“I couldn’t, it wouldn’t be fair.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to, but a chap can’t help thinking about it. I’m mad for you.”
He stood up suddenly, bringing her with him. “Mr. and Mrs. Clarke, would you object if I took your daughter for a short walk?”
Silence.
“No, we don’t object, but don’t go too far,” Frank finally said.
“You’re forgetting they aren’t ten years old, Frank.” Allison reprimanded him with a smile.
“Daphne’s very young.”
“I’m eighteen.”
“We won’t be long.” Paul clasped Daphne’s hand. “It’s such a pleasant evening.”
They walked in the opposite direction to town, and the gravel along the roadside crunched loudly in the stillness. Within a short time they were out of the built-up area and concealed from the roadway by a clump of saplings.
He took her in his arms. His lips burned fiercely against hers and his tongue teased and stroked the inside of her mouth, darting, flicking, as he stoked the fires of his passion. Soon this wasn’t enough. He wanted to taste her flesh.
“Oh, Sunshine.” He worked frantically at her clothing, until his fingers felt the creamy fullness of her breasts. His tongue caressed the nipples into throbbing, sensitive peaks and she pressed herself closer to him. The top two buttons on his shirt came undone, and he felt her lips on the hot, damp skin of his throat.
Common decency forced him to let her go eventually. He could not take her here on the side of the road like some rutting animal, not with her parents less than a quarter of a mile away.
“We better get back.” He could not decide which was worse, not touching her at all, or suffering the agonies of not being fulfilled after kissing and caressing her. She was so beautiful, her unblemished loveliness drove him crazy with desire.
They ambled back, and once in the lighted area he checked to make sure her clothing was back in place.
“Did you have a nice stroll?” Frank casually asked from behind the evening paper.
“Yes, thank you.” They answered in unison. Daphne’s voice sounded low, almost husky. A slight redness flawed her cheeks from the roughness of his beard. Her lips were slightly swollen from his fierce kisses, and he wondered whether the Clarkes noticed or not.
Throughout the evening Mrs. Clarke had watched him when she thought herself unobserved, her blue eyes puzzled, almost bewildered, as they took in his every movement. Paul found himself watching her also. The way she walked, the almost nervous way she kept touching her hair. They were like two actors playing a part neither of them quite understood.
Chapter 7
Next morning Daphne woke early. It felt good being home in her own room, yet the single bed she had slept in since childhood seemed empty, over large because Paul wasn’t sharing it with her. It could not be wrong for them to have made love, even when they weren’t married, because they cared so deeply about each other. Yet her behavior went against everything she had ever been taught. Her parents would be devastated that she had forgotten the values they had instilled in her, and society would call her a fallen woman.
She stared into the mirror as she dragged the brush through her hair, hoping that the physical pain of untangling knots would ease her guilt.
The aroma of bacon and eggs drew her to the kitchen, and she realized how hungry she was. Paul and Rob sat at the table tucking into breakfast with gusto, while her mother filled the teapot with boiling water.
“Good morning.” Paul made to rise.
“Stay there. Did you sleep well?” Daphne asked.
“Yes.” He subsided back into the chair with a grin. “Except this young wretch woke me up at daybreak.”
“It was five o’clock, best part of the morning. We went for a ride out to Milawa.”
“Rob, you didn’t!”
“Why not? I loaned him Tom’s bike.”
“They were both up before your father, Daphne,” her mother said. “You were the lazy bones today.”
“Has Dad gone to work?”
“Yes, he’s got a few things to tidy up. He’s decided to take the days off between Christmas and New Year.”
“Why don’t you go away for a holiday?” Daphne asked.
“Who would look after you children?”
“We’re not children, and I could look after us. Paul could help me keep young Robert in order.”
“Daffy, Daffy,” the youth teased back.
Paul raised his eyebrows.
“Tom’s nickname. Reckons she’s a bit on the daffy side. Used to throw tantrums as a kid. Scream, kick, all that kind of stuff.”
