by Sara Craven
Those were matters of priority, and certainly she would be under no ludicrous illusions about love, marriage and ‘happy ever after’ this time around.
She got up and went across to the luggage stand, unzipping the overnight bag. The exquisite nightgown she’d bought with such shy hopes a year ago and never worn lay neatly folded on top of the other contents. She picked it up and shook it out, feeling the soft folds of white chiffon and lace drifting through her trembling fingers.
Everything in the case was new, in honour of her brand-new future, including the quilted apricot bag for toiletries with its pretty beaded embroidery. She took it, with the nightdress, into the bathroom.
The fittings were old-fashioned, and the shower was a trickle rather than a torrent, but she managed somehow, patting herself dry with one of the meagre towels. Then she slid the nightdress slowly over her head.
A year ago the chiffon would have enhanced slender, blossoming curves and made them seductive. Now it hung from her, she thought, giving herself a last disparaging glance in the mirror before turning away. Her shoulders and arms were thin, and her collarbones like pits. Her breasts were those of a child again.
But why should she repine? After all, the last thing in the world she wanted was for Nick to find her attractive. He liked beautiful women—he’d never made a secret of it. And for a while there, as she’d bloomed under his careful tutelage, she’d been—almost lovely.
But that girl no longer existed, and what was he left with instead? A rag, a bone, and a hank of hair. That was all.
And maybe the connoisseur in him, the sensualist, would not find that enough.
She trailed back into the other room, took clothes for the next day from the case—fresh underwear and a mid-calf dress in primrose linen, square-necked and cap-sleeved, which she hung up in one of the fitted wardrobes. After all, she’d bought it purposely to wear on the first day of the rest of her life, so it seemed an appropriate choice for tomorrow, if slightly sick.
And it was barely creased, indicating that her bag had not simply been left unopened and untouched over the past twelve months, as she’d thought likely.
Either that or she’d expected the entire contents of her luggage to have been removed to the nearest charity shop, erasing all physical reminders of her from his life. And yet it was all still there, wrapped in tissue and waiting for her.
He really had intended that she should go back to him, she thought shivering.
Her time was nearly up, so, with another apprehensive glance towards the sitting room, she reluctantly climbed into the wide bed, hugging its extreme edge as she reached up and turned off the pink-shaded befrilled lamp. Lying rigidly on her side, she closed her eyes tightly and kept them closed, trying to breathe deeply and evenly as if she was asleep.
It seemed an eternity before the door between them opened quietly and she knew she was no longer alone. She was aware of Nick moving about softly, then the click of the bathroom door, and beyond it the noise from the shower.
Cally tried to relax—to sink down into the mattress—giving the impression that she was dead to the world. But it wasn’t easy—not with tension building inside her all the while.
For the first time in her life she was about to spend a night in bed with a man, and in spite of his assurances she was petrified.
Eventually she heard him come back into the room and walk quietly across to the bed. There was a soft rustle like silk, as if he was removing a dressing gown, then she felt the mattress dip slightly as he joined her. The other equally awful pink lamp was extinguished, and the room was dark.
He was nowhere near Cally, maintaining his distance as promised, but she was intensely conscious of his presence just the same. His skin smelt cool and fresh with the fragrance of soap, and some unguessed-at female instinct told her, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was naked.
She froze. Her heart was thudding like a trapped animal beating against the bars of its cage as she waited tensely.
‘For God’s sake, relax.’ His voice in the heavy darkness was weary with exasperation. ‘I don’t go in for force.’
At least not tonight, Cally thought, but did not dare say it.
‘Can’t you understand how difficult this is for me?’ she demanded tautly.
‘I don’t find the situation easy either,’ Nick retorted sharply. ‘But we have to start our marriage somewhere, and tradition suggests that bed is the place.’
‘For lovers, perhaps.’ Her riposte was more acerbic than she’d intended. There was a silence.
Then he asked gently, ‘Is that intended as some kind of challenge?’
Cally found her eyes were so tightly closed that coloured spots danced behind her lids. ‘No,’ she mumbled.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let’s keep it that way, shall we?’ He paused again. ‘And bed isn’t simply about sex, Cally. It’s also a quiet and private place to talk sometimes.’
‘You’re implying we have something to discuss? So far you’ve simply issued instructions.’
‘I thought you might wish to go into a little more detail about why you ran away from me.’
Cally’s eyes flew open. She hunched a shoulder. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time. As it happens, it still does.’
‘And that’s your final word on the subject?’ He sounded more curious than angry.
‘At the moment,’ she said, ‘my most pressing concern is the future—not the past.’
‘Really?’ he said. ‘And I thought it was the here and now that had you clinging to the edge of the bed like an abseiler whose rope has been cut.’
‘If so, you can hardly blame me for that.’
‘You were the one who asked for a breathing space,’ Nick reminded her softly.
At this particular time it seemed difficult to breathe at all, Cally realised, her throat tightening.
She said huskily, ‘You can hardly expect to—walk back into my life and expect things to be as they were a year ago.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And exactly how were things then, Cally? Refresh my memory.’
Oh, God, she’d walked bang into that one, she thought, biting her lip.
