With a stab of surprise he was aware of her lack of sexual sophistication and this touched him, thrilled him further. It was as though he was the first man to possess her. But he also recognized the latent sensuality in her and he drew out that hidden voluptuousness, brought her along the fine edge of desire until she quivered under his touch and called his name, and pledged her love for him.
Paul finally took her to him with flaring passion, his ardour gentled but in no way muted by his tenderness. Silken arms and legs entwined him, fluid and weightless, yet they pulled him down…down…down. He was plunging headlong into a warm blue sea filled with slanting sunlight, carrying her with him. Down faster, into darker, greener depths, green the colour of her eyes. Down into a bottomless ocean. Waves crashed around him. His heart thundered in unison. He thought he was losing consciousness as he spiralled into infinity with her. He felt the warm enveloping softness of her flesh, the rise of her thighs and breasts thrusting against him, the velvet strands of her hair entwined in his fingers. His body locked to hers, spasmed, was submerged in hers. Oh, God! Oh, God! This was the only way it should ever be! A man and a woman joined together, the perfect communion of twin bodies, twin souls. His endless quest was over. That ultimate joy which had so long eluded him was surging through him and he was reborn in her. This was the secret of life, the ecstasy of life, so fleeting in that final moment of truth, but overpowering in its brief intensity. He was floating up, taking her with him to the surface. Up into that radiant light. She was that light. Pure golden light.
He opened his eyes and looked down at her and he saw the flush of unprecedented pleasure on her face, the pulse beating in her neck, the eyes so wide and green and spilling her adoration. And there was a vulnerability in that face, and perfect innocence, and his eyes unexpectedly filled with tears. He kissed her with tenderness and pulled her to him, vowing never to let her go.
Emma lay with her head on his shoulder, dazed, languorous with euphoria, basking in her love. She was filled with peace and the first fulfilment she had ever experienced, and there was wonderment in her eyes as she contemplated the mysterious transformation he had wrought in her, the joy he had given her, and her heart crested high with love for him. Her hand rested on his chest, fingers buried deep in the black hair covering it and she thought: He is a man just like any other man, but with him I am different.
Paul passed his hand over the crown of her head and kissed her hair. There had been so many other women before her, but just as he had believed he was the first man to take her, now he felt she was the only one who had ever truly possessed him. She was in his blood and he would never be free again. The light in his eyes changed, darkened, became anguished as he stared into space.
‘Emma, darling.’
‘Yes, Paul?’
‘I’m married.’
The hand on his chest did not move and she remained utterly motionless in his arms, but she felt as if she had been struck in the face and her stomach lurched. Finally she said in a small voice, ‘You certainly picked an inappropriate time to make your startling announcement.’
He tightened his embrace, resting his head against hers. ‘It’s not inappropriate. I purposely picked this time.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I wanted you in my arms when I told you. Intimately, like this. So that I could hold you closer and make you understand how unimportant my marriage is. So that I could love you again and tell you that you are the reality.’ Emma did not reply and he went on anxiously. ‘I wasn’t trying to hide the facts, Emma. It’s not a secret and it might easily have been mentioned in your presence by any one of my friends. I prayed it wouldn’t, of course, because I wanted you to hear it from me. I simply delayed telling you because I was afraid of losing you. I knew you would have disappeared if I’d told you sooner. That you would never have permitted our relationship to go this—’
‘You clever devious bastard!’
She struggled to get off the bed. He pulled her back and pinned her under him with roughness, gazing into her cold white face. Emma thought she was being swamped by the startling blueness of those eyes swimming above hers.
‘It’s not like that, Emma!’ Paul cried furiously, his face blazing. ‘Please believe me. I know what you’re thinking—that I wanted to accomplish my own ends before telling you. But all I wanted to do was make you love me, so that you would be bound to me irrevocably. Once loving me, I knew you would not let the circumstances get in the way. Stand between us. I love you, Emma. You’re the only thing of value in my life.’
‘And your wife!’ she whispered.