“Robert Clarke, you’re exaggerating. What about it, Mum? Why don’t you and Dad go somewhere for a few days?”
“We couldn’t even if we wanted to. It’s too late to book in somewhere. Besides, Tom’s coming home.”
After breakfast, Daphne prepared their picnic lunch. Paul asked Rob to come along as a matter of courtesy. Whether Rob realized this, or perhaps just couldn’t be bothered, she didn’t know. Nevertheless, she was glad when he refused the invitation; it meant she could have Paul all to herself.
The countryside was at its best right now with wild, almost impenetrable bush on either side of the road, and in the distance the pine covered mountains sent out a perfume all of their own. Driving at a leisurely pace, he admired the rugged grandeur of the Alps far into the distance. In such bright sunshine it was hard to believe that the mountains would be capped with snow in the winter.
Finally, he drove off the road, following a rutted track right into the heart of the bush. In the shelter of some trees they laid out a rug and set up their picnic.
With his hair blown into wavy confusion, he looked younger and more carefree than she had ever seen him before. Together they gathered wood to start their fire in a cleared section of bush. Water from a stream close by was cold as freshly melted snow.
Like children freed from parental restraint, they chased each other, laughing and kissing often. Then their appetites sharpened by exertion, they quickly disposed of the food, which somehow tasted better up here.
Holding hands they climbed and explored. From some rocky outcrops they could see for miles. The cattle in the distant valleys looked like ants, and a wisp of smoke now and again was the only sign of human habitation.
It was inevitable. In such beauty and aloneness, he could no more control his passion than he could tame the wind. Soon kissing wasn’t enough. He wanted all of Daphne’s sweetness, and with the scented pine needles carpeting their bed, he sought to assuage the hunger and sheer carnal need built up over the last two days.
He wasn’t being fair to her. What he expected went against the very upbringing she had received. After meeting the Clarkes, he knew this for certain, yet still he took what she offered and craved more. Thank goodness he had remembered to put some French letters in his wallet. Coitus interruptus was dangerous when he wanted Daphne so desperately.
When his passion was finally spent, he slid out of her love canal and rested his cheek against her soft pubic curls, inhaling her special womanly scent. “I’m sorry, Sunshine.” His hand cupped her bare hip. “I shouldn’t expect so much from you.”
“You do love me? I couldn’t bear it if you were just using me.”
“Of course I love you. I adore you. Worship you.” He shifted his hand and reached up, using the flat of his thumb to wipe the tears away from her cheek. “Don’t cry please. I love you more than life itself. It’s the truth. I swear it. Let me speak to your parents. If I use my father’s influence, we could be married before the New Year.”
“Not until Boxing Day, please, Paul. It isn’t long to wait.”
“It is for me. An hour is too long.”
“Please.” A finger against his mouth cut off the retort springing to his lips.
“All right,” he finally capitulated.
They arrived home late in the afternoon, and Mrs. Clarke watched them walk insi
de hand in hand. He saw the spurt of anger, initially flashing through Mrs. Clarke’s big blue eyes, give way to dread. He felt hot with embarrassment, like a guilty schoolboy. She knew. Daphne’s mother knew what had taken place today. He would stake his life on it.
“Tom’s home,” Mrs. Clarke said.
“Where is he, Mum?”
“In the sitting room.”
“Come on, Paul. I want you to meet Tom.” Daphne tugged at his hand.
They entered the sitting room together. A tall young man with a thick thatch of blond hair bounded to his feet, laughter lurking in his sparkling blue eyes.
“Daffy, Daffy.”
Paul watched in astonishment as strong, tanned arms enfolded Daphne’s waist and she was picked up from the ground and swung around several times.
“Don’t be an idiot, Tom. Put me down. I want you to meet Paul.”
“Pleased to meet you, Tom.”
“G’day.” The grin softened his abrupt greeting. “Well, how’s things Daffy?”
