging! You’re thirty-two years old. It would be a bigger crime if—I mean, if you had not—Dammit! I mean if you had denied yourself something so natural.’

  He felt her laughter, soft against his chest. ‘That’s a rather unorthodox way of looking at it.’

  He set her back, forcing her to meet his eyes. ‘I’m aware of that. But I’m a rather unorthodox man, in that regard! You don’t imagine I’m an innocent, so why should I assume you are? It doesn’t make you a floosie—excuse my rough sailor’s language—it simply makes you human.’

  ‘You really mean that?’

  ‘Honestly? I don’t like to think of you with another man, any more than I want to think of myself with another woman, but I can’t erase the past. But if you are a new woman since you came to Cornwall, why cannot I be a new man?’

  ‘More evidence of your unorthodox thinking. I like it.’

  Treeve grinned. ‘So do I.’

  She flattened her hand over his cheek, smoothing it down his chin. She liked the feel of his beard, he’d noticed that before. Her eyes fluttered closed when she touched him like that. She did not wear perfume. He could smell the lemon of her soap. Close up, he could see that the tiny pink flowers embroidered on her gown were roses. Though she had taken extra care with her hair, still a thick strand the colour of wet sand had escaped its pins. He brushed it back lightly from her cheek, and her eyes flew open, locking on to his.

  He trailed his fingers down the warm skin at her nape, and she shivered. ‘Emily,’ he said softly as she smoothed her hand over his cheek again. ‘Oh, Emily.’

  Their lips barely touched, and his heart began to thud, his breathing becoming shallow. Her lips were warm, no salty taste this time. He curled his fingers into her hair, forcing himself to keep the tiny distance between them. Their lips clung, moved, clung, small kisses, kisses that were just enough to make him crave more. He curled his arm more tightly around her waist. She nestled closer. He could hear her breathing, feel her breathing, was acutely aware of her breasts brushing his waistcoat, of her toes against his boots. He ran his tongue along her full bottom lip, hearing himself groan, hearing her breath catch. Her mouth opened to his. Their tongues touched. Deeper kisses. Her hand was on his backside now. He felt himself harden. He angled himself away from her. It was a kiss. Just a kiss. Such a kiss. His hand sliding from her waist to the curve of her bottom, resisting the desire to pull her against him, just about. More kisses. A tiny, strangled moaning sound from her that set his blood alight. And yet more kisses. Tongues. He was so hard. Just a kiss? This wasn’t just a kiss.

  It took far more effort than it should have taken to stop, and even then, dragging his mouth from hers was as much as he could manage. He held on to her, gazing into her eyes, hazy with desire, her cheeks not bright but pale. She stroked her hand along his jaw. Then she gave her head a tiny shake, and the movement made him smile, as if she was trying to wake up, because that was what he felt, then she stepped back and he let her go.

  ‘I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you,’ Treeve said. ‘What you told me in confidence—you know I would not...’

  ‘I know. I do know that.’

  ‘Emily...’

  ‘I’d better go,’ she said abruptly, stooping down to pick up a couple of hairpins.

  ‘Emily, don’t run off. I got carried away. I did not mean...’

  She stopped, halfway to the door. ‘We both rather lost our heads. But it was you who came to your senses. I’m leaving before we forget ourselves again, that’s all. Stay here, enjoy the view. I’ll see you for our walk tomorrow, if the weather holds.’

  Treeve waited at the window, wondering if she would look up from the drive, but she did not. He watched until she turned into her cottage, trying to make sense of his feelings. Frustration—that was obvious enough! Not that he’d for a moment imagined that Emily would make love to him—or had he thought that, after what she’d told him?

  He examined his conscience scrupulously. He was not a prig. What Emily called his unorthodox views were his views. He’d always thought it unfair that the world assumed unmarried women of a certain upbringing must be without either desire or experience, when the world assumed it was perfectly natural for an unmarried man from a similar background to have an abundance of both. And he’d had both, in the past, though the desire had never lasted beyond a few kisses or a few torrid nights’ lovemaking. Delightful enough, but quickly forgotten.

  But Emily—oh, Emily was like no woman he’d met before. From the first he’d known that. Smitten, he’d thought. Beguiled, he was, the more he knew her. He had never been in love, was not such a fool to imagine that a man could fall in love in two weeks, but he could get in deep. Treeve cursed. He wasn’t going to be in Cornwall long enough to get in deep. And yet...

