A Guilty Passion Read online

  Celeste looked at his face as he switched on the light, and found it a dark, closed mask, but as he turned his eyes on her, she felt her anger and hurt dissolve in a tug of compassion. “Don't be so hard on yourself, Ethan,” she said softly. “You've nothing to be ashamed of."

  His eyes narrowed on her. “Unfortunately, I don't share your hedonistic view of life,” he said.

  With a flash of spirit, she said, “That's a poisonous accusation! You're wilfully misunderstanding me."

  “Am I? Do me a favour and get out of my sight, Celeste, before I do something that one of us, at least, may live to regret."

  Chapter Seven

  Surprisingly, Celeste slept well, and woke late. When she walked into the living room Ethan was sitting at the table outside with Henry Palmer. Stepping onto the terrace, she was glad that after last night she did not have to face Ethan alone.

  Both men turned at her approach, breaking off their low-voiced conversation, and she had the distinct impression that she had been the subject of their discussion.

  Ethan got up. “Good morning. I was just going to make a cup of coffee. Want some?"

  “Thank you.” She didn't quite look at him as she took the chair that Henry pulled out for her.

  “I'll bring you some fruit and toast, too,” Ethan offered.

  She said “Don't bother,” to his retreating back, but Henry smiled at her and said, “You could probably do with it. How are you this morning?"

  A little defensively she answered, “Fine, thank you. How was your swim?"

  “You should have joined us,” he told her. “Or are you shy?"

  “Ethan thought I was tired."

  He was still smiling, but rather pensively. “Ethan's anxious about you. You're finding that rather smothering, perhaps."

  “He's not my keeper,” Celeste said shortly. “Has he been asking you for advice?"

  Henry looked rueful. “Do you resent the idea?"

  “I don't think I'm in need of medical attention."

  “I won't force it on you."

  “Does that mean you do think so?"

  “Not necessarily. But you did seem somewhat removed from things last night. It was an effort for you to relate to what was going on about you, wasn't it?"

  Celeste bit her lip. “I'm sorry if I was rude."

  “You weren't in the least rude. And the effort was largely successful. I was probably the only one who noticed. Ethan said you were more lively than usual."

  She glanced up at him, wondering if Ethan had suggested to Henry that she had been flirting with Jeff last night. There was nothing in the older man's face but a kind of detached concern that she supposed was part of his professional bedside manner.

  Henry said, “Sleep all right?"

  “Like a log,” she replied. It was true of last night, anyway, and with luck that heralded a new trend. “I've only just got up,” she pointed out.

  “Ethan says you're a late riser these days. Some people lie awake half the night and then sleep in. It often doesn't help much."

  Celeste looked away from him, down towards the sea, and he said easily, “Well, if you have any problems, or want to talk, you know where to find me."

  He was being nice, and it was unfair to be annoyed about it simply because she was sure Ethan had put him up to this. “Thank you,” she said. “I'll remember."

  Ethan came back with coffee and a breakfast for Celeste on a tray. While she ate it, the two men talked on general subjects, and she took scant part. When Henry left, she gathered up the plates and said, “I'll take care of these. I expect you want to work."

  “It's Sunday. And I've finished the project I was on. I thought I'd have a day off."

  He hadn't had a day off since they arrived. “I'm sure you're entitled,” she said.

  “Like to drive around the island?” he asked her. “If we go really slowly and have lunch along the way, we could make it last all day."

  So they were to pretend last night had never happened, she thought. She stood with her head bowed. “All right,” she said.

  “Bring your swimsuit. There are beaches everywhere."

  She put on a pale green cotton blouse and khaki shorts, and rolled her swimsuit into a towel, which she pushed into a canvas hold-all with a comb and a sweatshirt.

  When she joined Ethan, he said, “Do you have a hat?"

  Celeste shook her head.

  He disappeared into the passage between the kitchen and laundry, and came back with a soft-brimmed, army-style khaki hat in his hand. “Try this. It shrank when I washed it, so it might fit."