‘We have not lived together for six years. And we ceased being man and wife a year before that.’
‘How long have you been married?’ Her voice was almost inaudible.
‘Nine years. Emma, it is a meaningless marriage. It’s not even a marriage. But right now I am tied to her because of—Tied to her legally. After the war is over I’ll sort it out. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me. You are my life now. Please, darling, you must believe me.’ His voice shook.
Emma stared at him, her turbulent thoughts clouding her judgement momentarily, and then her head cleared. She could feel the tension rippling through him. His haunted face was naked in its agony and his sincerity leapt from his eyes, stunning her. ‘I believe you,’ she said slowly, in a stronger tone, and ran one finger across his lips. ‘Yes, Paul, oddly enough I do believe you.’
FORTY-SIX
The weeks that followed were enchanted, endless hours filled with rapture so dreamlike in quality time might have been suspended. Days merged into nights, nights drifted into dawns, and every single moment was spun out, intertwined with desire and joy that bound Emma and Paul inexorably together.
They existed only for each other, wanted only each other, rejoiced in each other. They remained in the two adjoining suites at the Ritz Hotel, rarely venturing out except for walks in Green Park and an occasional quiet dinner in a secluded restaurant off the beaten track of fashionable society. They were so wildly, so passionately in love they could barely contain their feelings for each other, were reluctant to share even a minute with friends and jealously guarded their privacy. Plans were cancelled, invitations declined, Bruce McGill and Frank held at bay, and the world was well lost for them both.
They were so overwhelmed by their sexual attraction and their growing love they were unnerved, and they would stare at each other in wonderment that this miracle had occurred. A mere glance was as devouring as a kiss, a simple gesture as meaningful as an embrace, and every word they uttered to each other was cloaked with its own significance.
Emma was filled with incredulity and overpowered by the intensity of her compelling emotions. But for once she did not pause to analyse. She was ecstatic with happiness. Fulfilment and soaring joy now dislodged the grief and hurt and humiliation of years. Love ripped the mask of inscrutability from her face; love exposed her heart in all its vulnerability; she was brought to life by the touch of love. Paul’s adoration, and his deep understanding of her, made dust out of the suspicion and self-protectiveness which were inherent in her nature and which hitherto had ruled her life. She was her true self with him in a way she had never been with another soul. All the guards were finally lowered for the only man she had ever really loved and to whom she had given herself with no reservation.
Paul was a revelation to her. His rakish pose and sardonic manner had long been dropped, but now she was also permitted to know him as no other woman had been allowed before. The reflective and introspective side of him was disclosed and she discovered there was a fine mind behind that handsome and polished façade. She was impressed by his brain and his vast knowledge of the world. She was captivated by his sophistication, and admiring of his savoir-faire that unmistakably sprang from security engendered by old money, the privilege that accompanied great wealth, and an education at Wellington and Oxford. And she was constantly entertained by his swift wit. In short, she
was spellbound.
Paul, in turn, was equally besotted, held in the grips of the only genuine love he had experienced in his years of romantic dallying. He believed her to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his wanderings around the world; he also thought she was the most intelligent he had known, and her vividness of mind startled him. But the one thing he marvelled at continually was her incredible presence, that quality of personality that set her apart and made her so unique. It was as though an incandescent glow emanated from her innermost core. He could only compare it to that vitality and indefinable charisma that made an alluring actress a great star. For them both it had been a coup de foudre—as though struck by lightning, they had fallen blindingly in love instantaneously.
The days passed in a dreamy haze of passion flaring and assuaged and flaring again with a stronger brighter flame, of animated talk that continued far into the nights, of thoughts and emotions unveiled and shared. They discovered in each other all they had yearned for in a lover and a companion and their communication was a fusion of minds and souls as well as bodies.
One afternoon when they were lying in each other’s arms, exhausted by their passion, Paul said, ‘You won’t mind if I go out for a little while, will you, darling? I have a few things I must attend to.’