“Good, but don’t call me that.”
The atmosphere became charged now. Tom teased and tormented both Daphne and Rob, but never maliciously, and Paul found himself liking the young man. A special bond existed between mother and son. Nothing was said, but he felt it. He had noticed it at breakfast time, how Mrs. Clarke’s expression had softened when she said his name. Her tender smile had given her face a poignant beauty, of which she was quite unaware.
It was obvious from the endearments, the hugs and caresses that she loved Daphne and Rob, but with Tom, there was something special, a tangible something he couldn’t understand.
“Ah, Tom,” Frank Clarke’s greeted was cordial when he arrived home. “I suppose we can expect a never-ending stream of young women passing through the house now. How long are you home for?”
“A few days.”
“Tom has dozens of girls. Half the women in Wangaratta are in love with him,” Daphne said. “He breaks their hearts on purpose.”
“Rot.”
Paul deftly caught the bread roll aimed at Daphne. The whole family were laughing and happy because Tom was home.
* * *
For the Christmas Eve dance, Daphne wore a pale blue crepe dress with a shirred bodice and sleeves. The waistline was embroidered with beads, a shade or two darker than the frock. Paul and Tom both wore suits, of course.
The hall was already crowded when the three of them arrived. Not many cars were parked outside, but the full attendance was evidenced by numerous bicycles, even a couple of horses. Inside the simple wooden structure, brightly colored paper streamers gave it a rather schoolroom look, Paul thought.
Daphne, smiling and laughing as she introduced him to her friends, was without doubt the prettiest girl in the room. He felt annoyed with Tom for snatching her away for the first dance, and he would have to be blind not to notice the number of male eyes following Daphne around. He didn’t know how he had the strength to stop himself from dashing out on the dance floor and snatching her out of Tom’s arms.
“Here she is, safe and sound. I’ve done my duty by you.” Tom grinned. “So you’ll be stuck with her now, mate.” Still laughing, Tom strode towards a group of girls on the opposite side of the hall.
It felt wonderful having Daphne back in his arms again. Paul held her close, savoring the sweet, subtle perfume of her. She was in great demand from various young men, but one in particular set his teeth on edge. Tonight, for the first time in his life he tasted real jealousy. White hot, it seared right through him. He hated the thought of any of them touching her at all. When this particular young man drew her into a close embrace on the dance floor, he could stand it no longer and pushed his way through the dancing throng.
“Excuse me, it must be my turn.” He drew Daphne away. “You’re flirting,” he accused jealously.
“I am not.”
“You are.” He crushed her hard against him.
“Stop it, Paul.”
“I feel like breaking your neck, and theirs too.”
Her lips curved into a smile. “You’re jealous.”
“Hell, I’ve hardly had you in my arms all night.”
“They’re my friends. I went to school with most of them.”
“God, I’ve never been jealous before in my whole life.”
“You don’t have to be.” She stroked his cheek. “I love you, Paul; there won’t ever be anyone else for me.”
“Let’s get out of here. I want you to myself for a while.”
“We can’t. I mean, people will see.”
“To hell with them.”
“They know my parents. I don’t want to get myself gossiped about.”
Daphne was enjoying a wonderful evening. A chance to meet old friends, catch up on all the latest gossip, and most importantly to show Paul off. He was polite to them all, but rather distant, and she knew he wasn’t particularly enjoying himself.
After supper a number of people decided to go to the midnight service at Holy Trinity.
“Don’t go with them,” he urged.
“But I always go. It’s a special service.”
“Please, we could go for a drive.”
“A drive?”
“Well, a walk then. I want some time alone with you. Tomorrow there’ll be your family. It’s Christmas Eve, our first one together. I only want to share it with you, no one else.”
“Paul.”
“Please, Sunshine. Let me have tonight. Go to church tomorrow.”
When he called her by his pet name in that soft, intimate voice, she could refuse him nothing.
