The Savage Tide
(First published in 1991 as Tempestuous Shore)
by
Benita Brown writing as Clare Benedict
Copyright © 2012 by Benita Brown
All rights reserved
All moral rights of the author have been asserted
www.benitabrown.com
Published by Benita Brown at Smashwords 2012
Table of contents
Chapter one
Books by Benita Brown published by Headline
A Dream of Her Own
All Our Tomorrows
Her Rightful Inheritance
In Love and Friendship
The Captains Daughters
A Safe Harbour
Fortune’s Daughter
The Dressmaker
The Promise
Starlight and Dreams
Memories of You
I’ll Be Seeing You
Writing as Clare Benedict. Published by Scarlet
A Bitter Inheritance
A Dark Legacy
Sophie’s Wedding
Writing as Clare Benedict. Published by Robert Hale
Tempestuous Shore
Desire Unbidden
Dark Fugitive
The Brides of Eden
Acclaim for Benita Brown’s novels
‘A wonderfully evocative tale’ Lancashire Evening Post.
‘A story of hope and determination…a really good read’ Historical Novels Review.
‘A romantic tale of rivalry and deceit’ Newcastle Journal.
‘Real heroines, genuine heartache…what more could you want?’ Northern Echo.
‘You won’t be able to put it down’ Yours Magazine.
‘A delightfully interwoven story of passion, love and loss’ Sunderland Echo.
Chapter one
‘You’ll love it there,’ Alec had told her. ‘The place has a certain old world charm.’
Miranda smiled wistfully as she gazed back along the promenade. It must have been years since family solicitor and old friend, Alec Armstrong, had been to Whitecliffe Bay or he could never have said that.
Behind her the amusement arcades and snack bars spilled noise and light out onto the pavements and the smell of cheap food hung on the early evening air.
Miranda put down her heavy case and travelling bag and, resting her arms on the stone balustrade of the promenade, she gazed out to sea.
She sighed; the double tragedy of the last few months had taken its toll. What she needed was the peace of the familiar countryside and the security of home. But she was soon to lose the house which had been in the family for generations and her family’s love had been snatched away from her. She had never felt so alone.
Summer was nearly over. The beach was deserted except for a solitary golden-haired youth who was stacking the deck chairs and some seagulls squabbling raucously over abandoned sandwich crusts.
Miranda shivered as a sudden breeze blew in from the North Sea. It lifted her long, silvery blonde hair and blew a few soft wisps across her small, heart shaped lace. With an unconsciously graceful movement she caught at the wayward strands and pushed them hack before turning to look northwards.
The promenade curved along a spur of land that jutted out into the sea towards the lighthouse. On the cliff top, beyond a sprawl of substantial villas stood a mansion more imposing than the rest. Tall towers and gloomy, gothic decoration loomed above the overgrown shrubs which gave the house its name, ‘The Laurels’; Miranda’s destination.
She had rested long enough. She looked down at her case and travelling bag. She had brought with her only what she would need at first and packed the rest of her clothes in an old trunk that her father had used in his days as a young actor.
Alec Armstrong’s wife, Grace, had said, ‘Philip will be coming home to see us in a day or two and I’ll get him to bring your trunk to The Laurels for you, dear.’
Miranda set off again, wearily. She had asked the way at the station and, ignoring the taxi rank, she had decided to conserve her dwindling funds and walk, taking the scenic route along the cliff path. Now, as she struggled against the strengthening wind, she wondered if that had been a good idea.
She felt spots of moisture on her face. Was it rain or simply sea spray brought in by the wind? Suddenly, a fierce gust whipped her hair around in front of her eyes and temporarily blinded her. Startled, she stumbled and fell at the very edge of the cliff.
Her travelling bag fell safely behind her but her case was wrenched out of her hand and she watched in dismay as it toppled over the edge and fell onto the beach. To her horror she saw that the catch had come open and her clothes were scattered about on the rocks at the foot of the cliffs.
A figure was running across the beach. In the dying light she made out a thatch of bright, blond hair. It was the youth who had been collecting the deck chairs. She watched him gather up her personal possessions and stuff them back into the case.
