Red as a Rose

  Red as a rose - Hilary Wilde

  Elinor should have been enjoying every minute of her sea voyage and the prospect of her new life in Australia. All she could think of however, was how much she loved Kit Anderson, who, unfortunately, regarded her as a stupid little nuisance. Surely there must be something she could do to change his mind!

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  OTHER Harlequin romances by HILARY WILDE

  1011—THE TURQUOISE SEA 1044—PARADISE ISLAND 1077—THE GOLDEN VALLEY 1143—JOURNEY TO AN ISLAND 1173—RED AS A ROSE I243—THE ISLE OF SONG I282—THE SHINING STAR 1356—THE MAN AT MARRALOMEDA 1496—THE BLUE MOUNTAINS OF KABUTA 1546—THE MASTER OF BARRACUDA ISLE 1591—OPERATION — IN SEARCH OF LOVE 1624—THE GOLDEN MAZE 1642—THE FIRE OF LIFE 1685—THE IMPOSSIBLE DREAM 1735—TEMPTATIONS OF THE MOON 1768—THE PALACE OF GOLD 1786—SWEETER THAN HONEY 1824—A HANDFUL OF DREAMS

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  TORONTO · LONDON · NEW YORK · AMSTERDAM · SYDNEY · WINNIPEG

  Original hardcover edition published in 1963 by Mills & Boon Limited

  ISBN 0-373-01173-3

  Harlequin edition published Jcmuary 1968

  Reprinted 1971 1972 1975 1976

  Copyright © 1963 by Hilary Wilde.

  All rights reserved. Thccept for use in cmy review, the reproduction or utilizcrtion of this work in whole or in part in cmy form by any electronic, mechcmical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xero-graphy, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher. All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relcrtion whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even directly 'inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, for all the incidents are pure invention.

  The Harlequin trademark, consisting of the word HARLEQUIN and the portrayal of a Harlequin, is registered in the United Stcrtes Patent Office and in the Canada Trade Marks Office.

  CHAPTER ONE

  As SHE gazed up at the white liner towering above them, Elinor felt a strange new excitement. It was an adventure, after all. This thing she had dreaded and fought against—this upheaval to a new land. Everything would be all right, she was suddenly sure of it. This strange six-thousand-mile journey to Australia, to live with an aunt she had never seen—this leaving South Africa, the land of her birth, it was all for the best, she was convinced in that moment. It was almost too wonderful to be true—the sort of thing girls dreamed about, things that didn't happen to people like her sister and herself. Elinor turned to look at her sister and saw that Valerie's lovely face was radiant with happiness. From the beginning, this was what Valerie had wanted—and Elinor had fought it, convinced that Valerie was wrong—but now the two sisters, so totally different from one another, were agreeing, as Valerie turned to meet Elinor's gaze and then nodded wisely:

  "You're not sorry, Elinor? Tell me you're not sorry," Valerie said eagerly.

  Their hands clung for a moment. "No, Valerie," Elinor said, in her soft, hesitant voice. "I'm glad. Very, very glad."

  They were always being teased because they were so utterly different, and yet they loved one another dearly. Valerie, who was seventeen but looked far more sophisticated than her elder sister, had always

  found Elinor a tower of strength in times of trouble. Elinor, just twenty, always felt a sense of responsibility for Valerie. Their mother, who had died just two months before, had always said: "Elinor, you're the quiet reliable type—Valerie is so flighty that she needs you. You'll always look after her, won't you?" Elinor had promised gladly but the responsibility she consequently felt was often a burden. Valerie was indeed 'flighty'. She did the craziest things; made friends with most weird types of people, was completely unafraid, and was apt to think that at times Elinor was being 'stuffy'.

  They also looked so different that few people took them to be sisters. Elinor had an ethereal look. Not beautiful, not even pretty, but she had a gentleness about her mouth that was always conflicting with the firmness of her small chin. Her eyes held a look of compassion; she had dark eyes that seemed to fill her small face. Her dark hair was softly brushed and curled naturally round her head. A gentle person, you might think, but you could be wrong. Elinor had a strong character. She firmly believed in right and wrong, and was not afraid of expressing her displeasure if she thought it necessary.

  Now, as she smiled at her sister, she was thinking affectionately how very lovely Valerie was, standing there, her slanting green eyes dancing with excitement, her red-gold hair worn like a challenging banner, brushed up into designed untidiness. For once she was wearing simple clothes and her white blouse and green pleated skirt made her look quite

  young as also did the tremulous, vulnerable look she gave as she said breathlessly:

  "Is this really true, Elinor? Can this really be happening to us?"

  Even as Elinor laughed, she knew what Valerie meant. Their life for the last ten years since their father died had been so drab. They had been so short of money, so sad, for their mother was delicate and she never ceased to mourn her husband who had died on a fishing weekend. Their whole life had been revolving round the motif of sad memory; their mother had never let them forget the horror of that day when they first heard the news that he had been drowned.

  "Elinor—look . . ." Valerie said breathlessly, her hand closing like a vice round her sister's wrist.

