The Island Legacy Page 8

  He grinned. “They liked the music very much – just not the way I was butchering it! I’m a hopeless musician. Far better for everyone that I appreciate his work rather than attempt to play it.”

  Ness teetered on the brink of telling him that Armand Penwellyn was her uncle, but before she found the right words Max was busy catching the attention of a waiter and ordering drinks. The moment having been lost, their conversation turned instead to the town and tourist attractions. Before long Ness was sipping ice-cold Pinot while Max poured mineral water into a tumbler.

  “I don’t drink,” he explained, when he caught her looking. “No real reason why, except I’m just too busy to have hangovers and I prefer to keep my judgement clear. Probably makes me a real bundle of fun to hang out with.”

  Ness thought of Addy, who could never say no to a beer. Or a short. Or a whiskey. Or anything alcoholic. “Not at all. It probably makes you far more fun. I’d say it takes more control not to drink.”

  Max swirled his water thoughtfully. “You mean I’m a control freak?”

  “No! No I didn’t mean—”

  “I’m teasing you.” He reached across the table and laid his hand on hers. Leaving it there, he traced the inside of her wrist with his forefinger.

  Ness felt her knees turn to water. Maybe it was jet lag, maybe it was exhaustion, she wasn’t sure – but if those factors weren’t to blame then she would have said she’d never felt such a powerful attraction before. Her skin was tingling.

  “Anyway, I am a control freak. Ask anyone who knows me,” he said with a grin that lit his eyes and made a dimple dance in his cheek, as unexpected in that stern countenance as sunshine peeping out of storm clouds. “But enough of me. Tell me about you. What brings you to St Pirran from the sunny Caribbean?”

  Max moved his hand from her wrist and instantly Ness missed his touch. It had been too long since Stephen, that was all, she told herself firmly. That and the large glass of wine hitting her empty stomach.

  “It’s just family stuff,” she said, since I’ve inherited the castle you were sketching would have sounded like the worst kind of boasting, especially to someone who presumably made his living from his sketches. Everyone knew how poor artists were; Addy had never had two pennies to rub together. She thought about offering to pay for the drink but something about Max suggested that he wouldn’t be best pleased by this. “It’s a long story but the short version is that there are a few things I need to take care of here.”

  Max looked as though he was going to ask more questions, but at this point the waiter arrived with their food and another glass of wine for Ness. As they ate the monkfish, which was as good as Val had promised, they chatted easily. When Ness looked around she was amazed to find that the terrace had cleared and the moon had risen even higher. She checked her watch. It was almost ten, UK time. Her body clock was indeed all over the place, just as she’d told Max. In spite of herself, she yawned.

  “I’m keeping you up,” he said. “You’ve had a long day.”

  Tomorrow was going to be even longer, thought Ness with a little stab of nerves, and she nodded. She reached for her purse – and then her heart sank because she didn’t have any English money. David Brown was supposed to be sorting some finances for her. At least, Ness hoped he was – or Pirran Castle was in big trouble.

  “This is really embarrassing but I don’t have the right currency on me,” she confessed.

  “Looks like you’ll be washing up then,” deadpanned Max. Then his lips curled upwards. “Don’t look so worried. This evening’s on me. Call it a welcome to St Pirran.”

  “I couldn’t let you do that,” Ness protested. “Besides, I do have a credit card. It’s just that I’ve gone and left it up in my room with my passport. It’ll only take a moment to fetch it though.”

  “No need for that,” said Max. “I insist on getting this. I waylaid you, after all, and offerd you a drink. I’ve got my card behind the bar and I’m sure they can take care of it. But in return, before you turn into a pumpkin I want to show you what I think is the best view in the place. If you’re happy to get your feet wet, that is?”

  This was turning into a very strange evening, Ness thought as Max took her hand in his and led her across the terrace and down a flight of steps onto the beach. Then again, life in general had been peculiar lately, so why not walk on the beach with a handsome stranger?