When he had finished he looked up and cheerily made a ‘thumbs up’ sign. Then he pointed northwards in the direction of the lighthouse, cupping his mouth with the other hand. `See you at the steps!’ he shouted.
The wind was fiercer, now, and it was definitely rain she could feel on her face as she hurried along the stony path. Miranda wished she had not packed her raincoat in the trunk with her heavier clothes. Her cotton skirt and jacket were going to get soaked.
When she reached the top of the steps cut into the cliff face the youth was already bounding up towards her. Miranda had a brief vision of her delicate underwear being scooped up in his large, bronzed hands.
If he says anything I’ll die of embarrassment, she thought, but she need not have worried.
His smile was merely friendly as he put the case down next to her travelling bag and, although he gazed at her with undisguised appreciation, his voice was full of genuine concern.
‘Are you all right?’
Miranda looked up into a pair of startlingly blue eyes. He was tall and muscular and tanned a golden bronze, probably from working long hours on the beach. All he wore was a pair of faded, cut off denims and canvas deck shoes. ‘The raindrops, falling faster now, sparkled for a moment in the line curl of golden hairs on his chest before they melted away. Miranda guessed he was about nineteen or twenty a year or two younger than herself.
‘Look,’ he was staring downwards. ‘You’ve grazed your leg – and your skirt is torn.’
‘Oh, no!’ Miranda stared at her pale, green skirt in dismay. The rip was long and jagged and there was no hope of making an even mend.
The youth knelt down and examined her bare leg. His large hands were surprisingly gentle. ‘You should get that cut washed as soon as possible, Miranda. Do you have far to go?’
Miranda gasped, ‘How do you know my name?’
He grinned up at her, ‘It’s written on the label of your case, "Miranda Foster", but there’s nothing there to say where you’re going!’
Miranda relaxed, it seemed as if he only meant to be helpful. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘That’s where I’m going, just over there – the house called, The Laurels.’
‘Really?’ She saw the immediate interest in his eyes. ‘That’s the old film star’s place – Nita Montez. Are you a friend of hers?’
I’m going to work for her. It was all arranged by her solicitor and mine so she’s never actually seen me before and look at me – ‘ Miranda couldn’t help laughing, ‘I’m on my way to meet someone whose glamour is legendary and I look like a tramp!’
He grinned, ‘Hardly a tramp but you do look a bit bedraggled. Here, let me clean your leg a bit.’
He pushed her skirt up and out of the way then he took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the wound. Miranda felt both foolish and embarrassed standing on the cliff top in the rain with this good looking youth kneeling at her feet. She hoped no one could see them, but she hoped in vain.
‘Johnny Johnson, what on earth are you doing!’
Miranda spun round towards the cry of outrage and nearly overbalanced but Johnny, as she now knew him to be called, caught her and held her steady as he rose to his feet in one lithe movement. He still had his arm around her as the girl reached the top of the steps and stopped in front of them, eyes blazing.
She was small, no taller than Miranda herself, and her face was topped by short, dark curls. Her bold, brown eyes were outlined with a broad band of eyeliner. A low cut, red cotton vest top and a pair of tight jeans revealed her young but generous figure. She stood with her hands on her hips and glared at Miranda angrily.
‘Who’s this, then?’
Johnny let go of Miranda and smiled, ‘No need to get upset, Linda.’
‘Oh yeah? I came to meet you on the beach, like you said, and I was just in time to see you running up the steps to meet this girl. I want to know who she is and what’s going on!’
`Don’t be stupid, Linda, listen...’
Miranda watched uneasily as Johnny took the girl aside. As he talked to her Linda kept turning to glare over her shoulder with undisguised hostility but, gradually, she must have become convinced of the truth of his story.
She looked Miranda up and down taking, in the torn skirt and her grazed leg then she said, grudgingly, ‘Look, I’m sorry you had an accident hut you’re okay now and Johnny and I have got to get back. We’re going out tonight.’
She took hold of Johnny’s arm and tried to pull him away but he was reluctant to leave.
‘We could walk you to the gates of the house, if you like.’
‘There’s no need, but thank you for helping me.’
Linda was scowling so Miranda hastily picked up her bag and her case and began to walk away.