  It did, reasonably well, and he said, “It may not be glamorous, but it'll keep the sun off. Have you been wandering around the beach all this time without one?"

  “I keep in the shade a lot,” she said. “I don't lie about in the sun for hours. My skin won't stand it.” She had a slight tan, but it was acquired very carefully, for her skin was naturally fair.

  He drove first to the highest point on the island, a two-humped hill. “Known locally as The Camel,” Ethan told her. From a viewing place at the top, they could see almost the whole circumference of the island, with the capital sprawling up a gentle slope from the sea, and several smaller villages along the coast. Tourists and local families on day trips stood pointing out landmarks to one another and taking photographs.

  Winding down to the coast on a road lined with lush trees and waving grasses, Ethan slowly followed the highway until it passed near a sandy beach. A few shops huddled at the other side of the road, and there were perhaps fifty people lying on the sand or swimming in the breakers.

  “Want to stop?” Ethan asked.

  “Not especially.” The beach was evidently a popular one, but there were no trees here, just an expanse of sand and sea, and it was getting close to midday.

  “There's a prettier beach farther on,” he told her. “But we'd have to park the car and walk to it."

  “Sounds good,” she said.

  “We could buy something to eat, and picnic there, or eat later when we get to the capital."

  “Whatever you like."

  He glanced at her sharply and drew up by one of the shops. “Are you hungry?"

  Celeste shook her head. “I had a late breakfast,” she reminded him. “But I'll go along with whatever you want."

  His mouth curved sardonically, but he said only, “I can wait. The food will be better in Conneston."

  He drove on and eventually parked at the roadside in the shade of some trees.

  “From here we go on foot,” he said. “Bring your hat and your swimsuit."

  He carried the hold-all, although she insisted it wasn't heavy, and led her to a narrow path through the trees that soon went downhill, passing a pretty waterfall overhung with ferns. The beach was invisible until they reached the white, glistening sand, and Celeste gave an exclamation of pleasure. The little cove was surrounded by thickly growing ferns, paper mulberries and banana palms, and other trees that she didn't know the names of, all mingled in unlikely harmony. Not far out from the shore lay a conical islet crowned with low-growing trees and bushes.

  “Pretty, isn't it?” Ethan said casually.

  “It's lovely.” The water was crystal clear, and tiny coloured pebbles and shells were visible on the gently sloping sea floor. At the end of a rock shelf extending into the sea a couple of people stood with fishing rods, but there seemed to be no one else about.

  “The locals keep fairly quiet about this,” Ethan said. “It's a place to get away from the tourists when the season's at its height. They say there's good fishing off the rocks there, but I've never tried it."

  “Jeff said you and he go fishing in a boat."

  “Sometimes."

  Mentioning Jeff had apparently been a mistake. Ethan's face assumed a remote, rigid look. She looked at the rocks again and saw a gleaming, twisting object being hauled from the water on one of the lines. “I think they've caught something,” she said.

  “Shall we g
o and see?” he suggested. “Put the hat on.” He hauled it out of the bag and she adjusted it on her head. She had braided her hair in a single plait, and Ethan suddenly grinned and said, “You look about fourteen."

  Without thinking, she grimaced at him. Turning her back, she stalked along the sand, taking an oblique path to the water.

  Ethan laughed, and she felt a sharp little slap on her bottom as he caught up. Celeste jumped, cast him an indignant glare and ran to the water, stopping to scoop up a handful accurately in his direction, splattering his jeans. He came after her, but she was racing along the sand, laughing. When her hat flew off, she didn't pause but just kept running. Ethan stopped to retrieve it and she was almost at the rocks when he grabbed at her flying plait to bring her to a halt.

  “Ouch!” she cried, although he wasn't really hurting.

  “Okay, Atalanta,” he said. “This is where you get your comeuppance."

