Pagan Lover

by Anne Hampson

  ‘No, Leon, I haven’t changed my mind about marrying you.’

  ‘You want to marry me—say it.’

  ‘I want to marry you.’

  The dress left her body and she stood before his gaze, colour filtering into her cheeks.

  ‘How beautiful you are.’ Leon traced the pattern of her mouth and chin, his touch feather-soft as it reached her breast. One strap of her bra was slipped down and he looked his fill—and suddenly his gaze seemed lecherous. She found a tangle of thoughts and ideas spiralling in her mind, pictures of scenes such as this, but with other women involved. Sickeningly she was thinking: how many women’s breasts has he looked upon as he’s looking upon mine now? She saw these women as she was, totally under the domination of this man, their will-power sapped beneath the lustful, animal strength of his. And, lastly, she saw David, and an hotel bedroom where she was running willingly into his gentle, loving arms. A terrible shuddering seized her near naked body and a flood of tears, which must surely have been gathered in a cloud behind her eyes all the time, was released, blinding her vision.

  ‘What the hell’s wrong now!’ The fury in his voice came over to her, but that in his black eyes had to be imagined. She was sobbing hysterically and in his anger he did no more than grip her by the shoulders and shake her. ‘Pull yourself together!’ he thundered. ‘So much can be endured, but this is beyond everything! A moment ago you were happy, and now this absurd weeping. Pull yourself together, I say!’

  She rubbed at her eyes and could see him as if through a mist. At least, she thought with a vague sense of wonder, his ardour seemed to have cooled. When she spoke it was in the soft, sweetly-modulated voice which David had so loved. And she said what was in her heart at this particular moment.

  ‘Can’t you see, Leon, how it is with me? This was to have been my honeymoon night, the night that David and I would remember all our lives, no matter what pleasures were to come later.’ Her beautiful eyes, bright with tears, looked appealingly into his. ‘But instead of what I’d so eagerly looked forward to, I’m here, in the power of another man, a man who doesn’t love me, who has made my wedding day one of blackness and despair, who’s even thrown away my lovely dress— wh-which a w-woman saves and treasures, Leon, although you would not understand—’ She broke off as a great sob shook her body from head to foot. ‘It would be dishonest if I were to deny that you can tempt me, can force me to say things I don’t mean like—like wanting to marry you.’ Again she looked appealingly up into his face, noticing this time that although it was taut and forbidding it was by no means harsh. And at a little point in his throat a pulse seemed to be throbbing, as if it were an outlet for some kind of emotion. ‘Is it likely that I would mean it when I say I’ll marry you? I’m in love with someone else—Oh, don’t be angry!’ she cried, seeing his expression change. ‘I beg of you not to get—get into a temper with me again. I can’t stand much more—surely even you can see that?’

  To her relief the fury that had darkened his face was only fleeting. He was listening again, intently, to what she was saying. ‘My heart is breaking, no matter what you believe. Here! It—it hurts, Leon.... She put a hand to her breast, feeling the wild throbbing of her heart. Leon seemed spellbound his dark eyes fixed, staring at the trembling hand that lay against her heaving breast. ‘Don’t hurt me any more,’ she pleaded. ‘Go away and leave me—if you have any sensibility at all you’ll do as I ask.’

  He moved, to pick up the négligé he had bought her and which lay across the bottom of the bed. To her surprise he held it open and automatically she slipped into it. He turned her round, his long brown fingers gentle on her arms, arms he had bruised only moments ago when he had shaken her. She looked up, her eyes still moist with tears. He was fastening the neck of the négligé with the ribbons attached to it, then a couple of buttons. His eyes were dark, unfathomable. Everything about him was strange. It was a tense and oddly intimate moment that held them both before he said, flicking away a tear that was falling,

  ‘Rest well—if you can, Tara. I hope you will feel better tomorrow.’ He went to the door and opened it. ‘Good night, child,’ he said gruffly. ‘Try not to cry any more.’