‘There, you see, Johnny, she wants to go alone.’
‘Wait,’ Johnny called, ‘I could carry your case — ‘Johnny!’
Miranda thought the girl was going to explode. She watched as Linda pulled Johnny after her along the path and back towards the town. It was raining more heavily than ever and they began to run. Soon, he overtook her with his long easy strides and she skittered along after him on her ridiculous high heels. She heard them laugh out loud. No matter how angry Linda had been when she found her boyfriend paying attention to another girl she had obviously forgiven him.
Miranda guessed the girl could only have been sixteen or seventeen and yet you could see that she was completely uninhibited in her way of dealing with the opposite sex.
At that age Miranda had been an unawakened child. She had started going out on dates when she went to college but there had never been anyone special.
The path ahead of Miranda curved away from the cliff top towards the house. It wasn’t far but the summer shower had turned into a downpour before she reached the gateway. The gates were of wrought iron, at least eight foot high and they were closed and locked.
Miranda stared in dismay. She put down her bag and her case and examined the lock closely but she could see no way of opening it. She tried pushing each side of the gate in turn but nothing happened.
By now her hair and clothes were wet through and she realised, to her horror that her grazed leg had been bleeding. There was a runnel of blood down her leg and a nasty stain on her shoe.
She gripped the bars of the gate in frustration. Should she walk back into town and phone Miss Montez and tell her of her predicament? Perhaps she ought to have contacted the house when she first arrived at the station but no one had told her to do so.
She leant forward and rested her head on one of the iron bars. The rain was driving into her back, moulding her clothes onto her body like papier mache. Suddenly, she couldn’t help laughing. She realised that she was exactly like a heroine in one of the old black and white movies that had made Nita Montez so famous.
An orphaned girl, a gloomy, old house and a summer storm — all she needed to complete the scene was a dastardly villain to threaten her virtue. She doubted if a handsome hero was going to turn up!
She peered through the bars at the drive. Tall laurel bushes flanked each side and the path curved round so that the house was partially obscured. No one would be able to see her standing there.
Then the bars she was holding seemed to vibrate under her hands and, with a soft click, the gates began to open. Miranda gasped and let go then stepped hack as they swung away from her.
Obviously the gate was worked electronically. Somehow, someone must have seen her. With a sigh of relief she picked up her belongings and set off up the curved path.
She had not gone far when she realised the gates had remained open behind her. She paused, wondering if she was supposed to close them, but decided not to. Whoever had opened them must know that she was safely inside the grounds and would close them when they were ready.
Miranda began to worry in earnest about the picture she would present to her new employer. Her first employer for, unlike most of the other students, she had never had to support herself with holiday jobs.
Her parents had given her a generous allowance and, at the end of each term, Great Aunt Margaret, who had never married, had been waiting to look after her and make a fuss of her if her parents were away working.
Long before the final exams her friends had been busy with job applications, dashing all over the country for interviews. But her family had encouraged her to have some time at home first and think seriously about the future. How could they have foreseen that, in the event, she would have to take the first job that Alec Armstrong could find for her?
Now, here she was, her hair plastered around her face in rat’s tails and her cotton two piece clinging limply to her body revealing every curve. Furthermore, her torn skirt hung in uneven tatters and her leg was bleeding. She guessed she must look like a victim in a disaster movie!
She didn’t hear the car. The swish of the tyres on the wet gravel was disguised by the rising wind shaking the branches of the trees. It wasn’t until the headlights came sweeping round the curve of the drive that she realised her danger.
For a moment she was frozen in the glare of the lights and then she flung herself sideways. She crashed into the hedge and the wet leaves gave way. She slithered down to land in an unglamorous heap with her bag and her case in a gravelly puddle.
The car stopped and the door opened. Footsteps came crunching towards her. Two long legs crossed the beam of the headlights and then they were standing over her. She squinted up through strands of hair but all she could see was a powerful silhouette and the impression of a man’s face staring down. She could hardly see his features let alone read his expression.
But there was no mistaking the tone of his voice. `You little fool, you could have been killed!’
Miranda blinked away sudden tears of rage.
‘It’s no thanks to you that I wasn’t!’
‘Why were you walking up the path like that?’