  Panting, she looked up into his laughing eyes, and saw the laughter change to something else. Her lips parted, and she heard him suck in his breath before he abruptly released her. The next moment he had clamped the hat down on her head, pulling it forward over her eyes. When she lifted it, he had moved back two paces. She felt a pang of regret, mingled with relief. “Anyway,” she said quickly, “you've got the story wrong. Atalanta was the one who stepped aside from the race to pick up the golden apples that Milanion dropped for her, so she had to marry him, as she'd promised to marry the first man to beat her in a race."

  “So Milanion won by appealing to Atalanta's acquisitiveness,” Ethan said, beginning to climb the rocks.

  “By cheating. He knew he couldn't beat her fair and square."

  “I'd say by strategy. He must have studied her character and guessed what it would take to outwit her. You're well up in your classical mythology,” he said, watching her as she picked her way between the little clear pools crowded with tiny starfish, waving anemones and slow-moving hermit crabs.

  “I used to have a book of Greek and Roman mythology that I read over and over. It was my favourite."

  He held out a hand as her foot slipped and she faltered, but she ignored it, regaining her balance unaided.

  The two who were fishing were a man and a woman in their thirties. They had a basket with half a dozen good-sized fish, and as they exchanged a friendly hello with Ethan and Celeste, the woman got another bite and was soon reeling in a large, fighting fish.

  Watching it gasp for breath, bleeding from the hook, Celeste turned away. When she looked back again the fish was dead, and the lovely pale rainbow colours of its scales had become dull and lifeless. Going back to the beach, with the sea just as blue and the sun just as warm, she was silent, and the grey blanket of depression that had lifted for a time muffled her again with its deadening weight.

  “Want to swim?” Ethan asked her as they regained the soft sand.

  Celeste shrugged, wondering if the effort of getting into her swimsuit was worth it. “I don't know. You go in if you like."

  He frowned. “What's the matter?"

  “Nothing.” She looked down at the sand. It was stupid to be upset by the death of a fish. She wasn't going to admit that it had made her feel squeamish.

  “I don't want to go swimming alone,” Ethan said. “If you don't feel like it, we'll skip the idea."

  “No. I'll ... I'll come.” She tried to shake off the sudden gloom. If she didn't give in to it, perhaps it would go away.

  She changed behind some trees, and when she emerged he was waiting for her. In the distance the fishing couple appeared to be packing up their gear. Evidently they had caught enough for one day. She dropped her towel on the sand and walked towards the waves. Ethan fell into step beside her. There was the first shock of cold, but after a minute or so the water felt deliciously warm. Swimming away from Ethan, she took a course parallel with the shore, while he went on into deeper water.

  The other couple gave a friendly wave as they came down from the rocks and made for the path, each with an arm about the other's waist. Celeste waved back, then turned over and floated, staring up at the intense blue of the sky.

  Ethan's voice startled her, sounding close by. “Feel like swimming to the island?"

  She studied it, thinking. It wasn't far, and it appeared both friendly and mysterious. “Okay,” she said, and turned over, keeping pace with him.

  There was no sand, but a handy rock shelf allowed them to clamber ashore, Ethan hauling her after him with strong hands. Others had been here before them, making a faint path through the low-growing bushes and small trees that grew on what she would have thought was bare rock.

  “Game?” Ethan asked her, indicating the path, and she nodded. It seemed like a long way up, but she was not going to give in. Once she would have revelled in the idea. If she just made the effort, surely she would be able to enjoy life as she used to.

  At the top, she ignored a slight dizziness that seized her, and sank down on her haunches, as though merely wanting to contemplate the view. After a few minutes her breathing steadied and she felt a lot better. From here they could see speckled shells on the seabed below, red seaweed and some darting fish.

  Ethan sat nearby, his forearm resting on a raised knee, his tanned skin gleaming with saltwater. After a while he said, “Ready to go back?"

  He was already on his feet, and she said “Sure,” and followed him down the path again.

  He dived, and she followed, but before they were halfway to the shore she was tired, and when he looked round he must have seen the strain on her face. He trod water, waiting for her to catch up, and then said, “Turn on your back and I'll tow you in."

