Forbidden Loving

by Penny Jordan

  Silas mercifully had gone back into the kitchen. Why on earth hadn’t she gone and got a towel instead of coming downstairs like that? Why hadn’t she…what? Guessed that he would come back?

  She had just replaced the receiver and was about to go upstairs when the kitchen door opened again. She froze where she stood.

  ‘Here, I’ve brought you this,’ Silas told her quietly.

  He was holding out a clean towel to her, one of the ones she had earlier removed from the dryer and folded prior to taking them upstairs.

  ‘Thanks,’ she responded tightly, reaching for it, without daring to look at him, but somehow it slipped from her fingers and as both of them moved forward together to pick it up, Hazel felt herself start to tremble when Silas’s fingers brushed against hers. She straightened up abruptly, and then winced as something tugged sharply at her hair.

  ‘Hang on,’ she heard Silas saying above her in a muffled voice. ‘You seem to have got caught. You’ll have to move a little closer to me,’ he told her as she tried to move and realised that her hair had managed to entwine itself around one of his shirt buttons as they had both reached down for the towel.

  There was nothing she could do other than stand there, every inch of her bare skin burning with mortification and embarrassment, as Silas painstakingly unravelled the snarled-up curl from around his button.

  It seemed to take forever, and, even though she knew that his gaze was fixed on his task, Hazel was agonisingly conscious of her nudity.

  What on earth had made her come downstairs like that in the first place? It wasn’t something she would normally have done. In fact there were often occasions when Katie had teased her about being over modest, informing her vehemently, ‘Honestly, Ma, you ought to be proud of your body, not always trying to hide it away. You’ve got a terrific figure. And you know what they say, don’t you? If you’ve got it, flaunt it.’

  Well, she had certainly taken her daughter’s advice to heart today, she reflected shakily. What on earth must Silas think of her? Did he imagine that she was trying to be deliberately provocative, that she was…?

  She gave a tiny shiver of distress, and immediately Silas said huskily, ‘I’m sorry. You’re cold. You’re nearly free.’

  He was sorry! It was her fault she was in this situation, not his. She wondered what he would say if she told him that she hadn’t been shivering because she was cold, but because she was realising that no matter how much she might protest it with her conscious mind, subconsciously it had been that wanton, dangerous streak within her which was responsible for her present plight.

  She shivered again, her embarrassment giving way to the beginnings of a definite erotic tension; an awareness that, despite the fact that he was fully clothed, Silas’s body was the male counterpart to her own femininity. She could feel the heat his flesh was generating and trembled violently in response to it. She heard Silas curse, and then suddenly she was free and able to step back from him.

  As he bent to retrieve her towel, she saw that his hand was trembling slightly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised huskily.

  He paused in the act of handing her the towel, his gaze locking with hers. His eyes burned with an unfamiliar heat that made her own pulses race.

  ‘What for?’ he demanded rawly. ‘For letting me see you like this?’

  The way he looked at her then made her feel more conscious of herself as a woman than she had ever felt in her whole life; not self-conscious and uncomfortable with her sexuality, not ashamed and guilty about her body, but somehow proud of her femininity, aware of its power and strength, aware of herself as the focus of male desire.

  In that second an avalanche of sensations and emotions came crashing down over her, the burden of years of self-repression falling away from her so that she was conscious of herself and her needs so sharply that that awareness was almost a physical pain.

  She took a step towards him, ignoring the towel, impulsively wanting to share with him the wonder of what she was feeling, and then abruptly he killed that impulse by adding violently, ‘Yes, Hazel, so am I.’

  She froze where she stood, all her self-doubts and fears coming crowding back, and added to them was an extra burden of humiliation and shame. Of course he didn’t want her. Of course he hadn’t been implying…

  She started to shake violently, tears burning the back of her throat.

  ‘Hazel, what is it? What’s wrong?’

  Her emotions were too strong to allow her to speak. He was still holding the towel and suddenly to her surprise he held it open and said softly, ‘Come here—let’s get you wrapped up in this before my self-control deserts me completely. Have you any idea what you’re doing to me?’ he demanded huskily, as he enveloped her in the towel, somehow or other drawing her closer to him as he did so, so that when he picked her up, lifting her completely off her feet and cradling her in his arms, she had no option but to let him do so, wrapping her arms instinctively around his neck for additional security as he headed for the stairs.

  ‘You and I need to talk,’ he told her quietly as he climbed the stairs.

  ‘I’m sorry if I gave you a shock coming back so unexpectedly like that, but I didn’t…’

  Hazel wriggled uncomfortably in his arms, guessing what he had been about to say, but unable to put it into words. Of course he hadn’t expected to walk in and find her standing in the hall without a stitch on.

  They were at the top of the stairs now and he was heading in the direction of her bedroom.

  ‘I want to talk to you, but not while you’re like this.’

  Of course not. Her face burned. Did he suspect that she had done it deliberately? But how could he? She hadn’t known he would come back.

  He was just about to put her down on the bed when she felt the tension in his arms. Her own muscles locked in mute response as she looked towards his downbent head.

  ‘Hazel.’

