Miranda's Marriage

by Margery Hilton

  'Mm.' She fiddled with the sash of her wrap, then suddenly realized her blunder. Without thinking she had grabbed the prim little blue seersucker night things; the exquisite creations that were Jason's gift still hung in the shadows of the ward­robe. The stab of dismay made her bite her lip and give a distraught exclamation. She turned towards the white panelled doors, then back to the silent man.

  'Oh, Jason, I was going to try them all on, and then—' again she caught at her lower lip in distress.

  'It's a bit late for a modelling session,' he said coolly. He reached for the switch of the light above his bed. 'You'd better turn in.'

  Every aspect of his attitude seemed to denote that he was only waiting for her to climb into the other twin bed before he switched off his own light and settled down for the night. In the grip of a new bewilderment, she stared at his dark lean fea­tures. 'But—but—' she stammered through parted lips.

  'But what?' he said, almost cruelly.

  She shook her head, unable to credit the change in him a few minutes had wrought.

  'It—it's our wedding night,' she whispered at last.

  'I hadn't forgotten.'

  For long moments she faced his cool gaze, then she bent her head. Nothing had prepared her for an eventuality such as this and she was totally at a loss how to deal with it. She turned away, undoing the sash of her wrap and slipping out of the garment. She dropped it over a chair and stood stiffly, a slender, uncertain little figure in the demure frilled nightdress.

  'Miranda.'

  Slowly she turned, her face pale and set, and saw him watch­ing her with all the old cynicism in his eyes. He said flatly, 'I've little taste for duty sex, Miranda, nor does the old vestal virgin sacrifice hold much appeal at the moment. Oh, yes,' his mouth curved ironically as the shocked protest sprang to her lips, 'I knew from the moment I met you how it would be with you, but I—'

  'Then why did you marry me?'

  'You didn't hear me out,' he retorted dryly, seemingly unpro­voked by the impassioned retort. 'I was going to say I was perfectly confident that it wouldn't always be like that—even though it all goes back full circle to this loving and trusting business. Even though you've married me you don't trust me, do you?'

  'I do!' she denied hotly. 'I—'

  'You're not a very convincing fibber—but I'm not going to argue.' He sighed and his head sank back. 'For the moment let's just say that the past forty-eight hours have been a hell of a long haul—I haven't got the vodka out of my bloodstream yet—and leave it at that.'

  'I understand,' she said quietly, trying to find reassurance from this statement and failing dismally. 'You must be travel-weary.'

  'I am not travel-weary. Nor am I particularly tired,' he said grittily. 'But I'm not in the mood for a long, leisurely wooing. So I'd advise you to get your beauty sleep—in case I change my mind.'

  She felt a strange slackness in the pit of her stomach. 'If that's the way you want it…'

  'It is, and if you're honest you'll admit it's the way you want it, too.'

  Denial choked in her throat, and in silence she crept into the other bed, to curl up into a small forlorn bundle. She heard the click of his bedside lamp, and dark silence descended on the room.

  She stared wide-eyed into the night, straining to pick out the soft, even sounds of Jason's breathing, and all inclination for sleep deserted her. Like watching a playback in slow motion, she relived the hours since the wedding ceremony and tried to pin down the exact moment when the magic of enchantment had flown.

  But the answer eluded her and instead came the old invasion of memories; from those first moments of knowing Jason Steele. Those cynical, heart-chilling tones saying: 'I like women… but when I want amusement… not with scared little innocents straight out of a Victorian sermon…'

  Did he still see her like that? Was that why he spoke mock­ingly of unsuspected depths? Did he already regret their mar­riage? A deep shuddering sigh convulsed her body. The past twenty-four hours had proved an effective antidote to the poison of Susan's disclosure, but now the fear returned in full force. Was Jason involved with a married woman? Was this where his heart truly lay?

  Miranda turned over fiercely and buried her face in the pillow. She mustn't think this way. Once, perhaps, she might have believed Jason capable of such a liaison, even though her principles would hate accepting the knowledge, but not now. For if he loved one woman, who wasn't free, what possible motive could he have for marrying another, thus putting him­self even further out of reach of his love?