‘Not if you promise to hurry back,’ Emma replied, brushing her lips against his chest.
‘Nothing could keep me away from you for longer than an hour. I’ll be back by four,’ he said, kissing the strands of her hair. He released his hold of her and disappeared into the bathroom. He emerged a few minutes later freshly shaven, his black hair slicked back, a towel wrapped around his waist. From her position on the bed Emma observed him stealthily like a cat, her intent green gaze riveted on him, and she discovered she derived enormous pleasure from watching him occupied in so simple a task as dressing. He picked up his shirt from the chair and the muscles on his wide back rippled and she had to suppress the impulse to run to him and enfold him in her arms. She thought: He has become my whole world.
He buckled the Sam Browne belt on over his army jacket and strode over to the bed. He bent down and kissed her and her arms went around his neck. He removed her arms gently after a moment. ‘I have to go, sweetheart.’
‘And I wonder just where you are going,’ Emma said, fluttering her eyelashes coyly. ‘Shaved and groomed and scented to high heaven. Why, Major McGill, if you have a rendezvous with another woman I’ll scratch your eyes out. I swear I will! And hers, too!’
He grinned and touched the tip of her nose playfully. ‘O tiger’s heart wrapp’d in a woman’s hide!’
‘Waxing poetic, Major?’ she teased.
‘Stolen from Shakespeare, I must confess. Henry VI.’ Paul kissed her fingertips, his hand tightening, his eyes penetrating. ‘And if you ever so much as look at another man I will kill you.’ He stood up. ‘Be a good girl. I won’t be long.’
After he had left, Emma busied herself with telephone calls to her secretary at the store and to her housekeeper, anxious to reassure herself that all was well in Yorkshire during her absence. Relieved that everything was still under control since yesterday’s calls, she then spoke to Frank at the Chronicle.
‘Good Lord! No wonder it’s snowing!’ Frank exclaimed on hearing her voice. ‘So he’s let you out of his clutches long enough for you to ring me.’ He laughed. ‘I’m only joking. I’m happy for you, Emma.’
‘Oh, Frank, I’m happy, too. So very happy I can’t believe it. And you’re wrong for once. I’m the one who’s let Paul out of my clutches for an hour.’
‘Mmmmm! I see! Well, I must say, he’s apparently very good for you. I’ve never heard you sound better. But why didn’t you tell me who he actually is?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That he is the only son, the only child, of the Bruce McGill. A millionaire and one of the most powerful men in Australia. I suppose you know Paul stands to inherit a fortune. A vast sheep ranch. Mineral rights and mining. Coal fields, and God knows what else.’
‘He’s mentioned the family’s various business interests, of course. But how do you know so much all of a sudden?’
‘I was with Dolly Mosten the other day and she was telling me a few things about Paul—’
‘What else did she tell you?’ Emma asked suspiciously, her heart sinking.
‘Nothing. That was all. She simply remarked that the McGill family was extremely rich and powerful. What’s wrong? You sound edgy.’
‘No, I don’t.’ She laughed. ‘How are you, Frank? Are you all right, dear?’ she inquired, quickly changing the subject.
‘Yes, everything is fine. But I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time, Emma. I can’t really talk right now. I have to go into an editorial conference. Can you call me tomorrow so we can chat longer, love?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Take care now. Give my best to Paul. Bye.’
‘Goodbye, Frank.’
Emma put the telephone down and stared at it, her face brooding, her thoughts weaving a tortuous web in her head as she contemplated the McGill family, or, more precisely, the mysterious Mrs Paul McGill. The wife he had never referred to again and about whom she had not dared to question him; had not wanted to know about. But now Emma was unexpecpectedly eaten up with curiosity. What did she look like? Was she beautiful? How old was she? Why had the marriage gone awry? Did they have children? Was that the reason Paul had never divorced, in spite of his long separation? Emma closed her eyes, crushing the questions flaring in her mind. She would not open Pandora’s box. He would tell her everything eventually, she was certain of that, and she did not want anything to mar the time they had left together. This very precious time.