  Obediently Elinor looked and it was as if her heart skipped a beat as she saw the man again. It was almost as if he was haunting her—only of course, he wasn't. Now he was striding through the crowd, head and shoulders above everyone else. He was extremely handsome . . . no wonder all the women turned to look at him.

  "He's gorgeous, isn't he . . . ?" Valerie whispered excitedly, and as Elinor turned to look at her, the older girl forgot her own interest in the man as she began to worry about her sister. Valerie's eyes were always roving, her warm smile embraced everyone within sight. Valerie was both a joy and an anxiety. She was not an easy girl to advise or guide for she resented every comment or suggestion. She was convinced she was old enough to look after herself.

  Indeed, she had even suggested that she far better qualified to do so than Elinor !

  Valerie had forgotten the handsome man already as she stared up at the ship. "Do hurry, Elinor—I just can't wait to get on board . . ."

  "We've got to see about our luggage and . . ." Elinor began, clutching the big white handbag tightly, for it contained everything they had of value—their passports, tickets, travellers' cheques. Now she looked at the crowds of people milling about in the big Customs shed.

  "You cope with that—" Valerie said excitedly. "I'm going on board—I want to find out where our cabin is . ."

  "Val—wait for me . . ." Elinor said quickly. The crowds were gathering round the gangway—the sun blazed down on a scene of noisy confusion. "You'll get lost . ." Elinor cried distractedly as she saw that Valerie was on her way.

  Through the crowd she caught a glimpse of Valerie's flushed angry face. "Oh, for Pete's sake, Elinor, stop fussing. I'm not a child. How can I get lost when I have our cabin number? See you later ... " With a last toss of her red head, she was off, weaving in and out of the people hurrying, obviously impatient to see the joys that lay ahead of them.

  Elinor watched the red head as long as she could see
it, as Valerie sped up the gangway, and then it vanished from view.

  Turning with a small sigh, for she wished she could do as Valerie did, Elinor turned towards the crowded shed and again she saw the man. He was

  talking to another man whose back was turned so that Elinor could not see his face. Not that she was interested in him—she had eyes only for the tall, broad-shouldered man in the tropical pale-grey suit as she stared at his face that was a deep sun-tanned brown. How very fair his hair was—as if it had been bleached by the sun, and yet his eyes were dark. What a stubborn sort of chin he had and an arrogant way of holding his head. He had a mouth that could show disapproval very strongly as she well knew. Several times she had annoyed him and yet she still could not see what she could have done to offend him.

  Elinor took her place in the queue and waited her turn to be seen by the men in white uniform who were asking questions and examining papers. Finally it was her turn, she had to show travellers' cheques, pay dock charges and watch their luggage seized.

  "It will be taken to your cabin," a harassed official told her, and turned away immediately, leaving Elinor to watch rather worriedly as the suitcases were carted off. After all, everything they possessed in the world was in those cases. It made her realise how very little they possessed.

  She still had not recovered from the shock of knowing that they had all been living on such a small income. After the funeral, she had learned that, although they owed nothing, they possessed no money at all. Just her salary as typist in a solicitor's office and Valerie's even smaller salary as a clerk in a bank. The little money her mother had had vanished with her death. Elinor shivered despite the heat,

  remembering the cold desolate panic that had filled her. How could she earn enough for them to live on? How she would feed Valerie, who was slim as a wand but ate as much as any man, she did not know—nor how she could ever curb Valerie's wild ideas and her reckless friendships. In that moment, Elinor had been really afraid—afraid of the future and of how she could face it.

  Slowly now, she climbed the gangway to the ship, trying to forget those frightening days when she had faced the fact that they were alone in the world and practically penniless. It had been Valerie who had reminded them that they were not quite alone. That their father's family in England would help them.

  Again Elinor shivered. She had been torn in two—although she had been desperate, yet she had felt it was disloyal to her mother when she wrote that letter to England.

  Valerie had said she was mad—that it was disloyal to their father not to write. Elinor had been forced to admit that he would have wanted them to keep in touch with the family, for he had written regularly, sending them photos of the children, telling the girls about his family and his old home, promising to take them 'home' one day. But after his death, their mother, who had always disliked the English relations, had ceased to answer their letters, even returning them, marked 'Gone away, address unknown'. She had seemed to delight in doing it, making no attempt to hide her hatred of them. It had often puzzled Elinor—but Valerie had called it plain stupid and had said their father would have

  been furious about it. So, in the end, not knowing what else to do, Elinor had written to England and had an immediate reply, saying that her grandmother was dead but that her father's sister would write to her from Australia. Aunt Aggie's letter had soon followed, a warm loving letter saying how thrilled she was to hear from them, but she was longing to see them, and that they simply must go out to live with her. She had included two first class passages for them, and even sent them money for extra expenses and clothes.

  "It's like having a fairy godmother," Valerie had said excitedly.

  It was. Elinor could relax, could know their troubles were over. Best of all, that someone wanted them. And yet she still had the chill feeling of disloyalty to her mother. Yet what else could she have done? Maybe it was this mixture of feelings that had made her so fear the journey that lay ahead, so dread the last severance of the ties that bound her to the mother she had loved so deeply.