  But despite her despairing attempts to keep fear at bay one question throbbed in her brain. Had she made a dreadful mis­take? For though she loved Jason with all her heart, she felt totally inadequate when she compared herself with the other women who had glittered in his life. However was she to hold the interest of a man like Jason? A self-confessed explorer of feminine society.

  She hadn't made a very good start.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It seemed that sleep would elude her for ever during those long, miserable hours, even though a deadly lassitude gradually crept through her body, leaving only her mind and her emotions achingly awake.

  Once she heard Jason stir. She held her breath, wondering if he were wakeful, and wished with all her heart that he would murmur across the darkness, something from which she could take comfort. But he didn't, and she fell again into forlornness. Surely this was the most cruel kind of loneliness. Alone, yet not alone. She sank down again and pulled the light coverlet up over her face.

  The next thing she knew was a sudden awakening and that moment of startled awareness that comes with the com­prehension of surfacing to an alien surrounding. She sat up and saw that the screens were still shaded, although all the sounds outside denoted that a holiday play-day was in full swing again. Then she realized she was alone. She grabbed her watch, gasped with disbelief and held it to her ear. It must have stopped. It couldn't be three o'clock!

  But it hadn't stopped, and it was definitely day outside. She scrambled out of bed, found the bathroom empty, Jason's blue robe on a hook behind the door, and the emptiness of the casita not her imagination. Panic speeded her footsteps into the other rooms and slowed them as she returned to the bedroom. Where was Jason?

  Hastily she showered, dressed and did her hair, and though she was aware of acute thirstiness she did not stop to find some­thing to drink before she hurried outside.

  The heat hit her like a hot dry blanket as she came into the brilliant sun. The sky was cloudless, the gardens blazed brilliant colours and lush green, and the pool reflected the daz­zling cerulean heavens, dappled with floating pink blossoms and shimmers of sun-gold. Now that it was daylight she could see her immediate surroundings and for a moment interest overcame more painful emotions.

  The main bulk of the hotel lay to her left, some distance away. The terraced gardens stretched from it in a long broad half-moon shape that curved above a steep rocky hillside over­looking the bay, and dotted along the half moon were several more casitas similar to the one accommodating herself and Jason. They were all white, with gaily painted shutters and sun awnings shading the little crazy paving patios, and each one had its own small pool. As she turned her head she saw a boy and girl emerge from the next casita, some twenty yards dis­tant, and stroll to their pool. They paused on the edge of the pool, sat down on the ledge and suddenly turned into each other's arms, their mouths blending in a deep, sensuous kiss. Still bound together, they slid into the sparkling water and came up laughing, oblivious of any eyes which might observe, to drift in the pool and continue their lovemaking.

  Abruptly Miranda swallowed hard and turned away. The lost feeling closed round her again and she could not bear to watch the uninhibited joy of one another in the young lovers. Quickly she unbuttoned the brief pale green beach dress she had donned on top of her own bikini and dipped one toe into the pool. If Jason had taken off somewhere on his own she might as well take advantage of the once-in-a-lifetime occa
sion of having one's own personal swimming pool.

  It was deliciously cool, and she swam round leisurely, trying to tell herself that she didn't care, and she'd die before she ever let Jason see that she cared. But somehow she wasn't very successful, and when she saw the shadow fall across the water and saw him looking down at her a rush of tears came to her eyes.

  'Breakfast is on its way over,' he said. 'You'd better come out.'

  No hand to help her out, only the long cool appraising stare as she clambered up and stood streaming, remembering she'd forgotten to bring a towel outside and praying that the tears would be lost in the droplets glistening on her cheeks. Then his remark sank in. Breakfast!

  'You mean tea, don't you?' she said chokily. 'You might have let me know you were going off for the day.'

  'Tea? The day?' His dark brows lowered. 'What are you talking about?'

  'Don't try to be funny.' She walked past him, into the cool dimness of the casita and snatched up a towel. Avoiding him, she wrapped the towel round herself and stalked outside again.

  'You have got out on the wrong side this morning.' He laid hands on her shoulders, as though to begin drying movements. 'Want any help?'

