Sarah continued to stare at Hugh St. Owen.  The restaurant table now seemed like a vast expanse between them.  The handsome young man looked the image of guilt, head hung down, face impassioned and anxious. He resembled a complete stranger to her.
“None of this makes any sense to me,” she said.  Sarah shook her head. Her thick, red curls danced around her face.  Her beautiful green eyes flashed with disappointment and irritation.
Hugh St. Owen looked up at her.
“I can understand why you’re upset,” he said.  Those brown, liquid eyes implored the girl to forgive him. “But none of this is my fault. Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe I just thought I heard my father say he is one of the Knights of Chivalry, or something…”
Sarah looked out of the picture window. The cormorant was still hurling itself from the rocks above deep into the blue water hunting for fish.
Suddenly, Hugh St. Owen reached across the table and grabbed Sarah’s hand. The familiar tingle of electricity raced up and down the young woman’s spine. Her heart began to beat again wildly.  Sarah looked at him and attempted to pull away.
“Sarah,” Hugh St. Owen looked at her with deep concern. His handsome face was the very picture of solicitation. The warmth of his flesh was becoming unbearable to her.  She wanted so much for him to press his mouth against her eager red lips. To grind his hard, young body into hers…
“Sarah.” The young man repeated her name. Sarah felt as if it had never sounded quite so sweet.  “Sarah, I don’t know much more about this than you do. But this I promise you.  I will do my utmost to get to the bottom of this, with or without your help.
The woman gasped with pleasure and surprise. She mustn’t give away too many of her feelings.
“Why?” she asked, “Why would you do that, Hugh?”
The young man looked at her.
“That’s only the second time you have called me ‘Hugh’ without my prompting you,” he said.  “Maybe we can salvage this relationship after all.”
Relationship?  Sarah had never dared to hope that things could get that far this quickly.  Was he presuming too much?  What were his intentions?  Were they the same as the man at the Abbey? The one who had lifted her up and kissed her full on the lips?
Sarah stood up. She felt overheated and suddenly claustrophobic.
“I must go,” she said, “I must get out of here. I need some air.”
Hugh St. Owen threw some money on the table and followed Sarah out of the restaurant and into the bracing late March sunshine. The young couple both squinted in the unaccustomed bright light after the relative shade inside.
“I must get back to the Abbey and get my car,” said Sarah. She brushed her hair out of her eyes.  It was a warm spring day, but now there was quite a breeze.
“Yes, yes of course,” said Hugh St. Owen.  He raced to his automobile and helped Sarah inside.  The ride to the Abbey along the whitewashed cliffs of Perris-on-Sea proceeded in silence.  Sarah looked out of the window at the passing scenery.  Houses with brilliant white walls, trees and fields flush with fresh, spring greenery all seemed far too cheerful for Sarah’s confused emotions just now.
Soon the car slowed down and halted right by the Abbey cliffs.  Before her companion could run around to the passenger side, Sarah jumped out without assistance and hurried to her Little Austin.  Hugh St. Owen trailed the young woman, his big, masculine frame oozing concern and exasperation.
“Sarah!” he called, “Sarah!  Please wait a moment.”
Sarah paused just as she reached her car.  Should she give him another chance?  She knew she wanted to, but there were so many unanswered questions.  How could she trust him?  She turned and faced the Abbey cliffs.  The blue sea was calmer today. The slow, rolling motion of the momentarily tamed waves dulled her senses.  She turned around and faced Hugh St. Owen.  He stood there framed with the light grey features of the Abbey behind him. He looked so imposing. So handsome. So beddable…
“Look, Sarah.” Hugh St. Owen broke the long silence. “My father is in Scotland right now, but he returns next week. I could arrange for us to meet with him. Maybe he can help us solve this mystery.”
Sarah looked at him. If his father wouldn’t talk to his own son about it, why would he talk to her, a complete stranger? Still, there was a small chance…
“I can’t do it during the week, Hugh,” she said, “I start work in my father’s office on Monday.”  Hugh St. Owen gave her a crestfallen look.  Sarah felt like an executioner.  “Have a little pity on the young man,” she thought.
“Maybe at the weekend,” she said aloud.
The young man’s splendid features broke into a smile of relief.
“But it’s not certain,” Sarah continued, “I will have to square it with my duties. Where can I get hold of you?”
“St. Owen Real Estate,” Hugh replied. “My father is the largest real estate agent in Perris.  I’m training under him at the moment, so you can usually find me at the office.”
Sarah nodded and the young man turned to go.  She watched him as he walked slowly back to the Morris Minor.  She realized that she had not yet thanked him for driving her to the Abbey and her car.  She felt so torn. Torn between him holding her close in his arms  and torn between just turning her back on him and severing their peculiar relationship.  Sarah felt flushed with want and blame and longing. This was preposterous. She would not give in to such a display of emotions.
She gazed numbly at the ancient Abbey walls. She daydreamed of Hugh St. Owen’s touch.  All at once she felt a hand on her shoulder.
Sarah wheeled around.  There was Hugh St. Owen staring down at her, desire and earnestness in his gaze.
“Sarah,” he whispered.  The young woman could not figure out how he had got from his car to her side so quickly  and so silently.
The young man cleared his throat.
“Sarah, I will help you,” he said. “I promise.”
Before Sarah could stop him, he had planted a quick kiss on her lips and marched quickly to his car.
Sarah felt hot and breathless.  The Morris Minor started up and soon disappeared into the distance.  The young woman just stood there, staring at the horizon.  She touched her cheek. She felt all burning and flushed again. Feverish.  Almost pulsating with sexual excitement.  She felt dizzy. She had to sit down.  She had to collect her thoughts.  Sarah walked in her high heels up to the old ruins and sat down on an ancient stone slab. It had probably been part of one of the rampart Abbey walls at one time, she thought absently.  The sea breeze was still lashing at her hair. Despite the brilliant midday sunlight, Sarah shivered in the chilly March wind.  The little blue suit she was wearing wasn’t built for this kind of weather.  She felt so alone.  So very alone.  Almost like a Cinderella with no place to go.  In Vivien she had the wicked stepmother. In Hugh St. Owen maybe even a Prince Charming. But where oh where was her fairy godmother? The girl felt so confused.  So exhausted.  If only she could get some answers to the puzzle. Even just a piece of it at this point. Anything would be welcome just now. Sarah let out a great sigh.  It just wasn’t going to happen, was it, she thought? She was never going to find out the answers to the story.  Sarah stood up and felt a little rush of anger and impatience.  Enough already.  It was time to go.
Just at that moment Sarah heard the sound of a footfall above the lackadaisical boom of the waves. It felt so near that she could hear it above the urgent cries of the ever-present seagulls. Sarah turned towards the sound.  There, right in front of her was a tall, kindly looking old man, dressed in a rather dated tweed suit from the twenties, and with a mane of brilliant white hair tossed around his head in the strong wind.
“He’s quite a good-looking young man, isn’t he, my dear?” The old man spoke with good-natured authority and booming tones.  Sarah started.
“Oh, I’m sorry if I surprised you,” he continued, “It may be out of season in Perris-on-Sea, but the world famous Saint Owen’s Abbey always gets its fair share of visitors, even off season.”
“Forgive me,” said Sarah, holding back her hair from her face in the powerful gusts, “I didn’t know you were there.”  Strange, she thought, she hadn’t heard a car go by. The old man shrugged and stuck out a hand.
“Peter St. Owen at your service. I’m Hugh’s grandfather.”
Sarah was a little disconcerted at this revelation.
“Sarah. Sarah Llewellyn.” Sarah stuck out her hand and Peter St. Owen shook it heartily.
“Ah, yes,” he said. He nodded knowingly. “Doctor Llewellyn’s daughter. I was so sorry to hear about your mother.”
“You knew my mother?” Sarah’s eyes opened wide with wonder.
“Well of course, my dear,” replied Peter St. Owen. “I know practically everybody in these parts.  Gillian was a lovely woman. That was before that witch Vivien destroyed her happiness.”
Sarah stood frozen at this declaration.
“You knew Vivien?” she said.
“Oh, yes,” the old man replied, “More’s the pity.  And when I say ‘witch,’ girl, I mean precisely that.  Vivien de Gallois was a witch, a practicing witch.  And no good it did her, or your mother, or that fool of a father of yours.”
Sarah continued to stand there, rooted to the spot.  Could the old man really be serious? She could see his eyes blazing with suppressed fury as he recalled past events.
“Mr. St. Owen,” she began.

