Edge Of Deception

by Daphne Clair

  That made no sense. ‘You made me go!’

  ‘To get you away from me,’ he muttered, looking at the rug again.

  ‘Because you...cared for me?’ Scepticism coloured her voice.

  ‘With a blind, besotted passion!’ He threw an angry glance at her. ‘You must have known that. I tried not to smother you with it. I knew that I’d snatched you up when you weren’t ready, when you were too young and innocent to know what marriage to me would mean. But from the minute I laid eyes on you I’d wanted you so much...’

  Tara regarded him open-mouthed, but he was looking down again. For the first time in his life, probably, he was revealing his emotions—even if they were in the past— and he couldn’t meet her eyes while he did it.

  ‘I took advantage of you while you were vulnerable with grief, alone and needing someone to cling to. I rushed you into bed and then into marriage before you’d had time to recover and decide for yourself what you wanted.’

  He pushed a hand through his hair. ‘When you got restless and wanted some kind of social life, I told my­self I had to let you stretch your wings. You were en­titled to enjoy yourself like other young people. I just hoped if I was patient and allowed you your freedom you’d stay with me.’

  ‘I didn’t want my freedom! I wanted you to share things with me—friends, outings, just...the ordinary things in life. I asked you to come with me!’

  ‘I know, it was sweet of you. But I don’t dance, I had no social skills. Among your friends, I felt middle-aged.’

  ‘You were still only in your twenties when we got mar­ried!’

  ‘Just.’ And of course he’d never had the kind of young man’s life that they’d had. Thrown on his own resources at fifteen after a traumatic childhood, he’d turned to looking after his injured mother, earning his living, making his way in the world. It was all he knew. ‘I didn’t know how to have fun. I thought,’ he said, bringing the words out laboriously, ‘that I wouldn’t fit in, that you’d be embarrassed. I suppose I was afraid you’d realise what a social misfit you’d married.’

  Social misfit? Sholto? ‘You can mix with anyone!’ she said. ‘You’re one of the most socially skilled people I know!’

  ‘Oh, at business cocktail parties, society functions,’ he said dismissively. ‘I taught myself to make the right superficial noises in the right places. But...’ He shrugged, as if unable to elucidate further.

  Dimly, Tara began to understand. He was no good at intimacy. A group of friends was more threatening to him than a gathering of successful businessmen and poli­ticians.

  ‘I didn’t enjoy myself without you,’ she said. ‘But I was hurt that you wouldn’t join me, and in the end I was going out just to spite you, to show you that I could have a good time even if you couldn’t be bothered being there with me.’

  A glimmer of understanding lit his eyes. ‘And you punished me by mentioning all the men you met who ad­mired you.’

  ‘I’m not proud of that. They didn’t interest me, but I wanted to make you take notice of me.’

  ‘If it’s any use, I found it excruciatingly painful.’

  Tara winced. ‘Oh, Sholto—I was so young! I wish you could for—’

  ‘Forgive you?’ His mouth twisted wryly. ‘Don’t worry about it. Even at the time I had some awareness of what you were doing. I didn’t think you did, though.’

  ‘Not really. It wasn’t a conscious thing.’ Did that make it any better, or had she been wilfully blind? ‘Even with Derek—I’d had almost a bottle of champagne. It’s no excuse but, sober, I’d never have done it.’ She paused, reminded that they’d strayed off the point. ‘You surely didn’t think I was in love with Derek? That wasn’t why you sent me away with him!’

  Sholto shook his head. ‘Don’t you know—even now? I was terrified of him leaving you alone with me. You wouldn’t have been safe. Derek knew.’

  Tara swallowed. ‘I didn’t believe him.’

  ‘You don’t know what danger you were in.’

  ‘From you?’

  He said roughly, ‘When I came home and found you... with Derek, I knew I was no different from my father.’

  ‘Sholto!’ Her voice was fierce, shocked. ‘You would never—’

  ‘You don’t know!’ He turned on her, making her sub­side into silence.

  There was no sound but the uneven rasp of his breath­ing. ‘Once, I nearly killed someone,’ Sholto confessed, his voice low.

  When he’d been a mere child, goaded by a bully. ‘I still don’t believe,’ Tara said, looking at him, ‘that you would ever hurt me. Or any woman.’

  ‘At the time I wouldn’t have put money on it. I’ve never felt about any woman the way I... did... about you.’

  ‘Averil...’

  ‘Averil was completely different.’

  Tara’s gaze dropped. She’d almost forgotten about his dead fiancee, the girl who had softened and humanised him, made him into a man who could frolic with chil­dren, a man who for the first time in his life had become part of a normal family, who had wanted a family of his own.

  ‘You’re still grieving for her,’ she said, reminding her­self of the brutal truth. Perhaps it was his grief that had made him willing to pour out his heart in this way. Maybe this examination of the past was a way of helping him face the future.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. His voice sinking so that she strained to hear the words, he added, ‘But what I grieve for most is that I let her down. She trusted me and...when I was with you, I couldn’t be trusted.’

  Her head jerked up, her eyes startled. ‘Sholto, while she was alive you only kissed me! Surely she would understand...a reflex, some leftover emotion from when we were married. It was nothing to feel guilty about.’

  ‘Listen!’

  He looked so grim and intense she was jolted into silence. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, then walked towards her until he stood much closer, his brooding gaze fixed on her as if he had decided this had to be said face to face, with no evasion.