  And yet what? Devil take it, Emily was different! She was not a passing fancy. He wanted more. More of her company and her conversation, more insights into her mind, more of her history and yes, dammit, more of her kisses too. And he wanted to be more to her. Which made no sense at all, given that he was set on going back to his ship.

  He was set on that, wasn’t he? The window in front of him, where someone had placed a telescope, had been cleaned. Bligh was the obvious culprit. What would he do if he couldn’t trust Bligh? And even if he could, did he really want to allow his inheritance to sink into a slow decline? Emily didn’t think so. Emily, clever, insightful Emily, had encouraged him to paint a very different picture of his future than the one he’d always imagined. It would be a challenge, and Treeve loved a challenge. But lord of the manor? Not in his father’s image or in Austol’s shoes, but as Emily said, in his own style. Making his future here, turning the people around to his way of thinking, building a new Porth Karrek for their children, and for his own? But he had no son. And no intentions of settling down to get one either.

  Chapter Six

  Emily tested the strings were tied tightly round each of her parcels, even though she had already checked them several times this morning, before placing them carefully in her basket. Outside, it was a foul day, with the rain flying past her window in horizontal sheets, the wind gusting through the frames, rattling the panes and whistling under the gap at the bottom of the door. She was going to have to speak to Jago Bligh, else the next few months would be unendurable, for she knew enough of the Cornish weather, from the villagers, to be aware that winter was only just getting started.

  She tucked a piece of oilskin over the contents of her basket to keep her precious work safe from the elements. If she complained to Mr Bligh, he’d mention the fact to Treeve, and Treeve would most likely order immediate remedial work. So she would hold off until after Treeve had left. When he was gone, she wanted her memories of this time to be unclouded by any hint that she might have taken advantage of his fondness for her.

  Fondness? A now familiar heat prickled her skin as she thought of him. Though their histories were worlds apart, there was an affinity in the way their minds worked that made conversation flow, one minute serious, the next funning. She never had to explain herself to h
im. Were they friends? Yes, but it was more than that.

  She sat down at the table, cupping her hands around the still-warm teapot. In the week since she had fled the attics at Karrek House, they had continued to meet for their morning walk. There had been more kisses on the beach. And here, in the cottage too, when they pretended to take a warming cup of tea. Those kisses were more languorous. At first. There would come a point when savouring would turn to hunger, when it would not be enough simply to kiss, when the need to touch became irresistible. Then, their kisses deepened and their hands roamed, smoothing and stroking and shaping each other’s bodies. And then there was a moment when that was not enough either. When Treeve cupped her breast and her nipples ached for a more intimate caress, or when she pressed herself against him and felt the rigid length of his arousal, when they both caught their breath and sprang apart and stared at each other hungrily. And then Treeve would leave.

  They did not discuss the situation. There was a tacit agreement between them that they would not risk more, but they did not talk of it, afraid to upset the fragile balance between simmering desire and conflagration—at least that’s what Emily assumed. As long as they resisted that final step, there was no need to discuss their feelings or what those feelings might mean. And Emily could continue to pretend that nothing had changed. Even though she knew perfectly well that it had, utterly.

  She no longer compared Treeve to Andrew, because the comparison was odious, and because what she felt for Treeve was stars and planets away from what she’d felt for Andrew. Treeve was an honourable man. He was an honest man. She could trust him. He was a man she could very easily fall in love with. But she dare not. She must not. She absolutely must not.

  Sometimes she could persuade herself she was safe. Only one week left of November, just over four weeks in December, and Treeve would be gone. But his leaving seemed no longer certain, and that was partly down to her. It had been she who had encouraged him to consider his duty to Porth Karrek, and his ability to improve its lot. She who had pointed out to him that he could be a very different lord of the manor. She who had also pointed out to him that he possessed the qualities to make an excellent fist of it. She would never have spoken up if she hadn’t believed that all he needed to do was to look at his inheritance from a different angle, if she hadn’t been so certain that Treeve was exactly what Porth Karrek needed, and vice versa. And he wouldn’t have listened, if there had not been truth in her words, if he hadn’t felt what she had, in his gut. But he had listened. And he was considering acting on it. Which was wonderful for everyone but Emily, because if he remained in this place she had come to love, then she would be obliged to leave.