  “No.” She kept swimming. “I can make it."

  She did, but felt wrung out as she walked slowly out of the water. The trees seemed to sway, and the sun's heat made wavery lines along the sand. She gritted her teeth and was glad when Ethan's hand clamped on her arm, holding her until she reached her towel and slumped down on it, making an effort to breathe normally.

  Ethan knelt beside her. “You little fool!” he said roughly. “Why didn't you say it was too much for you?"

  “It shouldn't have been,” she said. “I used to be able to swim that distance easily."

  “I know,” he said.

  “I'm out of practice, I guess.” That was true. Alec had been a strong swimmer before his accident; afterwards he was self-conscious about being seen at the beach, and his damaged legs had tired quickly. They had not swum often.

  Ethan said, “You could have let me help you over the last part."

  “I wanted ... to do it on my own."

  “What are you trying to prove, Celeste?"

  “I'm not trying to prove anything. I don't need your help."

  He turned away and picked up his own towel, standing to rub himself dry.

  “I suppose that seems ungracious,” Celeste said.

  His eyes looked as hard as glass. “It just doesn't seem very sensible,” he said. “Nothing is more obvious at the moment than the fact that you do need help from someone. Why not me?"

  She sat up. “You're not qualified."

  He stopped what he was doing, holding the towel in his hands. “Henry is."

  “I'm not ill."

  Ethan came down beside her again and grasped her shoulders. “You're certainly not up to par. When I first met you, that swim would have been a pushover for you. You could have done it twice over and then raced me to the end of the beach and back."

  “I told you, I'm out of practice."

  “I'll buy you a decent lunch,” he said. As she made to get up, he added, “No hurry."

  “I'm all right now.” She was always saying that to him. She went to get her clothes on, and combed out her damp hair after removing it from its plait.

  He made her go slowly on the walk back, and insisted on a five-minute rest halfway to the road. When they got into the car he seemed rather preoccupied, and they didn't talk much until he drew up into a parking bay on a low pr
omontory overlooking the sea. “See those rocks out there?” He pointed to a series of dark shadows in the water. “That's where the Sheerwind ran aground. The plaque set into the stone on the shore here commemorates the wreck."

  They got out and read the words on the plaque starkly telling the tale of the ship on its way to Botany Bay with a cargo of stores and a detachment of soldiers for the New South Wales Corps, with some of their families. The ship had been caught in a storm and thrown ashore with the loss of over a hundred lives. There was a picture etched in the bronze showing the storm-tossed vessel with sailors clinging to the rigging, and women and children being helped into a lifeboat.

  “Down there—” Ethan pointed to a patch of ground near the beach on which stood a small monument “—is where some of those washed ashore were buried by the survivors. The individual graves can't be identified anymore, but the names of those known to have been drowned or who were never found after the wreck have been recorded on the monument."

  Celeste shivered, and he said, “It's a local landmark, and an obligatory stop for visitors. But perhaps I shouldn't have brought you here. Had enough?"

  “Yes.” She turned with alacrity back to the car.

  When they reached the outskirts of the capital they had lunch at a restaurant decorated with fishing nets and glass floats and seashells. Casual dress was accepted but the food was superb.

  “Their seafood is particularly good,” Ethan promised her. “I recommend the shrimp salad."

  Salad sounded fine, she thought, but she was unable to finish the generous helping presented by the chef. Ethan frowned at her half-empty plate and offered her dessert, which she declined, shaking her head.

  “A cheeseboard,” he instructed the waiter, and with his eyes on her she helped herself to a cracker and a slice of Gruyère, but refused any more.

  “Feel up to a stroll on the waterfront?” Ethan asked her after they had drunk their coffee.

  Celeste nodded. A stone wall had been built along the waterline, and fishing boats and pleasure craft were tied to it. A man was selling fresh-caught fish from one of the boats, and Ethan looked at Celeste inquiringly.