  Ness kicked her shoes off and stood with the cold sand between her toes, staring across the bay to the island. Max was right: this was an amazing view. From here, with the water only inches from her feet, the island looked as though it was floating on the edge of the world. The moon was spilling liquid silver across the dark sea, and the lone light in the castle threw a trembling reflection over the waves. Tomorrow she would cross that water and see the castle for herself. She shivered.

  “Cold?” Max asked. He slid his jacket off and draped it around her shoulders. The heat from his body warmed her skin and Ness shivered again, but not because of the chilly night. Maybe it was the wine or the moonlight or just because she was on holiday, away from her usual life, but she rose onto her sandy tiptoes and traced the sharp line of his jaw with her forefinger before brushing her mouth against his.

  Max was motionless for a moment. Then he took Ness’s face in his hands and kissed her back; a slow, teasing, tempting kiss. His lips strayed to her cheeks, her neck, her eyelids, covering her in delicious and tantalising caresses that melted her inside and made her long for more. At last he returned to her lips, with a kiss that spoke of passion held in check and the promise of delights to come. In the light of the moon and with the sigh of the waves as a soundtrack, Ness was kissing a total stranger and she never wanted it to stop.

  Cornwall was full of magic, that was for sure.

  “Mr Reynard! There’s a call for you!”

  The shout from the edge of the terrace was like a pistol shot. Max drew his mouth away from Ness’s and they stood for a moment, staring at one another, their breathing ragged. He looked so surprised that Ness wanted to giggle.

  “That wine must have been stronger than we thought!” she said.

  “I had water,” Max reminded her. “Control freak, remember?” He reached forward and brushed a curl away from her cheek. “I’m totally sober.”

  “Mr Reynard? I’m sorry but they say you have to take this call! It’s from New York.”

  He sighed. “I turn my phone off and what happens? They call bloody reception.”

  Ness stepped away; her heart was hammering against her ribcage. She hadn’t kissed someone for months, since Stephen in fact, but kissing her ex had been nothing like this. Kissing Stephen had been nice, a damning word if ever there was one, but kissing Max had been something else entirely. She didn’t think she’d ever wanted someone so much.

  Maybe this was delayed shock?

  “Mr Reynard?” A figure loomed out of the shadows and Val’s face floated above them from the terrace. “I’m sorry to interrupt but it’s the New York office and they say that – oh! Miss Penwellyn! I had no idea you were here. I do apologise.”

  Ness had only been in St Pirran for a few hours but already she had a good idea of how the place worked. She suspected Val was now bursting to tell all and sundry that she’d caught the new mistress of Pirran Castle snogging the local artist on the beach. Mind you, he must be a successful artist if he was receiving calls from New York.

  “What did she call you?” Max was staring down at Ness. Shadows danced across his face and filled his eyes.

  “My name?”

  “She called you Penwellyn?” Max’s dark eyes held hers and Ness had the sensation that they were boring into her soul. For some reason the answer was crucial.

  “That’s my name. I’m Nessa, Nessa Penwellyn.”

  “You’re the long-lost cousin?”

  She nodded. “I guess.”

  Max raked a hand through his dark hair. His mouth, so soft and so right, hardened. Although he’d only taken o
ne step back from her he was suddenly thousands of miles away, the closeness of moments earlier vanishing like the surf into the sand.

  “I need to take that call,” he said curtly. “You should get some sleep. Goodnight, Ness.”

  And with this he was gone, taking back his jacket and leaving Ness alone and staring after him, her head whirling and her lips burning as though his kiss had been a branding iron.

  Exactly who was Max Reynard? And why had her name shocked him so deeply?

  Chapter 7

  Jamie was in a foul mood, even worse than usual – which was really saying something, thought Lucy as she made her way out of the castle’s kitchen and across the courtyard. She was heading for the tea room with a tray of scones, partly because she was stocking up the cake cabinet in anticipation of a busy day ahead and partly because this was the one place she knew her brother wouldn’t venture. There was only so much glowering and sniping a girl could take and Lucy had reached capacity. Her head thumped from all the door slamming and the slightest thing she said was likely to send him off on another rant.

