Brittle Bondage

by Anne Mather

  ‘Damn?’ he supplied pleasantly, but she ignored him. ‘A monkey’s,’ she asserted, with some relish, hoping he got the hidden message, ‘what you think I look like.’

  ‘You used to,’ he reminded her, the expression in those dark eyes hidden by the narrowing of his lashes. ‘So, why don’t you tell me about this new man in your life? I imagine you care what he thinks.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Wishing he would sit down so that she could do the same, Rachel steeled her knees against their embarrassing tendency to shake. ‘He—he’s everything you’re not: sweet, and kind—and faithful.’

  Ben didn’t look impressed. ‘He sounds like a bloodhound,’ he remarked unkindly, and Rachel felt like slapping his mocking face. ‘Does Daisy share your views?’

  Rachel drew a deep breath. ‘Daisy—Daisy doesn’t know Simon as well as I do.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means what it says.’ Rachel couldn’t sustain his cool interrogative stare any longer without betraying that she wasn’t at all convinced what Daisy’s feelings were. Turning away, she pretended to adjust a fold in one of the curtains, before continuing carefully, ‘Daisy doesn’t know Simon that well yet.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But she likes him?’

  Behind her, Ben’s voice was disturbingly persistent, and Rachel had to turn round again without having gained any advantage from the brief reprieve. ‘I—I haven’t discussed it with her,’ she replied, not altogether truthfully. ‘Um—naturally, she’s very loyal——’

  ‘To me?’

  ‘To our marriage,’ Rachel amended firmly. ‘She is only eight, Ben. Obviously she still hopes there’s some chance of us—of our——’

  ‘—getting back together?’

  ‘Absurd, isn’t it?’ Rachel managed to sound suitably amused at the suggestion. ‘I’ve told her how it is. She just doesn’t——’

  ‘How is it?’

  His question disconcerted her—as it was meant to do, she realised impatiently. He had emptied his glass now, and was waiting for her answer with what she could only identify as mild derision in his expression. The fact that he was baiting her gave her a feeling of frustration, and it was doubly infuriating to know that he could still do it so easily.

  ‘Can we keep to the point, Ben?’ she enquired, trying to ignore the heat that was invading her face once again at his words. ‘I’m not enjoying this, even if you are, and I’d appreciate it if——’

  ‘I thought that was the point,’ he interrupted her obliquely, cradling his empty glass between his palms. ‘I’d like to know what you’ve told her. Am I still the evil seducer of pubescent women?’

  ‘I never told her th——’ Rachel broke off abruptly, realising he was only trying to provoke her into defending herself once more. ‘You know perfectly well that so far as Daisy is concerned, you’re her hero.’ Her lips twisted with conscious irony. ‘But then, heroes are in short supply these days, and she doesn’t have a lot of experience.’

  ‘Unlike her mother?’ suggested Ben, putting down his glass, and pushing his hand into the pockets of his trousers, and Rachel drew in a steadying breath.

  His action had made her unwillingly aware of how lovingly the fabric of his trousers followed the muscles of his hips and thighs. Though she didn’t want to notice it, the fine wool delineated the strength and leanness of his bones, accentuating the power in his legs and moulding the swell of his sex. She had forgotten how physical he was, she realised. Forgotten what it was like to be aware of a man in any way other than an intellectual one. With Simon, it was his kindness and his personality that had drawn her to him first; his ability to treat her like someone important, someone special. She’d deliberately obliterated the sexual attraction Ben had always had for her, and it was disturbing to realise that it had not been erased, only buried beneath a layer of pain and bitterness.

  But it was only a physical attraction, she admonished herself grimly. The kind of attraction a rabbit might have for a snake.

  ‘I said—unlike her mother?’ Ben reminded her softly, and Rachel was suddenly aware of how long she had been standing there staring at him.

  ‘I—no,’ she answered hurriedly, wrapping her arms across her midriff in unknowing protection. ‘Not at all.’ She cleared her throat and her voice strengthened. ‘I don’t know any heroes, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Not even Simon?’ he prodded gently, and she forced herself to meet his mocking gaze without flinching.

