Blaze of Love

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

When Sonia Gayle travels by sea to meet Harry, her fiancé, in the Belgian Congo, she turns her back on Revel Dacre, the most fascinating man on board. She soon discovers that Dacre is Harry's employer and one of the most influential men in the country. It is Revel's turn to take revenge, but in doing so he realises that Sonia is the only woman in the world for him.

Release date: November 21, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 128

Sample

THE big white liner ploughed its way swiftly through the dark purple of the sea, leaving a long white trail of foam behind it.

Leaning over the rails on the first-class deck, a slim girl, in a green flowered silk dress with a green and white spotted scarf knotted loosely about her neck, strained her gaze as though to catch a glimpse of the land which they would not sight for another four days.

“Africa! Africa!” she whispered softly. “Africa which means—Harry!”

Sonia Gayle’s soft cheeks were carnation pink and her hazel eyes were almost pure golden, so brilliantly did they shine under the black silk of her lashes.

She was going out to the Belgian Congo to marry Harry Fettering. Some women might have thought twice about leaving England and home, travelling all those hundreds of miles in order to marry and settle down in one of the worst parts of East Africa. But when Sonia had received Harry’s cable, telling her that he was in a position to marry, now that he had been made manager of the Mangoway Trading Company, she had answered without hesitation; cabled back the words: ‘Sailing at once.’

After all, they had been engaged for over a year and it was nearly a year since she had seen him. Every mail had brought her news, and he did not mince words about the climate, a very drastic climate for a white woman; the pestilential fevers and insects; the many hardships which she might have to endure in Malanyika. But Sonia, deeply in love, laughed at the obstacles and accepted her destiny with that gay courage which was an intrinsic part of her nature.

The last few weeks had flashed by like a dream. Looking back, Sonia chuckled a little, like a happy child at the memory of those days. The thrill and excitement and rush after she had received Harry’s cable. Her mother’s trepidation at the thought of her youngest and, perhaps, best-loved daughter going to such an outlandish spot as the Belgian Congo. Her father’s disapproval, because he considered Malanyika no place for a white girl. Her brother’s rather mysterious warnings to her to ‘keep an eye on old Harry’. As though he imagined that Harry was too fond of the bottle or needed a little help and guidance!

Sonia could laugh at them all. She adored Harry and she knew that he was going to make her perfectly happy and that she was willing to go through any hardships, make any sacrifices for his sake. Besides, Harry’s last letter had been full of encouragement. If all he said was true she need not expect as much hardship as the family feared. They were going to live in a beautiful bungalow on the Mangoway River. The scenery was gorgeous, and the honeymoon, as depicted by Harry, would be glamorous enough for the most romantic girl.

Sonia had felt a very natural distress at leaving her family, because they were very united and she realised how good both father and mother had been to her.

Mr. Gayle ran a small but quite successful bookshop in Croydon. He had been most generous to Sonia; her trousseau was really perfect, and she and her mother had spent a great many winter evenings with pattern books and silks and embroideries, making dainty additions to that ‘bottom drawer’.

The voyage, so far, had been so thrilling that she had not had time to be homesick. After all, she was twenty-two and life at Croydon with the family had been dull enough. She had always wanted to go out East. Now Harry Fettering had opened for her the gate of romance through which she could pass to the realisation of all her dreams.

What luck it was, she thought, that Harry had met Tom, her brother, during a billiards championship in Croydon! Croydon was Harry’s home town, and he had come back on leave from Malanyika to visit his mother. The old mother died suddenly, and it was then that Harry and Sonia met and fell violently in love. Sonia was going to make up to him for the loss of mother and home and everything. He had only asked her to wait until he was in a better position to marry her. And now that chance had come.

She was quite sure that she was going to stand the heat very well. Coming through Suez the temperature had been high enough for anybody’s liking. Sweltering days with a glassy sea and a sky of aching blue. But Sonia had lain out on deck with dark glasses and a sunshade, loving it and thanking her stars that she had made plenty of thin, silky dresses and brought lots of protecting creams for her delicate skin.

In four days’ time they were due at Dar-es-Salaam, the busy port of Tanganyika. Harry was going to meet her there and take her on to Malanyika which was to be her future home.

