He gave a humourless laugh.
'You mean, add to that lot?' He gestured towards the waste-bin, over flowing with fiercely crumpled sheets of paper.
'It's still not going well, then?'
'You could say that,' he grunted, then, 'Anyway, in half an hour's time I've got an—er—
assignation w i t h Amanda. A gorgeous redhead, lovely legs—and much more amenable to my persuasive powers than some females I could mention.'
He put a firm hand under her elbow and steered her to the door. 'Come and meet her.'
* * *
J a r e d was laughing with exhilaration, she heard him above the drumming hoofs of his chestnut mare and the waves breaking on the beach beside them. Touching her heels to the flanks of her jet-black horse, Petra urged him forward, the hair beneath her riding hat strearning behind her in the wind and the spray.
At the far end of the huge curve of pale creamy sand, Jared slowed and she caught up with him.
'Enjoy it?' He grinned down at her.
'Marvellous.' She could hardly speak, the breath torn out of her body by that wild gallop.
'You still ride well.' His gaze was on her face, and she wiped back some pale auburn strands of damp hair.
'Thanks. I haven't ridden for years, but Mr Golding was a good teacher.'
'Well, you earned every lesson—all those Saturdays, mucking out the stables.'
His horse whinnied suddenly, tossing her head. 'Whoa, Amanda.' He ran a soothing hand down her arched neck and the mare quietened instantly, Catching Petra's eye, he gave her a sidelong smile. 'Told you she was easy to handle. Race you back to those rock'.—I'll give you a start.'
As he cau
ght her up and passed her she glanced across at him. How superbly he rode, sitting the horse effortlessly. He was leaning forward, low over the flying mane, his hard-planed profile visible beneath the jutting peak of his riding hat.
He reined up by the line of jagged rocks and sat, watching her canter up to him.
'Two to me.' His face was still flushed with the sheer exuberance of the ride 'Fancy another race?'
'No, thanks,' she gasped. 'I've never won a race against you yet.'
She laughed up at him, her cheeks; glowing wild-rose-pink, her eyes brilliant emerald, but at the sudden expression in his own eyes she glanced quickly away.
All he said, though, was, 'You know, I'd forgotten, all the years I've been away . . . ' he spoke softly, as if to h i m s e l f ' ... just how beautiful Cornwall is. It's magic.'
'Yes, it is, isn't it?' she murmured, with a sharp tug of her heart-strings.
'I love it all year round, but there's something special about winter, isn't there?'
'Mmm. Yes, there is—it's my favourite time, as well. The colours are not much clearer—I mean, just look at that sea.'
She pointed to the water's edge, where the waves were surging in, a strange, silvery grey that reflected the winter's sky. Then, further out, they shaded subtly to a pale ice-green, and finally, at the horizon, they deepened to the intense blue-black of ocean.
'Did you ever see anything so wonderful?'
She swung round on him, her face alight, and saw that his eyes were not on the sea, but still on her, a strange unreadable expression in them which sent every pulse in her body into a wi ld cacophony.
'No, I haven't.' After a fractional pause he went on, 'I suppose you know it's only a few miles down the coast to where Tristan is supposed to have landed when he brought Iseult back to marry King Mark.'
'I didn't know that.' Her voice was still not quite steady. 'But what about the updated version of the story—the one you're working on? Mark isn't King of Cornwall in that, surely?'