“Please call me Peter,” said the old man, staring hard at the young woman.
“Er, Peter,” said Sarah. She cleared her throat. “Are you saying that my stepmother actually had something to do with my parent’s relationship  their divorce?”
The old man peered at her intently.
“You really don’t know anything, do you?” he said.  Peter St. Owen sighed and shook his white mane in sorrow.  “I’m afraid there is more to it than that, my girl.”
Sarah could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. The suspense could not be borne.  She felt that this man was taunting her.
“Exactly how much do you know, Mr. St. Owen?” she asked. Her voice was sharp and angry, “And exactly how much is fiction and how much is fact?”
The old man gave a low growl and looked hard at the attractive young woman.  “I was in the restaurant just now when you were with Hugh,” he replied.  “I waved but he was too interested in his lovely young companion.”  In spite of herself, Sarah blushed at this compliment.
“I followed you here, Miss Llewellyn, I admit. I couldn’t help but overhear some of your conversation in the restaurant. I was sitting right behind you.”
“Why didn’t you call Hugh to your attention?” said Sarah.
“I tried, but Hugh was too distraught. He rushed out after you.  I wanted to warn you  warn you both. You are meddling in something that is a little bit too big for each of you, my dear.”
“And how would you know that, Mr. St. Owen?” said Sarah, eyes large and angry. The nerve, the very presumptuousness, of this man!
Peter St. Owen drew himself up to his full height and looked down at her. “Because, Miss Llewellyn, Hugh is correct.  My son, Robert St. Owen, is one of the Knights of Chivalry.  On account of Vivien de Gallois’s wicked machinations, our families  both yours and mine  are suffering under the Druid’s Curse of Saint Owen’s Abbey.”

Sarah immediately felt chilled to the bone. How was Vivien de Gallois, her stepmother, involved in the divorce of her own parents  and how was she involved in the Curse of the Druids?  What was the involvement of Hugh’s father, Robert St. Owen in the goings on at the Abbey?  And how were the old man’s revelations, if true, going to affect the sensual relationship that was beginning to flower between the handsome Hugh St. Owen and herself? See the next exciting installment in Chapter 6 of Sarah Llewellyn and the Druid’s Curse coming soon!
 

Read Chapter 6: Things Are Not Always What They Seem
Chapter Index
Back to the Magic of Laurice Daniels
Back to Romantics Network
 
 
 

     Background and Design by Romantics Network.No portion of this website may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, saving, or by any information storage, dissemination or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. Written permission from the writer must be obtained to reprint or cite the information contained within this site. The writer and Romantics Network assumes no liability arising from the material in this site or of actions of advertisers or viewers of this site. Excerpts, poems, design, and literary works are copyrighted and the property of their respective owners.