She wondered what sort of people she would meet out there. Harry had said in his letters that there were one or two very decent fellows in the firm. One whom he had mentioned had a wife too delicate to stand the climate. But Harry wrote a great deal about the Harrisons. Ted Harrison’s wife was living out there, and they were Harry’s greatest friends. Sonia was going straight to the Harrison’s bungalow, and a few days afterwards she was to be married by special licence to her lover.

Sonia cupped her cheeks in her hands and let her thoughts turn back to her last meeting with her fiancé. That was ten months ago when she had seen him off at Southampton. They had stood for a moment in his cabin, clasped in a fervent embrace. It had been difficult then for her to restrain her tears. It was so awful seeing people off—particularly the person one loved best in the world. She had clung to him, murmuring:

“Please, please be careful of yourself, Harry, darling—don’t get fever—don’t fall in the river and get eaten by crocodiles, or anything awful.”

He had laughed and petted her and kissed the finger that wore the pretty aquamarine ring which he had given her, and said:

“Silly little thing—don’t you worry about me—I’ll take care of myself. And don’t cry—it isn’t good-bye, only au revoir, my Sonia. I shall send for you just as soon as ever I can.”

Sonia’s heart missed a beat at the memory of that parting. It seemed too good to be true that she would see him so soon. She had not the slightest doubt that they would be wildly happy together. In spite of Tom’s insinuations, Harry was straight as a die—she was sure of it. He might drink a little too much sometimes, but men from the East generally did. Sonia was a broad-minded, understanding girl for her age, and she was not going to spoil sport by being a prig. She was perfectly certain that Harry would not drink too much when he was with her.

A flaming red sun dipped low into the western sea, and hyacinth shadows fell across the shining deck where Sonia was standing. She turned round. A gong had boomed, breaking the silence. That was the dressing-gong. She had better go down to her cabin and change. Then she heard the sound of a man’s voice, followed by a short, rather sardonic laugh. She recognised that laugh. Her pretty figure stiffened a little. Her dreams of Harry and her forthcoming marriage vanished.

A man and a woman came along the deck together, arm-in-arm. Sonia watched them approach, and a little frown contracted her level brows.

‘Those two again!’ she thought.

During the entire voyage she had noticed this couple—and she was not the only one. Everybody on board commented upon them. And the comments were not altogether pleasant. People who had been out to the Congo before seemed to know them well. The woman, Iris Silvester, was married. The man, Revel Dacre, was one of the wealthiest men on the East Coast, head of a big syndicate that did most of the trading out there. Jack Silvester, Iris’s husband, had recently taken up a post with Dacre’s firm. Gossip had it that there was now an intrigue going on between Revel Dacre and Mrs. Silvester. It seemed to Sonia very queer that those two should be travelling to Malanyika together. Someone had told her that Silvester had sent his wife home for a holiday because she could not stand the climate for longer than six months at a time. Dacre had found it convenient to go home—and to return—at the same time as Iris.

Sonia, if broad-minded, had a strong sense of honour. She despised this sort of affair. She had no use for a man who chased other men’s wives. Nevertheless, as she watched Dacre and Mrs. Silvester coming towards her she could not help admitting that they made a very attractive couple in every way.

Iris Silvester—a beautiful blonde—looked like a girl of twenty rather than a woman of thirty-one. Slim, tall, soignée; always perfectly dressed, with smooth fair head and pale skin and long-lashed, very blue eyes. But she had a greedy, petulant mouth and thin, grasping fingers. Her nails were much too long and pointed and over-polished. Sonia felt instinctively that this woman had an ugly and selfish character.

The couple, laughing and talking, walking arm-in-arm, came close to Sonia. And now Revel Dacre’s gaze fell on the figure of the young girl leaning up against the rail. A sudden spark of interest lit up his eyes. Dark, moody, cynical eyes set deeply in a thin, sun-browned face.

How young she looked, this girl in her simple flowered silk dress, with her slender arms and ankles; she was immature but exquisite. And he liked her bright chestnut hair; the way it curled crisply over her head. Whenever he had caught sight of her on board, he had thought what a pretty child she was. Somebody had told him she was just twenty-two and going out to marry a fellow in Malanyika. She was delicious—full of dimples and sparkles—when she smiled. But she never smiled at him, Revel Dacre thought grimly. She didn’t like him at all. She made that plain. But he had seen her flash that spontaneous smile on others.