  'No, thank you,' she said tartly. 'I can—' She stopped as she saw the little Mexican maid coming along the path and pushing a neat covered trolley. Deftly she began to unload china, dishes of prepared fruit, little rolls in a basket, and a large jug of coffee, setting them on a small table on the patio and drawing up two chairs in readiness.

  Señora…' The black eyes sparkled inquiringly as the little maid reeled off a bewildering list of items and awaited Miranda's decision.

  'She's asking if you want French, English, American or Mexican breakfast,' Jason said helpfully when the silence had lengthened somewhat.

  Miranda's lips tightened with exasperation. 'Listen, I know I slept in, but you don't need to carry things this far. Tell her I just want fruit and rolls with my coffee.'

  Jason shrugged and spoke to the girl, who smiled and set out the things. Jason sat down, reaching for the coffee-pot, and asked: 'What time did you think you woke up?'

  'Three o'clock.' She would not look at him.

  'Three o'clock!' He laughed shortly. 'You know what you forgot, don't you?'

  When she failed to reply he glanced at her. 'You forgot to adjust your watch to Central Time—there's six hours' difference. Three o'clock!' he taunted.

  'I knew about that,' she returned stiffly. 'But I decided to leave it till I got here and alter my watch when I wound it last night. Instead of moving it on every hour or so.'

  'Then you forgot.'

  Suddenly she wished he would take that superior grin off his face. Was that all he could talk about? Her foolishness over such a small matter? With trembling fingers she split and but­tered a roll, and exclaimed sharply: 'So what? What does it matter?'

  The effect she had wished for was achieved. The grin van­ished and chill came into eyes. 'True.' He shrugged. 'What does it matter?'

  In silence he helped himself to black coffee and unfolded his newspaper. The chill crept perceptibly across the table, and Miranda forgot her brief spasm of pique. The mouthful of roll threatened to choke her and all the memories of the previous night rose up again to taunt and disparage. She began to feel like a child who knows it has failed, in spite of its longing to please, and again she began the despairing self-interrogation. Why had she experienced that instinct to evade Jason last night, allowed it to prevent her responding when he started to make love to her? It would be stupid to deny those brief, bewildering moments of evasion, or deceive herself into believing that he had not sensed them, and even more stupid to deny the effect he had on her… Just the thought of his touch sent tremors coursing through her and brought instant awareness of those hitherto latent desires he had wakened to compelling power.

  She was no nearer an answer, or the way to breaking the barrier she sensed between them this morning, when he folded the paper and announced coolly:

  'I've ordered a car. I thought you might like to explore the town.' He stood up and strolled to the side of the pool. 'It'll be here in about fifteen minutes, so you'd better change.'

  Without response she did as he bade. When she emerged he was still standing there, having apparently not moved from his idle stance.

  'Ready?' He picked up his sunglasses from the patio table and donned them as he moved forward.

  The big dark lenses added further to his enigmatical dis­position and she sighed as she walked with him to where the car waited on die sweep in front of the hotel.

  There were many sights to engage her interest that day. The luxurious shops and trendy cafes to attract the tourists, the occasional glimpses of the little thoroughfares behind the wealthy façade where the true town had its daily existence in shabby apartment houses that seemed to lean towards each other under the weight of balconies festooned with flower boxes and lines of washing.

  Jason had booked a table for lunch at a restaurant over­looking the sea, and from where she was sitting Miranda could see right across the bay to the lush green of the hills that rose steeply all round the almost land-locked natural harbour. It was a breathtaking view, and only one of many she was to encounter as they continued their exploration. But the intangible barrier remained, marring what would otherwise have been a day of intense joy of discovery.

  As the afternoon ended she began to feel hot, sticky and tired, and she was not sorry when Jason said it was time to make their way back to the hotel. He announced his intention of showering and having a swim in the huge main pool at the far side of the hotel, but as they got out of the car Jason heard his name called by a surprised voice and swung round to find a burly, middle-aged man advancing towards him.

  The newcomer proved to be an American business acquaint­ance of Jason's, and when he discovered the nature of the oc­casion he insisted that Miranda and Jason should be his guests for dinner that evening.

