His Wedding-Night Heir (Wedlocked!)

by Sara Craven

  She could hear the smile in his voice and resented it. How many women did he need, begging for his favours? she asked herself wildly. He’d made her behave like—like an animal.

  Aloud, she said, ‘I think I’d prefer to be on my own.’

  There was a pause. ‘Cally,’ he said, ‘what’s the matter?’

  She rolled away, presenting him with her back. ‘What do you want to hear?’ she asked tautly. ‘The sex was amazing—mind-blowing. On a wow factor of ten. All those things. Or would you prefer a round of applause?’

  There was another silence, this one frankly ominous. Then, ‘Oh, I think any plaudits should come from me,’ he drawled. ‘You clearly have a great natural talent, sweetheart, which I look forward to exploiting. And bloody soon too.’

  ‘That may not be necessary,’ she said. ‘After all, I might have beginner’s luck and already be pregnant.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ he said.

  ‘So,’ she added, ‘we’ll just have to—wait and see.’

  ‘An interesting suggestion,’ Nick said, too pleasantly. ‘But I’ve waited long enough. Besides, we can’t guarantee to reach the target first time around, and I would hate to think I’d taken all that trouble just to be disappointed.’

  Every word bit, and Cally found herself wincing inwardly.

  She said, ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning,’ he said icily, ‘that you’ll continue to share a bed with me, with all that entails, until that possibility you mentioned becomes a bloody certainty.’

  He swung himself off the bed, reaching down for his robe. ‘And now take your bath, or your shower. Scrub yourself all over with carbolic, if you think it will help. You won’t keep me away.’

  She made herself turn—look up at him. ‘Nick—please…’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do please. I want you, Cally, and I intend to have you whenever and however I desire.’ His smile was like the lash of a whip laid across her shaking body. ‘You see, my sweet, you still have a lot to learn, and I’m going to enjoy teaching you. How you feel about it is entirely up to you.’

  He strode over to the communicating door, and went out, slamming it behind him. Cally was left staring after him, one hand pressed to her mouth. She’d gone too far, and she knew it, and wished the words left unsaid.

  She’d spoken out of a kind of bravado, in a belated effort to protect herself. To justify, if it was possible, her abandoned, passionate surrender to him.

  Why hadn’t she obeyed her first instinct and curled up in his arms to bask in their mutual satiation? she wondered despairingly. Instead, she’d tried to salvage some remnants of pride, and it had rebounded on her badly.

  She was almost tempted to follow him, but what could she say without betraying all those things that must not be said?

  Things like—I love you, Cally thought, and wanted to weep.

  It was beginning to look like rain. The July morning had started brightly, but now grey clouds were massing in the west and a chill wind had risen, sighing among the trees in the Home Wood.

  Cally supposed she should turn back to the Hall. Baz hated wet weather, and she’d come out without even a jacket for protection. But this couple of hours each day, when she wandered round the countryside on Baz’s amiable, elderly back, was her own personal time, when she could get away, just for a while, from the burden of being Lady Tempest. The downside, of course, was that she also found herself alone with her increasingly unhappy thoughts. And problems that would not go away.

  It was as if her life with Nick was split into two separate and distinct halves, proceeding on parallel lines, but never touching.

  There was the daytime life where, among other things, she was being gently inducted by Frank and Margaret into the efficient running of the Hall. Where she picked flowers from the garden and arranged them in vases and bowls. Where she entertained visitors to tea, some of them genuinely friendly, others merely curious to take a look at Sir Nicholas’s errant bride. Where she dealt with correspondence with the help of Janette from the village, a former City secretary now living in rural bliss with her husband and young family.

  She found herself being invited to join local clubs and societies, and to serve on the committee for the annual charity fête, which was always held in the Hall’s grounds.

  On Nick’s instructions, she sent out invitations to lunch and dinner parties, and weekend guests, and steeled herself to play hostess—with, she’d come to realise, surprising success.