  Nessa Penwellyn might have inherited the castle and thus the bulk of Uncle Armand’s wealth, but Lucy was very glad indeed not to be in her shoes. Jamie had been shut in the library all morning and, unless he’d suddenly developed a passion for reading classic literature, he was busy plotting something. When she’d stuck her head in to ask if he wanted breakfast, he’d looked up from an involved phone call to bellow at her to get out. Lucy hadn’t needed asking twice.

  “Sorry about that, Max. A man can’t get a minute’s peace in this lunatic asylum,”

  she’d heard him say as she’d beat a hasty retreat.

  The sooner the full will reading was over the better, Lucy decided as she backed into the tea-room door and shoved it open with her rear end. Then everyone would know where they stood, including her. Jamie might be miffed that he was losing out on what he’d assumed was his inheritance, but she could be losing her home – and so could Merryn and Fern, who were currently sitting at the table by the window, drinking tea and sharing a bacon buttie.

  “Here, let me take those.” Merryn was on his feet instantly, receiving the heavy tray from Lucy and depositing it on the counter. “Mmm. They smell wonderful.”

  Lucy’s heart lifted as it always did when somebody appreciated her cooking.

  “Take a couple for your lunch,” she said, blushing when he smiled at her with those sleepy turned-down eyes. “There’s some jam and cream in the fridge too.”

  “Don’t you bloody dare! You eat far too much of our profits as it is,” said Fern as Merryn reached out to grab a couple. “It’s going to be boiling today and I bet we’ll be inundated.”

  The castle’s tea room was converted from what had once been the stables, and with tables set on the grassy slope beyond the remains of the outer keep it had stunning views over the bay. Although it was only early, the sun already had the kind of warmth that promised a beautiful day to come. Lucy knew that as soon as the hotels had finished dishing up breakfast there would be a steady stream of visitors. Fern was right: by half ten they would be packed. Lucy sent up a silent prayer of thanks for this. Her uncle’s full will and testament might not have been disclosed yet, but she’d seen enough of the castle’s expenditure to know that every scone helped.

  “There’s another batch in the freezer,” she began, but her pink-haired helper was already jumping up from her seat and blocking Merryn’s path.

  “You’ll have to get past me first!”

  Fern was five feet tall and probably weighed about seven stone, whereas Merryn was a tanned six feet of sinew and muscle. In a heartbeat he’d picked Fern up under one arm and swiped a scone with his free hand while she twisted and pummelled him with her fists. For a pacifist Fern certainly fought hard. Feeling ancient, Lucy shook her head; it was like supervising a pair of five-year-olds. They adored each other though and she often thought there was more just beneath the surface – if they would only take the time to look.

  “Put the scones down!” Fern shrieked, her giggles punctuating the words. “You’re going to get so fat your boat will sink and none of the emmets will fancy you anymore!”

  As if that would ever happen, thought Lucy fondly. With his blond hair bleached almost white, his limbs already the colour of warm honey and dressed in a faded blue fisherman’s smock and tatty coral board shorts, he looked like the adverts for Ralph Lauren she saw when flicking through glossy magazines she couldn’t afford.

  “Did somebody say something?” asked Merryn, swinging Fern around several times then winking at Lucy while his dizzy prisoner kicked him with her bare feet.

  “I’ll bake some more, Fern.” Lucy tied her apron and tried to avoid flailing limbs by ducking behind the counter. “It won’t take long and I promise we won’t run out.”

  “You’ve got enough on today with the will stuff and Nessa arriving, without doing extra baking,” Fern gasped out between shrieks of mirth.

  Instantly Merryn’s laughing face grew serious. Setting Fern down, he regarded his pilfered scone regretfully.

  “I totally forgot. I’m really sorry, Lucy. You’ve got a massive day today and the last thing you need is me dicking around. Is there anything I can do to help? Apart from not scoffing the cakes, obviously.”