  'It's got to be tonight,' he said, smiling at Miranda with that easy friendliness most Americans seemed able to adopt towards someone newly met. 'I'm checking out in the morning. Now, Jason, don't look so reluctant! I insist! This is one occasion we've got to celebrate.'

  His name was Don, and Miranda took to him immediately, despite the faint reluctance she thought she sensed in Jason. Over drinks he talked of his own family back in Oakland, of his own daughter's approaching wedding and the hectic prep­arations for it, and quizzed Miranda gently about her back­ground. When they parted, after arranging to meet later in the evening, Miranda was feeling less despondent than earlier in the day.

  'What are clavadistas?' she asked Jason as they changed for dinner. 'Don said something about seeing them tonight.'

  'They're divers.' Jason said no more, intent on his reflection as he settled the lapels of his immaculate dinner jacket.

  He looked more darkly saturnine than ever in slim-fitting dark pants and the contrasting white jacket, and suddenly she wished she could go into his arms, to be held hard against his heart and feel the warm smooth skin of his lean jaw-line under her fingertips. But she could not make the first move, the fear of a repulse was too great, and with a small sigh she added the finishing touch of perfume, then surveyed her reflection criti­cally.

  She was wearing a long flowing skirt of wine red panne velvet and a close-fitting blouse of white lace with tiny lace-covered buttons down the front and a wide deep vee neckline that moulded her firm young breasts and revealed the pearly smoothness of her shoulders. Her hair was drawn back sleekly and secured with a wine velvet ribbon bow at the nape of her neck, and she was suddenly confident that she looked her best. Her heartbeats quickened as Jason ran an appraising glance over her, but he made no comment, beyond a 'Ready?' ac­companied by the now familiar lift of dark brows, and the tremulous heartbeats slowed again with disappointment.

  Her host, however, had no such restraint. Don Westford paid her the homage of admiration in the nicest possible way, but brought the warm
rush of rose into her cheeks when he re­marked on Jason's fortune in winning himself so charming a young bride.

  It was a wonderful meal, with a genial man who was a born host, in a wonderfully romantic setting. Their table was placed on a lamplit terrace right on the edge of a towering cliff which overlooked a deep inlet far below. The sea rushed and roared against the base of the cliffs, as though it would rend the rocks apart, booming its power and sending great curls of spume high into the air. Lights beneath caught those tossing plumes in their rays and lent them a ghostly radiance, and for a few moments Miranda leaned over the rail and watched, fascinated.

  She was feeling a little more relaxed now and a little bit happier. The soft glow of the lamp amid the flowers on the table touched her cheeks with a beautiful luminous rose and revealed the soft appeal in her eyes of which she was quite unaware. The champagne began to lend its own particular magic, and when it was time for the clavadista to appear she gave an incredulous gasp.

  'He isn't going to dive from there!'

  Don nodded, and silence came along the terrace as the slen­der youth clambered lithely up to a pinnacle of rock high on the cliff opposite the terrace. In his hands he held two flaring torches, and poised there, motionless. Then the torches arced above his head as he sprang and flowed into a spectacular wake of brilliance that plummeted like a falling star to the water, more than a hundred feet below.

  Miranda blinked, and many other throats echoed the sigh she gave.

  'The water's only about three fathoms deep there, I believe,' Don said. 'Fantastic'

  'Is—is he all right?' she whispered, looking fearfully down towards the cove.

  'Till the next performance.' Jason leaned over, his profile carved by the lamplit shadows. 'Yes, there he is.'

  The clavadista was scrambling ashore now, clambering over the rocks and disappearing out of Miranda's range of vision.

  It was almost time to go; the cigars were burning down and that sense of satiety after a rich meal and good wine had stolen imperceptibly over the party. The two men conversed in a lazy, desultory way as they returned to the hotel, and Miranda said good-bye to Don with a sense of genuine regret for a new friendship so soon parted. Would he see them in London soon? Would they ever take up his invitation to visit him and his family next time business took Jason to the States. If all the short friendships we made became permanent what countless friends we would have, she thought as Jason opened the casita door and stood aside for her to enter.