  On the down side, Adele was still occupying the Dower House, and finding excuses to come up to the Hall too regularly to suit Cally, who was usually left shaking with anger after her visits. But without an electric fence it seemed impossible to keep her out.

  And Cally was powerless to prevent Adele’s knife slipping beneath her ribs either.

  ‘You’re looking tired, my pet,’ she’d remarked solicitously only the previous day, encountering Cally in the garden on her way up from the stables. ‘But don’t worry. I hear on the village grapevine that Vanessa Layton’s coming back this week, so Nick will soon have an alternative outlet for all that incredible masculine energy.’

  And she drifted off, leaving Cally to stare after her with murder in her heart.

  But at least she knew now, and could be on her guard, she told herself. Although there was little she could do about the situation. Nick, as he’d demonstrated with chilling force over the past weeks, was his own man, and would do precisely as he wished.

  Adele, she thought, sighing, vicious little jibes notwithstanding, was the very least of her difficulties. Her relationship with Nick was the problem that overrode all others, and filled her mind and heart, waking or sleeping. Or rather, the lack of it.

  The harsh words they’d exchanged a few weeks before had been their last real conversation, she acknowledged miserably. When he was at the Hall they met at mealtimes, which were conducted in silence, apart from a few polite and formal exchanges.

  Probably, Cally admitted, for the look of the thing. Although she suspected the Thurstons were already aware that the atmosphere could be cut with a knife most of the time.

  Each morning Nick went for an early-morning ride on Maestro, his chestnut gelding, before leaving for the day, but it was never suggested that Cally should join him, and he avoided the routes she used with Baz.

  ‘Just as well,’ Lorna had commented cheerfully, when Cally had diffidently raised the subject. ‘He’s a terrific rider, and he really pushes Maestro.’ She laughed. ‘I have a job to keep up with him on a young horse, so poor old Baz wouldn’t get a look-in—although he might try, and it wouldn’t be good for him.’

  ‘No.’ Cally had forced a smile. ‘No, of course not.’

  At other times he worked in his study, and it was made clear he was not to be interrupted.

  He was treating her much like an employee, she thought. There’d been a time when she’d believed this could be a way for her to cope. But she’d been wrong.

  And the pattern was repeated on the occasions when she was required to accompany him to London, to attend formal dinners in the City and other social events. Her wardrobe, most of it selected under Nick’s stringent supervision, had expanded dramatically to meet these new demands, and she had the beginnings of an astonishing jewellery collection to match.

  She could not, of course, question his generosity, which was unfailing, but then he’d made it clear he expected her to do him credit in public.

  So the clothing and jewels were merely props, she thought, to be handed back when her run-of-the-play contract ended. But what else could she expect?

  In public, Nick was the most quietly charming and attentive husband any young wife could wish. And only Cally knew of his cool aloofness when they were alone together.

  Except at night…

  She felt her whole body shiver, and Baz, as if sensing her sudden restlessness, flung up his head and whinnied. She murmured to him, running a soothing hand down his neck.

  Nick had
meant every word he’d said before they’d parted in that pale dawn, she thought wretchedly. They had not spent a single night apart since, even though the demands of work took him on punishing trips all over the country and he often returned very late, almost grey with tiredness. Those were the times when he simply turned his back and slept, while she lay beside him, staring into the darkness, aware of an ever-deepening sense of isolation.

  At such moments Cally yearned to reach out to him and draw him close. To let him sleep away his exhaustion in her arms, his head pillowed on her body. But she had never dared initiate such a move, in case she was rebuffed.

  She had learned her lesson on the evening they’d been scheduled to attend a banquet in London. Cally had worn a new dress in taffeta, long-sleeved with a full skirt and scooped neck, the colour of autumn leaves. It had been Nick’s choice, and she’d had to admit that the shade complemented her newly highlighted hair and lent a sheen and glow to her pale, creamy skin.