  And with those words he was gone, leaving her drained, exhausted, and in that mental state whereby she would have welcomed death and the blessed oblivion that it would give to her.

  As was to be expected, sleep eluded her, but in spite of her deep misery and anguish of heart, there had come to her the realisation that her plight could have been a great deal worse. Leon, though he was a callous brute in her eyes—and always would be—had not turned out to be the fearful rapist that he might have been. During the long dark hours of the night when the only sound was the throbbing of the boat’s engine, she had lain there thinking, her mind a turmoil of thoughts that flitted about, sometimes starkly isolated from one another, and at other times mingling into a tangled network which she could not hope to unravel. Leon’s behaviour was the most isolated thought, and the most baffling. That he could have worked himself up into that state of passionate desire and then held back was well nigh a miracle to Tara. His control must be incredible, for there was nothing to prevent his taking her. Moreover, he was well aware that, when her paroxysm of distress was at an ends he could be almost sure she would have come to him willingly, so great was his power over her, his ability to awaken in, her a hunger that would have to be appeased.

  Her thoughts had switched quite naturally to what might have been—the wedding in the church, and bells pealing out, bringing women and children running from the nearby houses to see the glowing bride come from the church on the arm of her groom. She had known she would be conscious of this activity, and would revel in the fact that it was her those people had come to see, because it was her lovely day, the one day in her life that would be re-lived more than any other. There was the buffet at the best hotel in town, with the photographer there to make sure the cutting of the cake was recorded for the ‘Wedding Book’. And the toasts, the sincere wishes for their happiness. After that she would change, helped by Sue, and the car would take them to the airport from where they would fly to Scotland ... for their honeymoon.... What were David’s emotions? she had wondered. He too would be lying awake, dwelling on what might have been. Tara had cried out to him in the darkness of the cabin which was her prison, willing the message to reach him, telling him she still loved him, and that, one day, she would fight her way back to him.

  Yes, escape was the next isolated thought that occupied her mind. She could not believe that her captor could keep her prisoner for very long. That he would make her marry him she was beginning to accept; and she knew too that, given the choice of being his wife or his pillow-friend, she would be bound to choose the former. And so it did seem that marriage to him was to be her fate—but she would escape eventually, and she prayed that the opportunity would come soon. Of course, she naturally cherished the hope that escape would come before she was forced into marriage, but the recollection of his methods up till now tended to dash this hope and send her into the depths of hopelessness and resignation. For he had been successful beyond belief in every move he had made.

  The following morning she was up and dressed when he came to the cabin. He looked her over with a frown.

  ‘You’ve not slept,’ he observed. He was in white slacks and a navy blue blazer with an anchor badge on the breast pocket. She looked at him and it seemed impossible to reconcile this tall, refined and cool-voiced man with the bestial qualities which at times he could reveal.

  ‘No,’ she replied unsteadily, ‘but it was not to be expected that I would.’ She did not know of the wistful expression in her eyes, or that there was a sort of haunting beauty and charm in the sadness of her face. She did see the pulsation of a nerve in Leon’s bronzed throat but never questioned the reason for it.

  ‘In Greece,’ said Leon, reaching out to take hold of her hand, ‘we have a rather pleasing little saying—the Greeks were famous for their eloque
nce at one time, as you probably know.’

  She continued to stare at him, confused by his manner, wondering where the arrogance was, the taunting expression of amusement to which she was so often subjected.

  ‘What is this saying?’ she asked when he did not speak.

  ‘We quarrel sometimes and then we “make harmony”. Let you and me make harmony, Tara. It will be more comfortable for both of us.’

  Her mouth trembled, because she was affected by the change in him, the kind expression in his eyes, the request that they make harmony. The misery that had grown and flourished since the moment of her abduction seemed in some small way to be lessened by his change of manner towards her.

  ‘I—well, if you want us to,’ she began, looking down with shadowed eyes to the hand that held hers.

