by Sara Craven
When Piers found her at last, hours later, Chay was with him, still wearing that betraying grey jacket, and somehow that was the worst thing of all.
She screamed at him, 'You did this! I saw you! I hate you!' And she picked up the stone and threw it at him.
She saw the blood on his cheek, and the grey eyes turn to chips of ice. And realised she had lost her friend forever.
Adrien came back, shivering, to the present, to find that her arms were wrapped protectively round her body. Each memory, it seemed, still had claws to tear her apart.
How could he do that? She asked herself stormily. I was a thoughtless child. I didn't deserve that. He didn't care that I was frightened. Didn't think that I could have fallen and hurt myself badly—or even been killed.
She'd been taken home and fussed over, given a hot bath and warm milk, and been tucked into bed. But she hadn't been able to sleep, and she'd got up and gone to her parents' room. The door had been ajar, and she'd heard them talking in low voices.
"The boy's dangerous,' her father had been saying. 'Angus has always been afraid of something like this.'
She hadn't been able to hear her mother's response, only her father's incisive, 'Oh, he'll be sent away, of course. There's no alternative.'
And the next day Chay had been gone from the Grange. She'd told herself she was glad. That she never wanted to see him again.
But he'd come back, of course, bringing different trouble with him.
And now he was here to stay, and more dangerous than ever. Because she was in his power, trapped again, with no means of escape apart from the terms he himself had offered.
Terms she'd accepted, and now had to fulfill. Before it was too late, and his patience was exhausted. Or his transient desire for her passed...
She slid down from the seat, her face fixed and set. Nothing could change the past, but she needed to make sure her future was secure. Too much depended on the deal she'd made with Chay, and now she had to keep her side of it.
The peignoir she'd bought for her honeymoon was in the wardrobe, swathed in tissue. Without giving herself time to think again, Adrien pulled her cotton nightshirt over her head and dropped it on the floor. The gossamer ivory peignoir spilled into her hands for a long moment.
So fragile, she thought. So transparent. Wearing it, a woman would have no defenses. Seeing it, a man would have no doubts. Swallowing, she put it on, tying the ribbons that fastened it at throat and waist.
The silk whispered round her as she left her room and went silently down the corridor.
He would probably be asleep, she thought, with self-derision. And her grand gesture of capitulation would be totally wasted.
But he was awake, propped up on one elbow and reading. The dark green coverlet had been pushed back, and a sheet just covered the curve of his lean hip. Beneath it he was clearly naked, and it occurred to her that she'd never I seen a naked man before. Apart from pictures, she amended dizzily, and no amount of paint or film could ever have prepared her for the warm, living reality. She thought she hadn't made a sound, but his head lifted J instantly, sharply, and he stared at her, marking the place in his book with a finger. He said softly, 'Insomnia would seem to be catching.'
'Yes.' Her voice was husky. She felt heat rise in her face, flood through her body under the sensuous intensity of his gaze.
'The hot drinks are in the kitchen,' he said after a pause. 'I don't use sleeping pills. So, what can I do for you, Adrien?' It sounded like a civil question. The courteous host enquiring after the wellbeing of a guest Only she knew differently...
'Chay.' Her voice broke huskily. 'Don't make this more difficult than it has to be.'
He leaned back against the pillows, watching her from under lowered lids. 'The problem's all in your mind, Adrien. It always has been. Ever since you decided I was your enemy.'
'I was a child,' she said. 'A little girl.'
'Not you, my pet. You were a woman the moment you were born. I watched you grow up—remember?' He touched a hand mockingly to his cheek. 'It scarred me for life.'
'You're not the only one with scars,' she said.
'Those hours I spent in the treehouse still give me nightmares. I— I had one earlier tonight.'
'If you've come here to be comforted,' he said, with a touch of harshness, 'think again.'
She said steadily. 'You know why I'm here.'
His smile mocked faintly. 'You look like a bride on her wedding night. But appearances can be deceptive.'