  She’d opened her jewellery case, in search of the exquisite diamond necklace which had been his first gift to her, but he’d stopped her abruptly. Instead, he’d fastened round her neck an antique topaz pendant, set in tiny pearls. She’d stared at it, the breath catching in her throat, aware that it seemed somehow a much more personal gift than diamonds, however lovely.

  She’d put up a hand to touch it in delight, wondering if it could be a slender sign of hope. Then, stammering, ‘It’s—so beautiful,’ she’d swung round impulsively to kiss him, only to have him turn his head swiftly, so that her lips touched his cheek instead of his mouth. Her face flaming in humiliation, she’d managed to add a stilted, ‘Thank you,’ then turned away, and begun hurriedly, with shaking hands, to fill her evening purse.

  Since then she hadn’t risked anything that could be construed as an advance, even if she was aching for him, as she so often did.

  Although she could not claim she was neglected, she thought, her mouth twisting wryly. The nights when he did not make love to her were rare indeed.

  But was it really ‘making love’? she asked herself. Was that really how to describe that web of silken carnality that he’d spun around her so skilfully, to keep her trapped and enthralled? Because, apart from that first unforgotten time, when he’d taken her with such apparent tenderness and understanding, it all seemed curiously soulless.

  A demonstration of high-art sexual technique, she thought, rather than uncontrollable passion. A master-class in which he treated her body as some finely toned instrument solely designed for pleasure, and in which her ability to respond seemed to be taken to fresh limits each time, as he built sensation on sensation.

  And there was nothing she could do about it except submit to the promised rapture and, she supposed, be thankful.

  Once—just once—ashamed of her unthinking, abandoned response, wanting to make him see her as a woman and not merely a sex-object, she’d tried to resist. Only to have Nick take her to the brink of climax over and over again, holding her there relentlessly, until she implored him for her release, the hoarse, uneven words torn from her throat.

  Since then, when he reached for her she went silently and willingly into his arms, her body coming to swift, burning life under the caress of his hands and mouth.

  After all, she thought with sadness, it was all she had of him. Because afterwards there was nothing. Even though she longed for him to hold her until she fell asleep, he invariably turned away without a word.

  But she could hardly blame him for that, she acknowledged, sighing. Wasn’t that exactly what she’d done to him that first morning? Oh, God, what a fool she’d been.

  She should have forgotten her pride and gone into his arms, she told herself. Taken the risk. Let him see then that she wanted more than just physical gratification. But now it was all too late.

  Because she was pregnant. She was sure of it. Her normally reliable monthly cycle had gone into total abeyance. She had just missed a second period, she’d been sick more than once in the past fortnight, so all she needed was the doctor’s confirmation.

  And Nick must be well aware of it. She’d seen a grim expression on his face more than once in recent days. Perhaps he was now regretting the bargain he’d inflicted on her. Wondering, maybe, how he was going to break the news to his mistress that his wife was pregnant, she thought with pain.

  Yet he’d said nothing—waiting, she supposed, for her to speak first. To admit she’d fulfilled the cold-blooded remit she’d been given and was indeed carrying his child.

  So what on earth was making her hesitate? Why didn’t she say what needed to be said?

  Because, according to the terms we agreed, I know it’s the beginning of the end, she thought. Once I actually admit that I’m having a baby, I’ve taken the first step towards dissolving the marriage.

  And I don’t know what will happen afterwards.

  Yes, that was the stumbling block. Somehow, she knew, she had to talk to Nick—discover what his long-term intentions were. ‘Joint custody—at first,’ he’d told her. And, ‘Any lasting decision can be made later.’

  Since she’d realised her condition, those words had been preying on her mind. Scaring her. Because there was no legal agreement between them about the baby’s future. Nothing in writing.

  And supposing Nick decided he wanted sole custody, and treated her as if she was a single mother giving her baby up for adoption? What would she do then?

  Surely he couldn’t, she thought, her stomach churning uneasily. He wouldn’t…

  After all, she reminded herself painfully, they were hardly more than two strangers who met in bed. There was no real marriage between them. No sign of affection or friendship to prompt her to hope that he would treat her well. She’d done as she’d been asked, he might tell her, and was now free to go.