  He said her name on a rough, long drawn out breath that brushed her skin with warmth and turned her body liquid.

  As he gently unfastened the towel and kissed the hollow between her breasts, she shivered with shocked delight, the hands which she had locked behind his neck for support developing a will and an instinct of their own so that they spread across his shoulders, stroking the hard muscles, her soft murmur of pleasure breaking the thick silence of the room.

  As though that sound held some special plea, some secret message, Silas sat down on the bed, still cradling her to him, his lips exploring the soft swell of one breast, while his hands gently cupped and held their roundness.

  Now the silence of the room was splintered not just by the accelerated sound of her own breathing but by Silas’s as well. With hearing that was suddenly preternaturally sharp she could hear the soft sound of his mouth moving against her skin, could feel its sensual vibration deep within her body, could feel a growing urgent desire to hold him close to her, to arch her back, and wantonly invite him to stroke every inch of her exposed skin with the same wonderful sensuality with which he was caressing her breasts.

  It was the most erotic sensation she had experienced in her life, and the most dangerous, but she ignored the danger, letting herself be swept away on the turbulent mill-race of sensations flooding through her.

  And when Silas did slide the towel from her body, lingering, caressing her skin with the silken warmth of his mouth, it was like a dream come true, like a private secret fantasy, too magical surely to be actually happening.

  The soft sounds of her wonderment and pleasure seemed to be all the encouragement he needed, and when his lips finally, tenderly possessed the eager excitement of her tautly erect nipple, the little whimpers of shocked delight she tried to strangle in her throat caused him to draw the hot, aching nub of flesh fully into his mouth and to draw on it so erotically that the sensation made her cry out loud in shocked recognition of her own need.

  Immediately she made that high keening sound, Silas’s hands—which had been caressing th
e slender roundness of her hips, stimulating her sensitive flesh so that her whole body quivered with responsiveness to him—stilled, just as his mouth ceased caressing her breast.

  Bewilderment, anger, disbelief, but most of all anguished humiliation swept through her as he slowly withdrew from her, silently re-covering her with her towel, his glance fixed on a point somewhere beyond her shoulder as he said roughly, ‘I’m sorry. I should never…’ He got up, moving away from her, while she lay on her bed, frozen with misery and rejection, not knowing what she had said or done to provoke his withdrawal from her.

  ‘I… I have to go out,’ he told her quietly. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be back.’

  Unable to move, to speak, to do anything other than simply close her eyes on the anguish she was feeling, Hazel heard him go.

  Even when she had heard the sound of his car engine fading away, she still dared not allow herself to breathe properly, still dared not allow herself to move.

  Inside her body ached tormentingly, adding to the burdens of self-contempt and shock she was already carrying.

  Dear God, how could she have behaved like that? How could she have been so…so wanton? And when she had already told him that she didn’t want him.

  Well, he knew the truth now. Knew that she had lied. No wonder he had withdrawn from her in such disgust.

  Shakily she got off the bed, her body weak and drained, her hands trembling as she dressed herself.

  What would have happened if he hadn’t stopped when he had? If he, like her, had been so overwhelmed by need, by desire. By love!

  She sat down on her bed, covering her face with her hands, her body shaking with silent sobs of despair as she acknowledged the truth.

  She had fallen in love with Silas. It wasn’t simply desire that motivated her. It wasn’t simply some belated awakening of her senses, of her desires, responding to the proximity of a very attractive male.

  She had fallen in love. Vividly she recalled the first moment she had seen him, the emotions she had felt then—had felt and had tried to suppress, believing that he and Katie were lovers. It was too late now to wish she had never met him; to wish that what she was feeling now had remained something she had never experienced.

  Her burgeoning emotions were a thousand times more painful than the most acute attack of pins and needles, tormenting her into an agony of misery and depression.

  It was a long time before she felt able to go downstairs. Her body felt oddly weak, and yet at the same time she was acutely conscious of how it still ached, still yearned.

  When Silas did not return for supper, she realised that he was trying to keep as much distance between them as he could. She went to bed early, determined to do the same, but she couldn’t sleep. She heard him come in when the hands of her alarm clock showed the time at just gone midnight. Where had he been? Had he been alone?

  Jealousy ate into her like acid fire, showing her yet another hitherto unknown side of her nature. It was a long, long time before she managed to get to sleep.

  * * *

  FOR THREE DAYS they continued to avoid one another, meeting briefly in the kitchen in the morning over breakfast, when she was meticulous about responding to whatever conversational comments Silas made to her with monosyllabic answers and an averted profile. It was far too late for her to do anything about the fact that he must be aware of her desire for him, but at least she could salvage something of her pride by ensuring that that was all he knew…by keeping herself aloof, and showing him that no matter what her weaknesses might be she was adult enough to control and withstand them. And yet just to see him, just to hear his voice, just to know he was in the house with her, caused the most idiotic and useless weakening within her, the most appalling, yearning desire.

  If this was love, she had been better off when she had had no knowledge of it, she decided bitterly one morning as she parked her car and headed for the supermarket entrance, her heart sinking as she was immediately hailed by Sheila Simpson.