  ‘I’m not a child, Ben,’ she told him coolly. ‘I don’t need a hero to satisfy my fantasies. An ordinary man will do very well. Someone who doesn’t need constant reassurance that he’s still got what it takes to—how would you put it?—to pull the birds?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BEN’S mouth compressed. ‘Still the same old argument,’ he remarked without rancour. ‘I thought you’d at least attempt to convince me you’d fallen madly in love with this guy, whoever he is.’

  Rachel caught her breath. ‘I do love Simon,’ she exclaimed hotly, but Ben only lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug.

  ‘You’re not—in love with him, though, are you?’ he commented smoothly. ‘There is a distinction.’

  ‘Falling in love is for teenagers, Ben,’ Rachel retorted, despising herself for even arguing with him over something so futile. ‘Simon and I are adults. We know what it takes to make a relationship work. It takes patience, and commitment, and a willingness to share one another’s problems. We’re going to work together to provide a stable environment for Daisy to grow up in.’

  ‘My God!’ Ben gazed at her disbelievingly for a moment, and then flung himself down on to the sofa. With his arms draped along the back and his leg hooked comfortably over one of the arms, he looked up at her with wry amusement. ‘Where’s your soapbox, Rachel? When did you get to be such a prig?’

  Rachel started for the door. ‘If you’ve just come here to insult me——’ she began, but she never got to finish her sentence. As she brushed past the sofa, Ben leaned forward and caught her arm, and his husky, ‘I didn’t,’ drove all coherent protest from her head. For a heart-stopping moment, all she could think of was the cool strength in the fingers that were linked about her wrist, and that although she had wanted him to sit down earlier she had never intended he should make himself so completely at home.

  But the familiarity of his actions arrested the wild sweetness flowering inside her. Dear God, she thought incredulously, had he only to touch her for her to fall apart? Just because she still possessed some lingering mind-set that reacted automatically to certain stimulants was no reason to give him any leeway. He knew what he was doing. He always had. And she mustn’t ever forget it.

  So now she said, with as much resignation in her voice as she could muster, ‘Let go of me, Ben. This isn’t going to work.’

  He didn’t let her go, of course. He just sat there, smoothing his thumb over the fine web of veins on the inner side of her wrist, looking up at her with dark questing eyes. And, conversely, though she had thought that having him in that position would give her the advantage, it didn’t.

  ‘What isn’t going to work?’ he asked, and there was no mockery in his tone now. ‘Aren’t I allowed to touch you? You used to like me to do a lot more than this.’

  ‘Ben!’ She spoke his name through clenched teeth. ‘Will you stop behaving as if your being here had any more meaning than a peevish desire to thwart me? You don’t care what I do. You haven’t cared what I did for the past eighteen months. You just don’t like the idea that someone else can make me happy!’

  He looked down then, and she thought briefly that she had achieved her objective. But, instead of releasing her, he bent his head and let his tongue touch her skin, shocking her intensely, and sending little tongues of fire shooting up her arm. ‘Of course I care about you,’ he said roughly. ‘Whatever you believe, I always have.’

  She jerked away from him then, snatching her arm o
ut of his grasp and cradling it against her, as if the pain she’d felt was physical. But she could feel only anger inside her, anger and frustration, and ridiculously, though she fought them off, the anguished sting of tears behind her eyes.

  ‘Don’t you ever——?’ she was beginning hoarsely, when once again she didn’t get to finish her sentence. The sound of footsteps on the stairs forced her to break off what she was saying, and Daisy’s voice drifted plaintively from the safety of the lower landing, ‘Can I come down now?’ she called, and although Rachel wanted to deter her, Ben was quick to seize the advantage.

  ‘Yes, come on down, sweetheart,’ he shouted, holding his wife’s resentful gaze as he got up from the sofa. ‘We’re in here. Having a cosy chat.’

  Rachel was up at dawn. She hadn’t slept much at all, and she was relieved when the birds signalled it was time to get up. Well, maybe not for everyone, she conceded, filling the kettle at the sink. But at least she didn’t feel she was so out of the ordinary being downstairs at this time. The milkman was about, and the postman, and she had no doubt Simon was up, too, preparing his dairy herd for milking.