Her throat tightened. 'That cuts both ways. I don't know who you are any more. Or what you are.'
He shrugged a tanned shoulder. 'I'm a man whose money you need. I thought we'd established that.'
He closed his book and put it on the night table with a certain finality, then took one of the pillows from behind him and tossed it on to the bed at his side. Turned back the edge of the sheet in invitation. He said softly, 'Well, make your move, darling. I'm all attention.'
She paused helplessly. 'Will you—turn off the lamp— please?'
'No,' he said. 'I want to look at you. You can't walk in here wearing something as revealing as that exquisite piece of nonsense then play the modesty card. So take it off, my lovely one, and walk towards me. Slowly.'
'You don't understand.' She hesitated, her hand on the ribbon at her throat. 'I've never—I mean, I'm not into casual sex.'
'Who said this was going to be casual?' The grey eyes seemed to burn into hers. 'Now come here, or do I have to fetch you?'
She'd never been naked in front of a man before either, she thought as she loosened the ribbons. And she'd been crazy to think she could stay detached—treat this as some routine task. She wanted it to be dark, so that she didn't have to see the stark hunger in his face. She wanted silence, so she couldn't hear the sudden harsh breath he drew as she let the peignoir fall from her shoulders. She wanted it finished, so mat she would never feel so helpless and so—stupid again.
She was aware of every hammering pulse beat in her body. Could feel the dark race of her own blood as she walked to the bed. There was an iron bar constricting her chest—or was that just because she was holding her breath?
When she reached the bed, she sank down on to it, her hands gripping the edge of the mattress. She bent her head, letting her hair fall forward and shield her flushed face. And waited.
She thought she heard him sigh, then sensed movement and realised that he was kneeling behind her. She tensed, but his fingers were gentle, brushing her hair from her neck, exposing the sensitive nape to the warmth of his lips. She moved restively, surprised—disturbed—at the shiver of reaction that feathered through her, and felt his hands close on her shoulders, stilling her.
His mouth moved slowly downward, covering the taut skin over her shoulder blades, then beginning to trace, softly and sensuously, the long, delicate line of her spine.
Adrien released her pent-up breath in a gasp that was only part shock, her back arching in response to his caress. He pulled her back towards him so that she was leaning against him, the heat of his body penetrating her frozen inner core of panic and shame, dissolving it slowly away.
His arms encircled her, his hands sliding down to enjoy the involuntary thrust of her breasts, the long fingers moulding their softness while the palms moved in aching provocation against her hardening nipples.
Her head fell back on his shoulder, allowing him to kiss her throat, and she felt the hot flicker of his tongue in the whorls of her ear.
She was trembling in earnest now, but not with fear, consumed by a maelstrom of other far more unwelcome emotions. Her throat muscles were quivering under the caress of his mouth. Her breasts were swelling, blossoming with excitement under the subtle play of his fingers, and this wasn't how she'd planned it at all.
She hadn't bargained for her own curiosity, she thought dazedly. For the frustrations of her relationship with Piers. It was those dreams, those longings which had awoken he
r. It had to be.
Because it couldn't be the hands and lips of the man who was holding her. Who was turning her gently in his embrace, lowering her to the pillow so that she was lying beside him—beneath him—his nakedness grazing hers. Whose mouth was seeking hers, caressing her lips, then coaxing her lips apart to accept the heated silk of his tongue.
His hands clasped hers, raising them above her head so that he could feast on the satin skin of her underarms, while his leg slid across, covering both of hers, pinning her to the bed, so that she could not have moved even if she'd wanted to.
Making her realise, to her shame, that it was the last thing she wanted.
Then he began to kiss her breasts, adoring their scented roundness, letting his lips tug softly at her nipples, sending shafts of sensation racing like tiny flames through her restless body.
She found she was lifting herself towards him, mutely begging for the sweet agony of his tongue against the rosy engorged peaks.
