The Savage Tide

By Benita Brown

Orphaned Miranda Foster is soon to lose her home, so the job as live-in secretary to former movie star, Nita Montez, is a godsend. But when she arrives at The Laurels, a gloomy house on the cliff-top, it is like a scene from an old movie. Who is the dark stranger who almost runs her down in the rainstorm?
Miranda suspects that devastatingly handsome Paul Kovac and his beautiful companion, Claudine Corday, are a threat to her employer. She begins to unravel the secrets of Nita's past - but she must balance her concern for the ageing actress against her growing feelings for Paul. Is he just using her to further his plans or will Miranda find the love she desires?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Benita Brown
• Release date: Feb 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466150324

Benita Brown

Benita Brown was born and brought up in Newcastle upon Tyne in the North East of England by her English mother and Indian father. She went to drama school in London where she met her future husband who, also from Newcastle, was working for the BBC. Not long after, the couple returned to their home town. After working as a teacher and broadcaster and bringing up four chidren, Benita became a full-time writer.

Book preview

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

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

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