Dark Sunrise

His hand shot out so quickly she had no time even to flinch, nor the breath to do more than gasp as he wrenched again at her hair, pulling her head relentlessly towards him. When her face was an inch from his own he spoke with soft fury. ‘I don’t want you here. It would suit me very well to slit your throat and leave you. But I suppose you want to live, get back to that civilised little husband of yours. So you do it on my terms. Now, you want to argue?’

‘No.’ It was no more than a croak. Langeveldt let her go. She sat shaking, rubbing her head, amazed that her hair was still attached. Oh God, how to cope with this man?

‘Why are you so cruel?’ she asked.

He looked at her with bleak detachment. ‘Cruelty is something you don’t begin to understand,’ he said calmly.

Also by Elizabeth Walker

A Summer Frost

Wild Honey

Voyage

Rowan’s Mill

The Court

Dark Sunrise

ELIZABETH WALKER

HEADLINE

Copyright © 1984 Elizabeth Walker

First published in 1984

by Judy Piatkus (Publishers) Limited

First published in paperback in 1986

by Grafton Books

Reprinted in paperback in 1990

by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING PLC

10987654321

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 07472 3435 3

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Collins, Glasgow

HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING PLC

Headline House

79 Great Titchfield Street

London W1P 7FN

Contents

Dark Sunrise

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Running through the night like a thief, like a beggar,

Once long ago it was I who ran.

Now I stand alone in the dark, in the danger;

African night you may do what you can.

What do you want here, English lady,

Far from your home and the warmth of your bed?

Why do you long for the arms of your children—

Know you not that the spirits feed on the dead?

Your hair is like a curtain, soft and scented.

It trails in my mouth like a thread of pain.

Here in the night is a thing undreamed of

Quiet on the earth like the healing of rain.

Lie in the night and know I am with you,

Turn your ear to my heart, not the lion’s wild roar.

He only cares if you stray, if you falter,

I shall enfold you. I am here; I am sure.

Harsh is the land and harsher my loving,

Lighting a flame in the glow of your eyes.

Stand with me here as we look to the eastward,

Waiting for morning and a Dark Sunrise.

Chapter 1

The day was blue and held the promise of warmth. Thin mist pearled the grass and from the ancient trees, heavy with leaf, came the bright, clear song of many birds. Thrush; starling chatter; a blackbird’s faultless aria. Sarah watched with rueful interest as a bee, out too early, blundered into a dewy rose and buzzed in consternation.

‘At least you have something to do,’ she admonished. ‘You’ve no right to complain.’

Oh, but that was a foolish thing to say. What, truthfully, could she complain about? That at last she had time on her hands? A month, two months ago she would have given anything for a morning such as this, house clean, garden tidy, Emma at school and Joanne at the nursery. Time to do what she wanted. Time to realise she did not know what she wanted a small voice insisted, but she turned resolutely back to the bee. There at least was a woman of purpose: she did not stand around in sunny gardens and wonder why life seemed so flat. She got on and did what had to be done, to and fro, flower to flower, back and forwards to the hive, content to know that she was useful and necessary. When at last she failed to make it home and lay exhausted in the grass she would be secure in the knowledge that her life had been spent gainfully. The bee hummed off towards the dahlias, now past their best, and mumbled amongst them. She seemed an old bee, experienced and worldly-wise, wasting no time in idleness. This one would not survive the winter, thought Sarah. To die without a single mark left on the world to show that here you had laboured. It was enough for a bee.

But who should feel melancholy on such a day? Even as she watched the mist vanished like a wraith of night, the flowers turned their faces to the sun and swallows came to drink from the pool. She was so lucky to have her garden. Douglas had not wanted to live here, he would have preferred something smaller and more central, but she loved Wimbledon.