Chay sighed again, this time with soft satisfaction, his breath fanning her heated skin as he pleasured her.
He'd released her hands, and now she felt the lingering whisper of his fingers on her body, discovering every curve and angle on their slow downward path. His hands moulded her hipbone, then slid inward to the soft pulsating hollow, where he paused. She was caught, held tantalisingly on some unimagined brink. She tried to say, No, but all that emerged was a tiny sound like a whimper, while that too was stifled by his kiss.
His hand was at the junction of her thighs, stroking the silky triangle of hair, silently teasing her into allowing him the more intimate access he wanted. And she could feel her body melting, the responding rush of scalding heat that welcomed the first devastating glide of his fingers. The breath came sobbing from her lungs as his exploration of her deepened, creating a need—a reaction—that she could not control. Her body was opening for him, demanding him, so that when he moved across her—over her—his hands lifting her hips to meet the burning force of his possession, denial was impossible. It was so right, so totally imperative, that Adrien had no inkling that her inexperienced flesh might resist this initial invasion. The sudden unexpected pain jolted her into a small shocked cry, her eyes dilating as she tried, too late, to push him away from her. He said, 'Adrien?' his voice harsh and urgent, then the bewilderment in his face changed to a kind of horrified comprehension.
He groaned her name again, but this time it was a plea for forgiveness as his driven body, establishing its ownership beyond question or control, was impelled towards the point of no return.
She closed her eyes, pressing a clenched fist against her mouth as, at last, she felt the frenzied spasms tearing him apart, and heard him cry out in a kind of agony.
Then it was over, his body sinking against hers in heavy quietude, the hoarseness of his breathing slowing to normality.
She lay, unmoving, unable to differentiate between the ache of her wrenched body and the sharper pain of disappointment twisting inside her, and a single tear squeezed from under her closed lid and burned its way down her cheek.
She saw him wince, then silently take the corner of the sheet and wipe the tear away. Then he lifted himself away from her, putting space between them on the bed.
There was a long pause, then he said very quietly,
'Why didn't you tell me, Adie?'
T didn't think you'd know.' She bit her lip.
'And I thought it wouldn't matter.'
'But you're wrong,' he said. 'Because it makes one hell of a difference, and in all kinds of ways.'
'I—I don't see how.' She drew a quick, shaky breath. 'This was what we agreed.'
His mouth tightened. T could at least have made it— easier for you.' There was another silence, then he said slowly, 'I assumed, you see, that you'd slept with Mendoza.'
'He said we'd wait.' Her voice trembled. 'He said he wanted a white wedding—and a wedding night that meant something.'
He nodded, his face like a stone. 'And that's what you should have had, Adie.' He sighed harshly. 'Oh, God, what a bloody mess.'
She turned her head on the pillow and looked at him. He was so careful, she thought, not to touch her. Yet she needed to be touched. Held. Comforted—and loved... Dear God. What am I saying? What am I thinking?
She kept her voice expressionless. 'He didn't mean it. He just wanted someone to work on the house for him and keep costs down. He didn't love me—and he didn't want to make love to me either. I see that now.'
'Then we're both marginally wiser than we were an hour ago.' Chay flung off the tangled sheet and swung himself off the bed, causing Adrien to look away hastily. Nothing was ever going to erase the memory of his body, naked against hers, but she didn't need any visual reminders to go with it; He disappeared into the bathroom, reappearing a few minutes later tying the belt of a white towelling robe. He said, 'I'm running you a bath. How badly did I hurt you?'
She tried to smile. 'I'll live.' She paused, her eyes searching his face. 'Chay—it had to happen some time. It's—not important.'
'There we disagree.' He bent and picked up the crumpled peignoir. T was right when I said you looked like a bride.' The grey eyes were chilly. 'I presume you bought this for Piers?'
'Yes.' Adrien lifted her chin. 'But I wore it for you.'
'Strange.' His mouth twisted. 'I only remember you taking it off. I'll go and check your bath.'