  Thinking of Simon brought an uneasy catch to her throat. If she’d even thought Ben might turn up on her doorstep last night, she’d have made sure Simon was present. She’d known it would be awkward, telling Ben about her plans, but she’d never expected to have to do so face to face. As it was, she was left with the uneasy knowledge that nothing had been decided at all. Daisy’s presence—and Ben’s refusal to discuss anything in front of her—had negated any agreement. She was no nearer knowing now how Ben felt about it than she was before he swept back into her life.

  Well, hardly swept back, she amended, frowning as she spooned tea into the pot. It was a figure of speech, born out of the way his headlights had swept the room the night before. But it fitted the facts. He had invaded her territory once again.

  She sighed. That was why she was up at the crack of dawn, wondering what today was going to bring. After last night’s little fiasco, she now had to tell Simon that she’d made no progress towards rationalising the situation whatsoever. She also had to tell him that Ben had come to the house, and that if Daisy had had her way, he would have spent the night in the guest-room.

  But at least Ben had drawn the line there. Whether for Rachel’s benefit—which she doubted—or for some nefarious reason of his own, he had declined his daughter’s attempts to keep them together. He’d booked a room at the Old Swan, he’d told her ruefully, and he couldn’t let the landlord down. As if he’d get the chance, Rachel had brooded indignantly. This was still her home, even if he did hold a controlling interest.

  The kettle boiled, and she made the tea, carrying the pot and the cup into the snug, which was one room Ben hadn’t entered the previous evening. They’d used to use it as a games-room in the old days. There were board games, and a television and video recorder, and a stack of video films, both pre-recorded and home-made. They had kept a record of Daisy’s development on video film in those early days, and her first attempts to walk and talk were captured for posterity. Rachel didn’t know if Ben ever videoed Daisy these days. If he did, she hadn’t heard about it, but that was no guarantee that he didn’t.

  Now, Rachel seated herself in the squashy leather chair beneath the window, and tucked her legs beneath the folds of her old velvet dressing gown. Then, sipping her tea, she stared rather despairingly into space. What was she going to do? She had to get an answer from Ben, but how was she going to handle it?

  It had seemed almost easy yesterday, ringing him and asking for a divorce. She hadn’t looked forward to doing it. No one would. But it was more than eighteen months since they’d had any contact, other than through Daisy, and she’d assumed he’d jump at the chance to be given his freedom.

  Or had she?

  Hadn’t she had some qualms about how he’d take it? Hadn’t she worried a little as to what his reaction would be about Daisy moving home and moving school? But nothing had prepared her for Ben’s turning up on her doorstep. Nothing had prepared her for the way he’d acted. The memory of how he’d held her and kissed her hard caused a wave of anger and revulsion to wash over her. How dared he behave as if he still had the right to touch her? How dared he mouth words of affection which were blatantly so false?

  No wonder the evening had been such an absolute disaster. After what had happened, Rachel had been in no state to talk rationally about anything. Instead, she had been the unwilling third at Ben and Daisy’s reunion, speaking only when spoken to, and contributing little to the conversation.

  Which was surely an indication of her own weakness, she reflected irritably. Ben and Daisy had done what they liked, and she had said nothing to stop them. She could tell herself that if Simon’s name had been mentioned she’d have made a stand, but would she? Hadn’t Ben successfully neutralised her opposition so that he could take control?

  And how had he done it? she asked herself bitterly. By taking hold of her arm and touching her skin with his tongue. She shivered, as the remembrance brought another wave of apprehension. Why had he done it? And more importantly, why had she cared?

  Her cup was empty and, glad of the activity, she got up to refill it. Outside the window, a pale beam of sunlight caught in the wing mirror of the car that was still parked on her drive and flashed it back at her in a shaft of brilliance. Ben’s car, she acknowledged frustratedly, parked outside her house all night. It was to be hoped that Simon would believe her when she told him Ben had not stayed there as well. And she intended to tell him, before someone else chose to make the connection.