‘Why were you driving so fast?’
‘I was not driving fast and you haven’t answered my question. Why were you walking up the path without announcing yourself?’
‘Announcing myself’?’ Miranda had no idea what he was talking about.
She stared up uncertainly and she heard him sigh in exasperation. The next moment he was bending over and her arms were gripped by two powerful hands.
‘Here, you can’t go on sitting in that puddle. You look absolutely ridiculous.’
He was laughing at her – Miranda almost choked with anger.
‘Let go of me – I can manage thank you!’
She pulled away from him and he let go so abruptly that she crashed back into the hedge. Frantically, she caught at the dripping leaves and she just managed to stop herself from falling.
She glared up at her tormentor. Even now that she was standing he still towered above her. Her moment of rebellion had left him unperturbed.
‘Right, now that you’ve proved you point, tell me who you are and why you didn’t announce yourself. This is private property, as I’m sure you know.’
Miranda mustered as much dignity as she could. ‘My name is Miranda Foster and Miss Montez is expecting me but when I arrived, I found the gates locked – then they opened so I came in – I – I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean by announcing myself...’ she tailed off miserably. She was aware how muddled and confused she sounded and she was mortified when she heard the barely concealed impatience of his reply.
‘Of course the gates were locked. They’re always kept locked for reasons of security. All you have to do is push the button on the box at the side and speak into the grid.’
‘The grid? I d-didn’t see a grid – ‘
She realised what a fool he must think her and it was so unjust. She was a complete stranger– how was she supposed to know the procedure for getting into the house? No one had bothered to tell her!
‘I see,’ he sounded terse. ‘We’ve wasted enough time; you can explain it all to Miss Montez later.’
Without another word he picked up her bag and her case and he stowed them in the boot of his car. Then he opened the door and bundled her into the back.
He probably doesn’t think I’m good enough to sit next to him, Miranda thought, savagely. She noticed, with satisfaction, that she was dripping rainwater all over the plush upholstery.
He settled himself behind the wheel. Miranda glanced in the driver’s mirror and, in the brief moment before he shut the door and the interior light went out, she glimpsed a strong face with slanting, dark eyes and a shock of black hair.
Here was the villain to complete her film scenario – he had her captive in his expensive car and he was going to drive off with her into the stormy night!
In spite of the state she was in she began to smile but a moment later she sat bolt upright and stared out with widening eyes. The car had sped forwards through the gates and out into the road without making any attempt to turn and take her back into the house.
The rain was driving across the windows and the only sound inside the car was the rhythmic swish of the windscreen wipers. Miranda leaned forward and gripped the back of his seat.
`Stop!’ she managed, breathlessly, but he only picked up speed. ‘Where – where are you taking me?’
‘Sit back and behave yourself, we’re not going far.’
‘But I thought you were taking me to the house – Miss Montez is expecting me!’
‘If that’s true, Miss Montez will just have to wait a little while longer. I was on the way out when you stepped in front of my car and, as I could hardly leave you wandering about in your present state, I decided to take you with me.’
‘Thank you very much, you’re so kind!’
Miranda’s sarcasm was wasted on him. Her captor simply ignored her.
They were driving past solid, respectable houses. Miranda wondered what the sober citizens of this part of town would do if she were to open the window and scream that she was being kidnapped. But, even if she could summon up the nerve that course of action would be impossible – the car windows were electrically operated and there was no way a passenger could open them.
Soon she glimpsed the garishly lit arcades on the promenade and then they turned to drive up into the town centre. She saw the rain-diffused lights of an approaching taxi. It sped by going the way they had come, sending up spumes of dirty spray as it passed.
A crowd of noisy youngsters emerged from a beat up, old estate car and dashed towards the brightly lit foyer of a wine bar. The driver was left to lock the doors and from his height and his thatch of blond hair Miranda thought that she recognised Johnny.
In her present situation Johnny seemed like an old friend. Some instinct made her press her face against the window and will him to turn and see her but Johnny was intent on getting out of the rain and he hurried after his friends.
Miranda was still looking back down the street when the car pulled up at some traffic lights. She turned round and was disconcerted to find herself staring straight into her captor’s speculative gaze.