She steadied her voice. ‘Perhaps I believed—once—briefly—that a marriage between us could be made to work.’
‘And yet you walked out?’ he said slowly. ‘Without even a shot being fired in anger. Why? And I want a reason. Not some flippant throwaway excuse that tells me nothing.’
It was the direct question she’d dreaded, and it demanded the direct answer she could not give.
Because I discovered I’d been blind enough and crazy enough to give you the power to smash me into little pieces. To break my heart so cruelly and completely that I would never recover.
Because it was only when I saw you with another woman in your arms on our wedding day that I realised how deeply I’d fallen in love with you, and that it would kill me to live only half a life with you—knowing that I would have to share you. That it was her that you really wanted—not me—and ours was just a marriage of convenience.
Knowing, too, that any happiness I found would be a sham and a betrayal.
And that the only way I could retain my sanity—and my self-respect—would be to distance myself from you totally, utterly and for ever.
But to say the words aloud would be another fatal betrayal. She would be admitting that his pretence at wooing her had succeeded only too well, and that as she’d stood beside him and repeated her vows she’d been loving and longing for him with shy but passionate ardour.
And to let him know that she’d been such a pathetic, gullible fool was more than flesh and blood could stand. She could not bear such a stark humiliation.
Better, she thought, to endure Nick’s anger than his pity.
She had no idea, of course, if Vanessa Layton was still part of his life. If she was even now installed at Southwood Cottage, or whether she’d been supplanted by someone else.
No doubt she would find out soon e
nough, she told herself, her whole being wincing from the thought. But what she must never do was give Nick even a hint that she cared. That his blatant disregard for fidelity mattered to her so badly that seeing him with Vanessa had torn her apart, leaving her torn and bleeding. And running away, like a small wounded animal seeking sanctuary, had seemed the only possible remedy. A chance to heal herself somehow—eventually.
As he’d admitted himself, he was not and never had been the marrying kind. But he needed someone to run his home efficiently—and, it now seemed, to give him a child. With Nick there was always an agenda.
And I was conveniently available, she thought, and so pitifully ready to believe every charming, seductive lie he told me. Not to mention the merit points he’d gain by rescuing the neighbourhood’s penniless orphan. Why couldn’t I see that he was taking me in lieu of the money my grandfather owed him? That was why he could still justify continuing his affair with Vanessa—because he was just balancing the bloody books.
She drew a ragged, painful breath.
He said harshly, ‘I’m waiting for an answer.’
Slowly, reluctantly, she turned to face him. Her eyes were accustomed now to the semi-darkness, and she could see that he was propped up on one elbow, watching her, although she was unable to read his expression. But then, did she really want to?
She said, ‘I told you—I knew I’d made a terrible mistake and I couldn’t think how to put it right. So I suppose I took the coward’s way out—and left.’
‘And that’s all there was to it?’
‘Yes.’ Or all she could ever admit to.
‘It didn’t occur to you to talk to me? That maybe together we could have sorted something out?’
‘I was afraid that—somehow—you’d persuade me to stay.’ That, she thought, at least was the truth.
‘It’s almost comforting to know that once seemed possible.’ His tone was wry.
‘I can assure you it didn’t last long,’ she said defensively.
‘Now, that carries real conviction,’ he returned grimly. ‘But if that’s a way of telling me I still have a struggle on my hands, I recommend that you think again. Because I’ve no intention of fighting fair.’
She said tonelessly, ‘I’ll consider myself warned.’
‘On the other hand,’ he said, after a pause, ‘it doesn’t have to be like this.’
‘As long as I do what you say? Play by your rules?’ Cally demanded bitterly. ‘Oh, I’m sure.’
‘I was thinking more,’ Nick said slowly, ‘of that day by the river. And please don’t pretend you’ve forgotten.’
Her instinctive denial died on her lips. She tensed. ‘What of it?’
‘It would be good,’ he said, ‘if we could forget the rest and recapture that time—that place.’
He made a slight movement, adjusting his position, and she felt him touch her shoulder, quietly and softly, his fingers cool as drops of water against the sudden burn of her naked skin.
A fist seemed to clench in her chest as reluctantly, painfully, she found herself remembering…
Reliving in too-vivid detail the nearby whisper of running water, the scent of the grass, and the glow of the sun against her closed eyelids. And Nick’s mouth on hers, gentling her lips apart, bringing her to trembling life with the delicate play of his tongue against hers and the slow, beguiling drift of his fingers on her body.
While, deep within her, she’d felt the first bewildering, tormenting ache of desire—overwhelming and irresistible.
It might have been yesterday. It could be now…
Now! The word seemed to sting her brain, sending her crashing back to sanity. Oh, God, she groaned silently, what was she thinking of?
Gasping in shock, she jerked away from him. ‘Don’t—don’t touch me. I—I can’t bear it.’
There was a silence, then he spoke, his voice soft and jeering. ‘What are you hoping, my sweet? That you’ll offend me so deeply I’ll toss you back to your good Samaritan at Gunners Wharf and crawl away, wounded, into the undergrowth?’ He shook his head. ‘You’ll have to try harder than that, darling. And I think it’s time to give some thought to the actual terms of our agreement,’ he added with a touch of grimness. ‘Because, under the circumstances, a little touching is going to be inevitable.’