  The truth was that nothing made Lucy happier than to feed Merryn and listen to his cheerful banter. In the dark days since Armand had died and her future had been left dependent on the whim of an unknown cousin, the time spent in the tea room with him and Fern and the small but devoted group of volunteers from the town had been all that had kept her from hiding in her tower bedroom with the duvet pulled over her head. She’d realised how bad things were when she’d even been thrilled to see Fred the gardener, an old man so grumpy he made bears with sore heads seem good-humoured.

  Oh dear. Maybe Dr Russex was right after all and she did need a little help?

  “Don’t you dare think about putting it back!” cried Fern as Merryn dithered, scone held aloft and rather gingerly.

  “Eat it for lunch,” Lucy said firmly. “It’s one scone; I think we’ll cope.”

  While Merryn wrapped his prize in a paper napkin and Fern took the chairs down from the tables, Lucy glanced around the tea room and felt the thrill of pride that came with knowing she’d created something special. It wasn’t the smartest venue but with its cobbled floors, ancient beams and scrubbed trestle tables and benches it was unique and true to the building’s original purpose. The walls were limewashed white, and at the far end the original stalls had been cleverly transformed into seating booths thanks to Merryn’s handiwork and some help from her friends in the town. Their love of history and the castle was in every joint and nail and brushstroke. Armand had given her free rein with the project and, although he’d never said much about it, Lucy knew he’d been impressed. The modest income stream it had produced had made her feel that in some small way she’d been repaying him. The roof was rotten and needed replacing before the winter but she was putting it off, partly because of the cost and partly because who knew what her mysterious cousin might choose to do with it?

  A lump rose in her throat. Would this Nessa Penwellyn allow the tea room to continue or would she want to shut it and turn the visitors away – or even sell the place to a vulture like Max Reynard? Suddenly the smell of scones made Lucy’s stomach churn. To distract herself she flicked on the coffee machine and retrieved the chocolate brownies from the fridge. Usually she’d have one with a cup of tea as a little treat to herself, but today Lucy felt so panicked she couldn’t face a thing. She’d be able to fit into that red spotty dress in no time if this went on for too long.

  Quite unbidden, at the thought of the spotty dress the associated image of twinkling brown eyes and a cheerful smile flickered through her memory – and Lucy found that she felt slightly better. If a total stranger could be kind then surely a relative, however distant, would be sympathetic?

  “Time for me to
go and catch some tourists before the tide turns,” Merryn declared once he’d finished setting up the tables outside. Already his nose was turning pink and freckles were peeping out from underneath.

  “The seals are basking on the rocks at Grace Note Bay this morning. I saw them earlier,” Fern told him, glancing up from the chalkboard where she was busily writing up the day’s menu in swirly pastel writing.

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” Merryn said. “Any specials I should tell the punters about?”

  “I’m making sweet potato and parsnip soup and there’s going to be a mackerel pâté made by Annie,” Fern replied, turning the board around.

  “I’ll make sure I mention it,” he promised. “I’ll do my very best to send as many this way as I can so you sell the lot.”

  “It shouldn’t be too hard. Annie’s mackerel pâté’s to die for,” Lucy said.

  Honestly, she didn’t know how she’d survive without her stalwart team of volunteers. Apart from making food for the tea room, they got involved with the fundraising and helped out with the twice-weekly guided tours of what bits of the castle were good enough to show off. All in all, they were an absolute godsend. And talking of godsends, here was Annie Luckett now, bowling into the tea room with a giant wicker basket over her arm and dressed for action in her stripy apron. As always her weathered face was beaming, and just the sight of her was enough to make Lucy feel better. From running the St Pirran Guide pack to beekeeping to retained firefighting, Annie Luckett was one of those people for whom organising and taking charge was in the DNA. Maybe it was something to do with all her years in the classroom, but when Annie Luckett told people to do things there was very little questioning. Even Jamie hadn’t the guts, or maybe more accurately the stupidity, to try that.