  ‘I do want us to,’ he assured her, an odd inflection in his voice. ‘Shall we seal it with a kiss?’ She was shaking her head as he bent his. She felt his kiss, gentle ... almost tender.

  Something hurt in the region of her heart and she could not account for it. She felt she could actually have come to like him had they met in circumstances other than those which had resulted in her present plight.

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ she faltered. ‘You’re—so different this morning.’

  The black eyes seemed one second to brood and the next to frown. That his emotions were mixed was evident, and his next words strengthened the idea.

  ‘For the first time in my life, Tara, I don’t understand myself!’ And he appeared to be rather angry about it, as if to be baffled by his own behaviour was a circumstance exceedingly irritating to him. ‘If you are ready we’ll have breakfast—and don’t say you’re not hungry,’ he warned sternly but not unkindly, ‘because I shall make you eat something whether you like it or not.’

  She went meekly with him, overcome with relief at the change in his attitude towards her which made her feel some element of safety for the first time since he had snatched her from under the nose of her escort.

  And the change continued, with Leon obviously intending to honour their pact to ‘make harmony. He said goodnight each evening and let her go to bed unmolested; he seemed at times to look at her critically, as if wanting to see a disappearance of the sad and strained expression which she wore all the time. On one occasion he had seemed to become impatient—as if he just could not help it—and had ordered her to smile, which she did, reluctantly, then asked what difference a smile could make either to her feelings or her situation.

  ‘You’re stubborn, Tara. No matter what you think, I did save you from a disastrous marriage.’

  She shrugged impatiently.

  ‘How can you know how David and I felt about one another?’

  ‘I happen to know the kind of man who will satisfy you.’

  ‘That man could never be you,’ she told him firmly.

  ‘We shall see. Once we are married you’ll taste the real fruits of physical pleasure.’

  ‘So—so you haven’t changed your mind?’ she said bleakly.

  ‘About what?’ They were on deck, he in shorts and sandals and Tara in a bikini he had told her to wear.

  ‘I thought that perhaps you might be considering taking me back.’

  ‘Not a chance, my child. I want you and have gone to a great deal of trouble to get you. Your destiny is to be my wife, the mother of my sons—’

  ‘No! I don’t want your children!’

  The dark eyes bored into her, so that she was compelled to lower hers, and absently she began to trace a pattern on the boarded deck.

  ‘Nevertheless, you will have my children,’ he said implacably, ‘because it is my intention that you shall. Marriage without children lacks something vitally important.’

  ‘Important to what?’ She glanced sharply at him, puzzled by the inflection in his voice, for although it was stern, and dictatorial there was an underlying element which, she felt, would be important if only she could understand it.

  ‘To the success of the marriage,’ he answered after a pause which made her suspect that the words he had uttered were different from those that had previously lingered on his tongue. Had he been going to say important to ‘happiness’? she wondered, arid as a result of this idea she said,

  ‘Don’t you consider happiness important in marriage?’

  There was a strange silence after that which lasted for, perhaps half a minute. What was he thinking about? Tara felt tensed, expectant, as if she were about to make a discovery. But it was a fleeting sensation which passed, and was to be forgotten for ever.

  ‘We shall be calling at Corfu tomorrow,’ he told her, deliberately changing the subject. I shall go ashore and seek out my friend, the priest, who will come aboard to marry us.’

  Her heart sank to the depths, and every inch of her body went cold.

  ‘You didn’t tell me we were so close to Corfu,’ she faltered, white to the lips.

  ‘You had no need to know,’ he returned casually. ‘I’m fully aware that at each place where we’ve stopped for fuel you have cherished the hope of escape, but by now you will, I think, have accepted that I am thorough, and that my crew are very careful to carry out my orders, which are that you are to be watched all the time that we are in any port. At Corfu you’ll be locked in your cabin, as is usual when we’re in port.’

  She twisted her hands distractedly.