  All the same, the sight of the sleek Mercedes was just another cause for her resentment. Ben had nothing to lose here, while she had everything. She wanted her relationship with Simon to work. She wanted the security he could give. Whatever Ben said, she had to make her own choices. If she didn’t, she’d be forever in his shadow.

  Daisy came clattering down the stairs soon after seven o’clock. She wasn’t usually up so early, but her mother guessed she was excited because her father was staying in the village. Last night, in an effort to avoid another argument with her daughter, Rachel had agreed that the child could miss school today. Ben was coming to collect her before Rachel left for work, and although it wasn’t the wisest decision she had ever made, Rachel had had little choice in the matter.

  Evidently Daisy had investigated her mother’s bedroom before she came downstairs and found it empty, because she came looking for her straight away. ‘What are you doing in here?’ she exclaimed, and Rachel noticed with a pang that the little girl was already dressed. How long did it usually take her to get Daisy to put her clothes on on a school morning? she wondered wryly. Longer than it took her to dress in her best pink tracksuit anyway, she conceded, aware of who it was who had bought the expensive outfit in the first place. It suited her, there was no question about that. But Rachel was not in the mood to appreciate it this morning, particularly with the prospect of another difficult day ahead of her.

  ‘I’m drinking my tea,’ she replied now, finishing her second cup with a flourish and getting up from the chair again. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘But why are you sitting in here?’ asked Daisy curiously. ‘You usually have your morning tea in the kitchen.’

  ‘I felt like it,’ responded Rachel, doing her best not to sound peevish. ‘What do you want for breakfast? Cereal or an egg?’

  ‘Actually, Daddy said he’d take me out for breakfast,’ offered Daisy, colouring a little. ‘I mean, you’ll be leaving for the shop soon, and he said it would save you having to do it.’

  ‘I do it every other morning,’ retorted Rachel, picking up her cup and marching aggressively into the kitchen. ‘I suppose this was all arranged when you saw him off last night. What else did you say when I wasn’t there? Did you tell him you’d soon be moving to Kingsmead?’

  It was an unfair question and Rachel knew it, but she had no one else to expunge her ire on and Daisy was
there.

  Daisy followed her into the kitchen, pausing beside one of the kitchen chairs, and scuffing her heel on its rung. ‘No,’ she said, now, somewhat sulkily. ‘We didn’t talk about Mr Barrass at all. You know we didn’t. You were there. Why didn’t you tell him yourself if you wanted him to know?’

  ‘Well, of course I wanted him to know,’ exclaimed Rachel, stung into a reply. She submerged the contrition she had been feeling beneath a swell of indignation. ‘I didn’t get the chance, that’s all.’

  Daisy’s lower lip jutted. ‘You could have told him,’ she muttered. ‘While I was in my room. What did you talk about while I was upstairs anyway? You looked sort of flustered when I came down.’

  Rachel was glad she had her back to her daughter when Daisy made this remark. The girl could be quite astute at times, and it wouldn’t do for her to start hoping that her mother was not as determined on her course of action as she’d thought. ‘I was annoyed, that’s all,’ she said, which was certainly true. ‘Your father had no right to come here uninvited.’

  ‘I thought you did invite him.’ Daisy regarded her mother suspiciously now. ‘Daddy said you phoned him yesterday morning.’

  ‘Not to invite him here,’ Rachel insisted shortly, reaching for a tea-towel to dry her cup. ‘As you are well aware, I needed to talk to him about—about——’

  ‘—Mr Barrass,’ supplied Daisy gloomily and Rachel sighed.

  ‘About Simon, yes,’ she agreed, choosing the least controversial of the alternatives. So far, she had avoided mentioning the divorce to Daisy. But she was sure the child must know.

  All the same …

  ‘You didn’t, though, did you?’ Daisy pointed out. ‘You just talked about my school and the shop.’ She grimaced. ‘When you talked at all.’

  ‘I think you have far too much to say for yourself,’ returned Rachel crisply, and then chided herself anew as Daisy’s face dropped. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to alienate the child completely, and all because she was letting Ben’s arrogance get under her skin.