Her mouth was dry. ‘But not yet. Not so soon—please.’
‘A pleasure deferred, then,’ Nick drawled mockingly.
She winced. ‘How can you possibly say that?’
‘Easily,’ he said. ‘Because I intend to enjoy every inch of you—and every moment of our time together.’ He paused. ‘You, of course, must do as you please.’ He reached out an arm and flicked on the lamp at his side of the bed, bathing the room in pink light.
Cally stiffened. ‘What are you doing?’
He said quietly, ‘If I’m not allowed to touch, I may at least look.’ He took the edge of the covers and tossed them back.
Cally made an unavailing grab for their protection, then lay like a stone, staring into space, her lower lip caught in her teeth, bitterly aware that the delicate layer of chiffon was no barrier at all against his cool, lingering scrutiny of her body.
At last, she said in a small, stifled voice, ‘Have you finished?’
He gave a brief, harsh laugh. ‘Don’t be naïve, darling. We both know I haven’t even begun yet.’
He turned away from her, onto his side, extinguishing the light and leaving her to draw the covers back into place. She lay beside him, imprisoned by silence and his proximity, not daring to move.
Even when his quiet, steady breathing told her that he was asleep, Cally could not relax. How could he be so casual—so unfazed, she asked herself, when he was behaving so abominably?
He’d meant everything he said, she thought, fear tightening her throat. They had a bargain, and—sooner or later—she would be made to keep her side of it.
How many women did he want in his life at any given time? she wondered, almost hysterically. And what kind of man made time for his mistress just before he was due to depart on honeymoon with his brand-new bride?
The cynicism of that terrified her.
But even if she confronted him about it—accused him, told him openly that was why she’d left, why she could not bring herself to live with him as his wife—would it make any real difference? He’d simply shrug it off, without guilt or remorse. A deal that had not paid off.
Or, even worse, he might see it as a confession of weakness on her part. A sign that she cared more then she’d ever been prepared to admit.
And she couldn’t risk that. Not at this juncture.
Cally brought her clenched fist up to her mouth, sinking her teeth into the knuckles.
Her disappearance had undoubtedly embarrassed him, and it would certainly anger him if she reneged on their bargain a second time. But Nick wouldn’t suffer—not as she’d done a year ago, she thought with anguish. Or as the Gunners Wharf residents would when he pulled the plug on their housing scheme. As he assuredly would.
And she would be left to endure the guilt of that—knowing that she could have prevented it if she’d submitted to his demands.
But the reality of what he was asking had settled on her like a stone, and she felt crushed by its weight.
A baby, she thought. A tiny human being to be created and carried in her womb. To be brought into the world for her to love and nurture. Or, as seemed more likely, a prize to be fought over by two warring strangers.
Cally shivered. That wasn’t what she wanted. How could it be? Yet he’d already set off an emotional alarm bell. ‘Joint custody,’ he’d said. ‘At first anyway.’
Those were the words that had set off reverberations in her mind. That lingered.
Indicating—what, exactly? That there might come a time when she’d be expected to surrender her rights to her own child? Virtually give up her baby for adoption by a man rich enough to pay for his slightest wish to be fulfilled, and sufficiently powerful to fight
anyone who stood in his way?
Was Nick really capable of being that uncaring—that ruthless? Or would he simply say that the end—somehow—justified the means, and believe it?
Oh, dear God, she thought achingly. Please—please don’t let it be so.
Yet he’d told her frankly that marriage wasn’t for him. That once she’d fulfilled his terms she’d be free to leave. But he hadn’t mentioned the baby.
If, of course, there was a baby…
She’d always assumed that one day she’d be a mother. After all, it was the next natural progression from being a wife. But, like so much in their relationship, she and Nick had never actually discussed the possibility.
And it had certainly never occurred to her that he regarded her as some kind of brood mare.
Her pregnancy, she thought wretchedly, should have been one of the crowning moments of their love. Except that the love had never existed, and now one of the supreme joys of a woman’s life was being reduced to the status of duty. Transformed into an obligation.
For the past year she had been alone. But in the next months she seemed fated to learn the true nature of loneliness itself.
And how could she bear it?
Cally slept at last, exhausted by the weary treadmill of her thoughts.
When she awoke, she lay for a moment, feeling disorientated, wondering where she was. Then memory prompted her, and she turned her head slowly, looking with trepidation at the bed beside her. But it was empty, only the rumpled pillows and the covers tossed back revealing that the space had ever been occupied.
And, as if on some silent cue, Nick emerged from the bathroom, immaculately shaved, dark hair still damp, fastening links into the cuffs of his shirt.
‘Good morning.’ His tone was brisk. ‘The bathroom’s all yours, and I’ve ordered breakfast in fifteen minutes, so I suggest you get a move on. We have things to do, and I want to be back at Wylstone by early afternoon.’
‘You’re planning to return there today—taking me with you?’ Cally was astounded.