Iris Silvester said: “It’s going to be a gorgeous hot night, Revel, Marvellous for the dance.”

“Oh—is there a dance to-night?” he said vaguely.

But he went on looking at Sonia. Perhaps Iris Silvester’s ripe, blonde charm bored him; perhaps he was sick of her affectation, her drawl. Anyway he kept his gaze intently fixed on the slender girl with the red-brown, rippling hair and the golden-hazel eyes.

She looked back at him coldly—almost scathingly. Yet in her heart she was embarrassed, disturbed by his fixed scrutiny. He was a tall man, this Revel Dacre. He must stand at least six foot two. Broad-shouldered, lean in the hips, curiously graceful for such a big man. There was something almost of the panther in him—in his tread—Sonia thought. Something of a panther’s cruelty, too, she was certain. He had a thin, hard mouth—hard as nails. But he was amazingly handsome. His piercing dark eyes and hair which was smooth and black, like satin, fascinated her. There was, perhaps, Spanish or Italian blood in him. But his voice was essentially English; the well-bred, cultured voice which suggests the public school and the ’Varsity.

“Hallo, Miss Gayle,” he addressed Sonia gaily.

“How do you do,” she said in a haughty little voice, and turned and walked away.

Iris Silvester laughed and squeezed his arm.

“Snubbed, my dear!”

Revel Dacre drew in his breath. His nostrils widened very slightly. He was not used to being snubbed. He was a little spoiled. His extreme good looks, a reputation for being a magnificent athlete, considerable means and a powerful position in the Belgian Congo—gave Revel Dacre most things that he wanted. He was used to admiration—he had had countless affairs with women; light affairs which had brought him no happiness. So far he had found it so easy to twist a woman round his finger—women such as Iris Silvester. He was tired of all of them.

It had not taken him long to realise that no man would easily bend Sonia Gayle to his will. She had spirit, that girl, that mere child. The severity of her poise—the coldness—the scorn—damn it! he thought furiously. Nevertheless he was intrigued.

He walked on with the woman who, he was well aware, had been using every wile to draw him into her net and entangle him there for her pleasure. It was pure coincidence which had made him take the same boats to and from England with Iris. He had never wanted an affair with her. Jack Silvester was his friend. When Jack had asked him to take care of Iris, during the journey, he had promised to do so in all innocence. But Iris made it difficult for a man to preserve any innocence. She had stuck to his side assiduously all the voyage. To escape her he had played a lot more bridge and poker than he had cared to do. He was bored—horribly bored. And this evening he showed it.

Iris looked at him under her long lashes.

“You’re very dull to-night, Revel.”

“Sorry—I feel dull.”

She pouted.

“Give me a cigarette.”

He handed her his thin, gold case. She took care that their fingers touched as he held the lighter for her. But she saw that she made no impression on him. She looked angrily at the cigarette, at the end of which her carmined lips had left a red stain.

“Do you think that slip of a girl is pretty?”

“Definitely.”

Iris put her tongue in her cheek.

“But so immature—no finesse.”

“Rather refreshing.”

She bit her lip furiously. Then she laughed.

“Well, she doesn’t seem to like you.”

“That’s also refreshing,” he drawled.

“You’re loathsomely conceited.”

“Granted, fair lady. Now isn’t it time to dress?”

“Yes—for the dance. I’m going to save all my dances for you.”

“My dear Iris, please don’t do anything of the sort. Dancing on board in this climate is a hot and sticky business, and I daresay I shall play bridge.”

She swallowed her pride and laughed at him—a foolish woman, foolishly in love.

“You’re a bit of a cad.”

“More than a bit perhaps.”

“And I’m so nice to you,” she said in a grieved voice.

“Much too nice.” His dark, brilliant eyes smiled at her, then with a little gesture of farewell, he turned and walked away from her, whistling.

Iris Silvester looked after the magnificent figure, then dropped her cigarette on the deck and stamped on it.

“Hell!” she said in no ladylike voice.

Revel Dacre walked to his cabin, still whistling, and b. . .