  ‘I don’t want to marry you,’ she whispered, swallowing hard because of the dryness that had settled in her throat, ‘For God’s sake, let me go! I’ve promised I will keep silent—’

  ‘How would you explain your absence?’ he broke in, his eyes flickering with interest.

  ‘I’d think of something!’ she returned wildly. ‘I lost my memory—people often do!’ –

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he chided as if talking to someone little more than a baby. ‘You were abducted, remember?’

  ‘I’m not likely to forget—not ever as long as I live!’

  ‘Perhaps one day you will regard it as a very fortunate occurrence in your life.’ He spoke casually, lifting an indolent hand to smother a yawn. ‘You will wear the dress I bought in Lisbon. The colour’s delightful for you, and so is the style. You like it?’ he added as if the thought had just occurred to him.

  She shook her head dumbly, thinking of her beautiful bridal gown, perfected after several fittings and now lying at the bottom of the sea. The dress Leon had bought—among many others collected at the ports where they had stopped to refuel—was coral-gold with a tight-fitting bodice and finely-pleated skirt. The sleeves were long and full, gathered into a narrow cuff. It was a model of perfection which she felt she hated, now that her captor had decided it was to be her wedding dress.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she mumbled, realising he was waiting for an answer. ‘Is there no way I can persuade you to let me go?’ He shook his head, frowning, and before he had time to speak she was saying in a loud and vibrant voice,

  ‘This man shall not marry us! I’ll threaten him—and although you can keep me prisoner you can’t imprison my tongue! I shall put so much fear into him that he’ll refuse to marry us, no matter what his obligation is to you!’

  He looked at her imperturbably.

  ‘If you do protest,’ he said quietly, ‘then I shall send him away.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘And you will from that night on become my mistress.’ She said nothing, because she had known of the choice she would have to make, had been fully aware that all these protestations and threats were worthless against the whip-hand held by this heartless and determined foreigner.

  ‘He’s coming aboard, you say?’

  ‘Of course. Is it likely that I would risk taking you ashore?’

  ‘I’ve no choice then, but to—to marry you?’ It seemed impossible that anyone could force another person into marriage, and yet it was the case. Marriage or ... the other. Well, marriage it would have to be, but she would think of nothing but escape until that escape was effec
ted.

  CHAPTER SIX

  TARA first saw the island of Hyra in the sunset glow of early evening. One of the ‘Siren Isles’ of the Saronic Gulf, it appeared from out of the sea like a mermaid floating on the calm waves, and despite her situation she found herself showing interest in the place where she was to live. Leon had told her a little of the island’s history, so she knew it had once been the haunt of brave buccaneering men but that in recent years many writers, artists and ship-owners had been attracted to its shores. The big houses on the hillsides were owned by the wealthy, and had been for many years. Leon’s home was one of these. She had learned that he was a ship-owner but that he had interests elsewhere, and one of these interests was fashion. The House of Hera, famous for feminine clothes of distinction, belonged to him. This information, given to her casually, explained his previous use of the word ‘models’, and of the assertion that his taste was considered perfect. He himself designed many of the exclusive gowns for which the House of Hera had become world-famed. This knowledge of his possessing artistic qualities had had an unexpected effect on Tara, since from then on she had re-regarded him less of a monster than before. All the same, her one all-absorbing idea was that of escape, and this, she felt, might be possible on landing on the island.

  She was standing by the rail when Leon came up to her.

  ‘When we get a little closer I’ll point out our house to you.’

  She stiffened. Our house.... A fluttering sensation affected her stomach, for somehow his words had the sort of finality about them which seemed to mean that her whole future was mapped out and there was nothing in the world that could alter it. She was her husband’s possession; that was their house; she would be installed in it and from then on she would be nothing more than a slave, a chattel, like-most women of the East. There was desperation in her voice as, turning to him and unconsciously brushing his face with her hair, she retorted,

  ‘Your house, you mean! It can never be our house!’ He frowned down at her, his mouth going tight.