She looked at the clock on the mantelshelf and to her surprise she realized Paul had been absent for over two hours. It was already five-thirty. For no logical reason she was seized by panic. This feeling was irrational, but none the less, her nervousness increased, and she had the sudden premonition that Paul would be leaving her imminently. He had carefully refrained from mentioning the date of his departure, but she was aware that two weeks had flown by. In Yorkshire he had told her time was running out. Has it now done so? she asked herself, dismay trickling through her.
To still her disquieting thoughts, Emma hurried into the bathroom and preoccupied herself with her toilet. She took a hot bath, towelled herself dry, sprayed her body with perfume, and went into the bedroom. She put on a long powder-blue panne velvet housecoat she had designed herself and which Paul admired on her. It was in the French Empire style with a high waist, tight bodice, long sleeves, and frogging from the low square neckline to the hem, and it gave her the air of an ingénue. She brushed her long hair and left it hanging loose the way he preferred it, and after she had added a little lip rouge and the emerald earrings she drifted through into the sitting room to wait. By seven o’clock agitation swamped her, and the panic began to disintegrate into real fear. Where was he? Had he had an accident? She clenched her hands in her lap, every muscle tense. And then instinctively she knew. Paul was at the War Office receiving his orders. He was leaving. She was positive this was so. The war! Forgotten for days whilst they had lived blindly in their ecstasy. He might be killed…he might never come back…She pressed her hands to her aching eyes.
‘Here I am, my sweet,’ he said, coming through the door that linked his suite to hers.
Emma dropped her hands, jumped up, and ran to him, her face taut. ‘I thought something had happened to you!’ she gasped, grabbing the lapels of his trench coat.
‘Nothing is going to happen to me,’ he reassured her. ‘I have a guardian angel. And anyway, my time’s not up yet. There are all those years earmarked for me. Years to be spent with you. You haven’t forgotten that you are my destiny, have you? It hasn’t been fulfilled, yet, my love.’
Her heart began to beat more normally. She looked up at him, smiled, and pulled away. ‘Your coat is wet through,’ she said. ‘You’d bett
er take your clothes off before you catch your death.’
His eyes crinkled at the corners with laughter. ‘That’s the best proposition I’ve had in the last four hours, madame.’ He winked suggestively.
‘Oh, you know what I mean, you wretch!’
‘I hope I do,’ he said. ‘Give me ten minutes. I’ve already ordered dinner for nine o’clock, and there’s a bottle of champagne cooling in my suite. Excuse me, angel, I’ll be right back,’ he called over his shoulder.
When Paul returned he had changed into civilian clothes. He wore a white silk shirt, a pair of black worsted trousers, and a silk smoking jacket striped in burgundy and black. He looked casually elegant as he carried the champagne bucket to the console. ‘I think it’s cold enough,’ he said, opening the bottle of Dom Pérignon.
Once more Emma watched him alertly. Just as his eyes normally followed her every movement, now hers were concentrated on him, and she saw him afresh. When he had been gone for a period of time, however brief, she was always startled by the impact his looks had on her when he reappeared. It was no one thing in particular but the sum total of the man. And she was inevitably struck by his commanding manner, the panache with which he did everything.
He caught her staring at him and pursed his lips, grinning with fond amusement. He strode over and handed her the glass of champane. ‘I ‘aint bin wiv anover leidy, I swear I ’ain’t,’ he said, adopting a Cockney accent.
‘I ’opes yer ‘ain’t,’ she said, responding in kind. But her eyes were serious, searching his face, and she was afraid to ask where he had been. ‘You were gone so long, darling,’ she murmured softly.
‘I had to see my father about a few things. Business matters to discuss,’ Paul said, clinking her glass. ‘Here’s to you, my lovely Emma.’
‘To us.’
Paul leaned back in the chair. ‘I’m afraid I’ve neglected the old man these last few weeks—’
A Woman of Substance Page 76