  At last she was on the ship and the mournful thoughts vanished as she hurried out on deck, gazing round her with wide eyes of delight. Somehow, it was all so clean and exciting. She looked up quickly at Table Mountain as the clouds rolled over the top of it and streamed down the sides. The city nestled at the foot of the mountain with the wide coast line stretching away on either side. The blue sea sparkled and danced in the sunshine as everyone leaned over the railing and waved down to the crowds gathering on the quay. Soon the ship would be sailing and they

  would be starting out on their great adventure . . .

  Again her heart seemed to skip a beat. There was that man! Now he was there, not far away, leaning on the rail and talking to a tall lovely girl. He was grave, his face concerned. She was nearly as tall as he, but slender, and elegantly dressed in a blue silk suit with a tall white hat and long kid gloves. It made Elinor feel her simple yellow frock was cheap and shoddy, her little white hat and carefully darned white gloves made her feel self-conscious. The lovely girl seemed to be annoyed for she was tapping her foot on the deck. The hat hid most of the girl's face, but Elinor caught a glimpse of golden hair . . . Was she his wife? Elinor wondered.

  Leaning against the rail, gazing blindly at the crowds below, Elinor wished that she need never have seen him . . . It had been queer—almost un-canny. Almost as if he knew she was near, he turned and she saw, in a hasty glance, that he was very angry indeed. He seemed to make a habit of it, she thought miserably, still writhing from the memory of his displeasure. There was a white line round his mouth and although she could not hear what he was saying, he gave an impression of controlled anger.

  Elinor moved away swiftly, afraid he might turn and find her staring at him. She did not want to have to meet those strange eyes again, to see that look of distaste, so she went to stand on the other side of the ship, gazing out at the dancing Indian ocean under the pale blue sky while a small white boat bobbed about on the waves like a small cork.

  It was strange the way that man seemed to appear in her life like a thread in a pattern. All in the last few days, too. The first time had been at the East African Pavilion in Johannesburg where their friends had given them a farewell party and everyone except Elinor was laughing and talking loudly. She had felt very blue for the next day they were leaving the Johannesburg. that had always been her home, and going to a strange land to live with strange people. She had been upset, too, about Max, a very young journalist, head over heels in love with Valerie and quite unable to accept the fact that Valerie did not want to settle down yet and get married. So that was why when Max, his dark handsome face alight with laughter but his eyes heavy with misery, had asked Elinor why she was so quiet, she had made an effort to become very gay, lifting her glass and calling a toast loudly: "Here's to our unknown future . . ."

  It had been a strange thing for her to do, for she was normally quiet and diffident, leaving it to Valerie to be the gay one, but that night she had wanted to cheer poor Max up and, in the very moment she spoke, she had looked across the room and had seen a man staring at her. A tall, impressive-looking man, immaculately dressed in a dark suit, with very fair hair and dark eyes and a strange look in them as he stared at her. And then—his mouth a thin line of distaste, he had turned away and she had felt absurdly hurt and dismayed. Had he thought she was making herself conspicuous?

  She had forgotten all about him afterwards. No, that was not quite the truth. That handsome sun-

  tanned face had stayed provocatively in her memory . She had wondered who he was, where he came from. He had looked so very different from the other men. But she had never expected to see him again.

  And then, they had met again on the train—if you could call it a meeting. She and Valerie had been walking down the dining-car as it rocked and jolted and she had been flung against a table and had found herself staring down into his dark eyes. He had lifted his thick fair brows and had not even smiled
as she mumbled a hasty apology and almost fled down the dining-car to the safety of their compartment. Had he thought she had fallen against him deliberately? Her cheeks had flamed at the terrible thought. Could he imagine that she had tried to . . .

  Even the memory of it was disturbing enough so she began to walk along the deck. Maybe he would have gone by now. In any case, she simply had to make sure that their luggage was safely on board.

  Everyone round her was laughing and chatting, standing in little groups, waiting for the last minute call to leave the ship. As she hurried a little, seized by the fearful thought that she did not know what to do if the luggage was not there, she found herself remembering the third time she had met that man. It had been the worst time of all. It had been on the Blue Train, the fabulously luxurious train that ran between Johannesburg and Cape Town, and she and Valerie had loved it all, especially as the countryside got wilder and more beautiful. She had left Valerie painting her nails in their compartment and had gone to stand in the corridor, to gaze at the vast ranges of

  grey mountains, to look at the twisting curving railway line, seeing the notice that said Fifteen miles per hour and realising how very dangerous it must be for the train to crawl like this down the mountain side. Far, far below lay a deep green oasis of trees and green grass on which stood a group of white houses.

  For a moment her love for her country filled her and the thought of leaving it, perhaps forever, dismayed her and when she heard a footstep she said impulsively: "Oh, Val—isn't it lovely? How can we bear to leave it—the most beautiful country in all the world."

  "What absolute nonsense . . ." the deep drawling voice had said, and gave her the fright of her life. "Australia is every bit as beautiful."

  She could remember now how chilled she had felt as she swung round, startled, embarrassed to find herself staring at the handsome, arrogant man who was surveying her with amused, cold eyes.