  Sheila Simpson was the very last person she felt like speaking to today. All she really wanted was to be left alone. To wallow in her misery and self-pity? She smiled bitterly to herself.

  ‘My goodness, you are a dark horse, aren’t you?’ Sheila exclaimed archly as she caught up with her. ‘When I asked if you were expecting guests, I had no idea… I mean I assumed…’

  Hazel focused on her, her eyes blank with dismissal.

  ‘What exactly is it you’re trying to imply, Sheila?’ she asked almost sharply. Where once she would have been upset and embarrassed to confront Sheila and demand an explanation of what she was attempting to say, suddenly she felt no such restrictions. She was, after all, an adult woman, not a child. She was responsible to no one other than herself. Her father was no longer alive to be upset by any kind of reference to her sexuality.

  ‘Well, nothing,’ Sheila backtracked, looking slightly ruffled. ‘But if you will have a man living with you, you have to expect that people will assume—’

  ‘Will assume what?’ she demanded coolly. ‘That we’re lovers?’

  Sheila flushed unflatteringly. ‘Well, yes,’ she agreed, looking uncomfortable. ‘Of course I’ve said that there’s no truth in that kind of gossip. But you know what people are…’

  ‘I know what some people are,’ Hazel agreed pointedly, sweeping past her, as she added acidly, ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, Sheila, I really must get on with my shopping.’

  It was only when she was halfway down the aisle with her shopping trolley that she realised that she was still trembling. You’re over-reacting, she warned herself, but that warning did no good. She wasn’t used to being the object of people’s prurient speculation and curiosity and she discovered that she did not care for the idea that she might be.

  She loathed the thought of people talking about her and Silas—discussing them with the same kind of cynical destructive cruelty with which she had heard them discussing others. It made her feel besmirched, dirty—it made her feel… She shook her head, telling herself she was behaving like a fool, but the feelings of anger and misery Sheila’s comments had caused refused to go away. They were still with her several hours later, when Silas walked into the kitchen just when she was in the middle of preparing supper.

  The unexpectedness of seeing him, when she had grown accustomed to his spending most of the day away from the house, made her freeze.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he queried frowningly, looking at her.

  ‘I just wasn’t expecting to see you.’

  ‘No, I can see that,’ he agreed, and there was a note in his voice that made her tense even more, a bitter, almost derisory note that was so unlike his normal manner that it was as abrasive, as harsh as sandpaper against her sensitive nerves.

  ‘I came back because there’s something I want to tell you.’

  She stopped what she was doing and watched him. Her heart was already beating far too fast. She was aware of a sensation of doom, of misery hanging over her. She wanted to stop him from speaking, from telling her whatever it was he wanted to say, because she knew already that it was something she did not want to hear.

  ‘I’ve found somewhere else to stay.’

  He said it abruptly, challengingly almost, so that the shock of it was increased.

  She couldn’t speak, couldn’t react at all, other than to stare at him in stunned silence.

  ‘It seemed to be the best thing to do in the circumstances,’ he added roughly when she didn’t respond. ‘I’ll move my stuff out this evening.’

  Hazel knew she ought to say something, make some response, but she simply could not trust herself to speak. If she did she was terrified that she would simply go to pieces and break down completely, but she had to say something, had to pretend that she didn’t care, that she didn’t mind—that he wasn’t tearing her heart apart. The habits of a lifetime, ingrained so deeply by her father, flooded through her now, and she heard herself saying in an unfamiliar, metallic-clad voice, ‘I won�
��t make you any supper, then.’

  The banality of what she was saying made her want to scream out loud with hysteria, but somehow she just managed to restrain herself, to stop herself from doing so.

  Silas was going, leaving. And it was all her fault. All her fault. If she hadn’t reacted like a fool—if she hadn’t shown him so plainly how totally besotted she was with him… But what was the point of berating herself now? What was the point of trying to cling on? Where was her pride, her self-sufficiency? Where was her backbone?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IT WAS a question she was forced to ask herself over and over again in the twenty-four hours that followed, and she was forced to watch in silence while Silas loaded his things into his car, and then gravely sought her out to thank her for everything she had done for him.

  Just before he left, he moved towards her, almost as though he was going to take her in his arms, but immediately he checked the gesture, turning on his heel and leaving without even saying a formal goodbye.

  She waited until she was sure he had gone before giving way to her grief. Not in floods of tears, but in a silent anguished agony, which had her curling her body into a tightly withdrawn ball and rocking it silently back and forth as she tried to find some means of easing the agony she was suffering.

  Just before he had left, Silas had given her his address, just in case, he had told her, she needed to get in touch with him for anything.

  He was apparently renting an empty cottage several miles away in a small village.

  He had paused just before he left, as though there was something he wanted to say to her, but she had turned her back on him, and so he had gone.

  What after all could he have to offer her apart from his pity, which was the last thing she wanted?

  It took her three days to pull herself together sufficiently to return to her work, albeit in a lacklustre, unenthusiastic manner, but it was marginally better than lying in bed for half the day, unwilling to open her eyes and face up to life, and then staying up until well into the early hours because she was too emotionally wrought up to sleep.