  Leaving her baby to be brought up by other strangers. Or even Vanessa Layton, Nick’s childless mistress. Once his unwanted wife had been dismissed and divorced, he’d be free to move her in. Cally shuddered away from the thought.

  A year ago she’d thought her heart was broken. But the prospect ahead of her could be infinitely worse than anything she’d suffered then. And she was frightened to confront him in case her worst fears were confirmed and she found herself entering the New Year in total isolation, faced with a long and agonising struggle for the right to bring up her own child, or even be allowed proper access.

  I told Nick I wanted to be set free, she reminded herself unhappily. That I wanted to get on with my life without hindrance. I insisted on it.

  Beware what you wish for, someone had said once. Because it might come true.

  She sighed, and gave an apprehensive look at the sky as a faint rumble of thunder sounded over the far hills.

  ‘Time to go home, lovely,’ she told Baz, whose ears were suddenly pricked attentively. And then she heard what he must have done—the distressed and muffled yapping of a dog in the distance. ‘But we’ll go and look first,’ she added, clicking her tongue to quicken his gait.

  She left the bridleway, and rode through the trees, bent low in the saddle to avoid overhanging branches, listening intently for the increasingly frantic barking and whimpering.

  Eventually, in a small clearing, she found the dog—or his rear portion anyway. It was protruding from an overgrown bank, and Cally guessed that the animal had gone into a hole after a rabbit and had earth and stones collapse on him, so that he couldn’t move forwards or back.

  She slid down from Baz and looped his reins over a convenient bush. It didn’t take long to shift the debris and free the dog, a Jack Russell, who immediately repaid her by nipping her hand.

  ‘Not nice,’ Cally told him gently. ‘But I know what it’s like to be trapped and frightened, so I forgive you.’

  The name on his collar tag was unfamiliar, and the telephone code wasn’t local.

  ‘But you must belong to someone,’ Cally mused, winding her hankie round her hand. She tucked the now shivering and subdued dog under he
r arm, and began to lead Baz towards the edge of the wood and the road beyond.

  As they came out from the trees she heard a shrill whistle, and a voice call ‘Tinker!’ An elderly man came round the corner. He was using a stick, and walking with a pronounced limp, but his thin, anxious face lit up when he saw Cally and her suddenly wriggling burden.

  ‘Tinker, you little devil. My dear young lady, I can’t thank you enough. Where did you find him?’

  ‘He’d managed to get stuck in a rabbit hole, but I was able to dig him out.’ Cally handed the dog over, and saw his leash securely attached to his collar.

  ‘At home he’s no trouble at all,’ the man said, sighing. ‘But I’m afraid whenever I bring him away he invariably runs off at some point. And I’ve just had a hip replacement, so I can’t chase him as I once did.’ The faded blue eyes sharpened. ‘My dear, your hand—did he do that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cally admitted. ‘But it’s not that bad. He barely broke the skin, and he was in an awful state.’

  ‘I’m staying not far from here.’ His voice was firm. ‘You must let me disinfect the cut and put on a plaster. And I think a cup of tea is indicated too.’

  ‘Really, there’s no need,’ she began, but he raised a silencing hand.

  ‘I insist. Besides, I think we need to get indoors before we become soaked. It really isn’t far, and there’s a shortcut across this field. My name’s Geoffrey Miller,’ he went on, as he opened the gate for them. ‘And this, of course, is Tinker the Terrible.’

  ‘And I’m Caroline Maitland.’ Was that a Freudian slip? Cally wondered, realising she’d given her maiden name. ‘And I think Tinker and I met before,’ she added. ‘He once gate-crashed a picnic I was at.’

  Her companion groaned. ‘Two things draw him like magnets—food and rabbits. I’ll have to start keeping him on a lead while I’m here.’

  ‘Are you on holiday?’ Cally enquired, as the first heavy spots of rain began to fall.