They left the hall with the group, but once in the darkness they detached themselves, waiting until the others left before making their way to the car. He drove slowly, and she was pressed up close to his side. He did not speak, but his arm, draped across her shoulder, moved every now and again, so his fingers could caress one side of her face. From the main road they followed a small, rutted track heading away from civilization.
Paul helped her out of the car and they wandered, hand in hand, towards the river. Here it was quiet and dark. The water flowing silently by looked black, fathomless. He chose a grassed section beneath the thick overhang of a weeping willow as their love nest. Even if someone should wander down to the river they would remain hidden from view.
He was as ardent and demanding as before, but there was consideration and a gentleness about him tonight. He had thoroughly explored and caressed her body each time they made love. Tonight, for the first time she allowed her hands to wander freely across his taut, hard stomach until her fingers tangled in the coarse springy hair crowning his throbbing arousal.
He was so powerfully male, so virile she thought, sliding her hand along the silken, hard length of his manhood.
“Oh, God.” His breath came out in a harsh, labored pant, as he fumbled for a French letter and sheathed himself.
They lay together for a time savoring each other’s nearness, touching, kissing, caressing. She never wanted to leave the safety and protection of his arms.
“We should be going now. After we’re married I’d like us to consummate our marriage here,” he told her huskily. “But no bloody French letters. It’s like having a bath with your socks on,” he complained, with a rueful laugh.
“You poor man!” Daphne teased him, but she was glad he wanted to protect her from conceiving a baby out of wedlock. It made her love him even more.
The house was in darkness when they arrived home, but the verandah light had been left on. They kissed each other in the hallway before going their separate ways to bed.
Chapter Eight
On Christmas morning, Daphne was so excited she did not even wait to dress, but slipped on a dressing gown and raced barefooted out to the sitting room to check on the presents under the Christmas tree. Tom lay sprawled out on the couch fully clothed. She had heard him come home hours after she was tucked into bed. Gingery stubble covered his jaw, and his long, thick eyelashes almost reste
d on his cheeks.
“Tom.”
He opened his eyes and carefully sat up. “Ooh, my aching head.”
“I’ll make you some tea if you like.”
“Thanks, nothing to eat though,” he groaned. “Had a few too many beers last night.”
“A lot too many, I’d say. You’ll get no sympathy from me. I saw you sneaking off.”
“I came back and you were gone too.”
She flushed guiltily. “There was the midnight service at Holy Trinity.”
“You weren’t there, Daph.”
“Oh?”
“I went past about midnight. No sign of the car. Be careful of him, I’d hate you to get hurt.”
“Don’t you like Paul?”
“Yes, seems a decent enough sort. Bit of a snob, though.”
“He isn’t, Tom.”
Rob wandered in, still wearing his pajamas. “Merry Christmas all.”
His arms were laden with neatly wrapped presents. “I forgot to put them under the tree last night. Bit late back, weren’t you, Daph?”
“Let’s give Mum and Dad breakfast in bed,” she suggested. “Remember how we used to?”
“Ugh, burnt toast and cold tea.” Tom grimaced. “I don’t know how they were able to swallow any of it.”
While Tom made toast, Daphne set up the tray. “Toast and tea, we don’t have time for anything fancy, or Mum will be up.”
Paul wandered in next, wearing burgundy silk pajamas with a matching dressing gown. “I wondered what all the laughter was about.” He spoke to no one in particular, but his eyes went straight to her.
“We’re organizing breakfast in bed for Mum and Dad,” she told him cheerfully.
“Really?”
“When we were kids we did it without fail.” Tom chuckled. “Burnt toast and cold tea, slopped in the saucer.”
“It’s the thought that counts, don’t you think, Paul? You can help us if you like,” Daphne invited.
“No, I’ll watch. Too many cooks spoil the broth as the saying goes.”
When it was ready, Tom dashed outside to pick a yellow rosebud. “The final touch.” He laid it beside the neatly folded napkins with a flourish.
A Mortal Sin Page 8