'I don't need a bath,' she said. 'But I'd really like to sleep for a while.'
'If that's what you want.' He put the peignoir down on the bed beside her. 'You'd better put this on.'
'To sleep in?' She was bewildered.
'No,' he said. 'To wear back to your own room.'
She stared at him, her heart beating a little faster as she huddled the peignoir around her. 'You—you don't want me to stay here?'
His smile was wintry. T think enough damage has been done already—don't you? Besides, virgin sacrifices have never been to my taste.' He tied the ribbons for her, his fingers impersonal, almost brisk.
'So it's best if you leave the Grange tomorrow.'
She sat very still, staring up at him. 'But—but Chay...' Her voice trembled into silence as she tried to find the right words.
His brows lifted. 'You're concerned you won't be paid if I go back on our deal?'
No, she thought blankly, that hadn't even entered her mind. Her attempt at protest had been on far more complex grounds, which she was still struggling to understand. Which she was frightened to face. She lifted her chin. 'Of course,' she said. 'What else?'
'Well, don't worry, darling.' His tone was almost casual. 'You'll get your money.'
If he'd slapped her face she couldn't have felt more hurt, or more humiliated. She'd expected reassurance, and instead she was faced with rejection. Piers hadn't wanted her, she thought numbly. And now Chay was turning her away too. And suddenly—for some unfathomable reason—she felt as if she was dying inside.
Dear God, she thought, swallowing. What's happening to me?
But she couldn't think about that now. Because the important thing—indeed, the only thing—was to get out of this room somehow, with what little remained of her pride. Before she said something— made some plea—that she would regret bitterly later. Or even broke down and cried like a baby. He mustn't know how I feel, she thought. He must never find out.
From some hidden store of courage she conjured up a smile, and she rose to her feet and straightened her shoulders.
'Thank you,' she said, lightly. 'Somehow that makes it all—almost—worthwhile.' And she walked to the door and went out, without looking back.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Adrien walked slowly and steadily to her room, but once the door was closed behind her she collapsed against it, gasping for breath as if she'd just run a marathon.
The pressure of the past week had got to her at last, and she'd gone slightly crazy. That was the only feasible explanation.
; She could rationalise until she was blue in the face. She could come up with a whole range of excuses. But the truth was she'd gone to Chay tonight because she'd wanted him. And not just with her body, she admitted bleakly. Her heart and mind had surrendered too.
Even reliving the childhood trauma he'd inflicted on her hadn't deflected her even for a minute. I was never able to remember it before, she thought wonderingly. Not in its entirety. I didn't want to examine the pain he'd caused too closely. So why did I choose to do it—tonight of all nights? Why did I torture myself all over again? It makes no sense.
Yet even with all those memories—all that cause to hate him—she'd gone to him. Offered herself and been taken.
And then sent away.
And that, she thought, was the ultimate act of cruelty. None of the other things he'd done to her even came close.
It was pointless to remind herself that she was now free to leave. That, in essence, she'd beaten him. Because if this was victory, she never wanted to face defeat.
She stripped off the peignoir and threw it, rolled into a ball, to the back of the wardrobe. She never wanted to see it again. Tomorrow it would go in the firebox of the Aga.
Her body felt alien. She was wearing the scent of his skin, and if she was ever to close her eyes in peace again she had to rid herself of it. Along with some even more potent memories.
She'd allowed herself to be haunted by the past for far too long already. Now she would have the remembrance of Chay's hands touching her, the heat of his mouth on her eager flesh, to colour her dreams and twist her waking hours into helpless longing.
She hadn't known it was possible to want someone so badly, she realised. And telling herself that she was just a chronic case of sexual frustration, that any man would have done, was simply self-deception. Because Chay had always been part of her life. He'd been her friend, her enemy, and, tonight, her lover.
It was as if every moment in her existence had been preparing her—leading her up to this. And now it was over.