  ‘When I met you,’ he began, ‘I hadn’t had a lot to do with women. The odd encounter, a passing infatuation, that’s all.’

  He was no ladies’ man, Derek had said, contradicting Tara’s picture of him as an experienced lover.

  ‘I’d had no time for a real love affair,’ Sholto con­tinued.

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘don’t stand over me, Sholto. Sit down.’

  He hesitated, then sat beside her on the sofa, but not touching her. As if relieved to break the eye contact he’d been determinedly holding, he leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly between his parted knees. ‘I fell for you so far and so fast it was like drowning.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Tara whispered.

  ‘I’d spent my life establishing control—of my life, of my business, of my temper that I was afraid was like my father’s. Of everything, I guess.’ His shoulders moved as he breathed deeply. ‘I knew that I mustn’t try to control you. I’d seen my father’s way of controlling my mother, and what a disaster that could be. I tried like hell to curb my illogical desire to lock you up somewhere with me and throw away the key.

  ‘What I didn’t realise was that a relationship takes more than not doing things. Not establishing domi­nance, not trying to clip your wings, not scaring you by letting you know how totally consuming my desire for you was. I wanted you so much the wanting threatened to swamp everything else in my life. Nothing seemed to matter except being with you. That time I took you to Hong Kong I nearly bungled the deal because I couldn’t concentrate. I kept picturing you waiting for me back at the hotel, or walking around without me, and I wanted to tell them all to go to hell, I had to be with my wife. It seemed such a bloody waste that you were only streets away and we weren’t together. I never dared take you on another business trip.’

  ‘You didn’t think of telling me why?’

  His shoulders hunched in some kind of acknowledge­ment. ‘I know now, I should have explained at the time.’

  ‘I wish you
had! I thought—’

  ‘You thought I was substituting Janette for you. God! I scarcely even saw Janette except as an office machine. I valued her for that. I’ve made her manager in Australia, now.’ As if it had just occurred to him, he said, ‘I sup­pose you were hurt that I didn’t take you away with me again.’

  She’d been very hurt. ‘I might have understood,’ she told him, ‘if you’d given me reasons.’

  He gave a jerky, reluctant nod. ‘Maybe—deep down— I was afraid of your knowing how much power you had over me, over my emotions. But I told myself that in a good marriage there’s no need to explain.’

  ‘I’m not a mind-reader, Sholto.’

  ‘I know. I just find it extraordinarily difficult to...express my feelings.’

  She saw that even using a phrase like that was an ef­fort for him. He looked as though he’d just bitten into something sour.

  Smiling faintly, she said, ‘Actually, you’re doing rather well.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said quite seriously. He braced him­self again, sitting straighter, even turning towards her a little on the sofa, although his eyes were on his tightly clamped hands. ‘Anyway,’ he said, stopping to clear his throat, ‘I knew there was no way you’d forget how I’d treated you. So I figured I had to put it behind me and get on with life as best I could. I met Averil last year and...’

  Clenching her teeth hard, Tara made no sound.

  ‘She was a very serene person, a kind woman. I liked her. She talked to me about her family—her brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews—and she took me home to meet them all. I was welcomed as I’d never been in my life. When I realised she was in love with me, I found it difficult to credit. How could she have fallen for a boor like me?’

  Tara blinked at him, but he seemed utterly sincere.

  ‘I mean, Averil was gentle and peaceful,’ Sholto said, ‘and so secure in the love of her family. She was totally non-threatening.’

  ‘Non-threatening?’ Tara repeated. It was an odd word to use.

  ‘I wasn’t ever in danger of losing my temper with her,’ Sholto explained. ‘I didn’t have an overwhelming urge to drag her to bed and make love to her until she’d have to beg me to stop. I never wanted to knock a man’s teeth down his throat because he’d looked at her. With her I was a normal, civilised human being. She made me feel-safe. And she wasn’t unattractive. I found—’ his eyes flickered almost shamefacedly to Tara’s for just an in­stant ‘—I found that I quite liked making love with her.’

  Tara fiercely checked a dart of sheer, unadulterated jealousy.

  As if he wanted to hurry over that part, Sholto went on quickly, ‘I’d told her about you and she didn’t mind that I’d been married. I thought we could have a good life together.’ Deliberately he loosened his fingers. Sitting back a little, he looked at Tara sideways. ‘I hadn’t counted on meeting you so soon after I’d proposed to her. And I most certainly hadn’t counted on still feeling the same about you.’

  ‘It made you angry.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed simply. ‘I tried to blame you. Kept lashing out at you, even tried to hate you. But it wasn’t you I was fighting, it was my own feelings, and I de­spised myself for them.’

  He said, as though each word hurt, ‘After I kissed you at Chantelle’s party, I told myself you’d taken me by surprise, and resurrected an old... habit. I think I came to see you later in order to put myself to the test, to prove that I was strong enough to resist you, to break your power over me. But that night, and almost every time I got near you, I couldn’t stop the... the wanting. I dis­covered that I was as weak, as despicable as any other man when I was around you—as capable of making feeble excuses, breaking promises, giving myself one more chance, and another and another. I started invent­ing pretexts to put myself back into situations where I knew I’d no hope of keeping a rein on my most primi­tive feelings. So I was a liar and a cheat, after all. Every squalid, rotten thing that you accused me of.’

  ‘Years ago!’ she protested. ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘It wasn’t true then,’ he said. ‘But it is—was—now. I was committed to Averil, and at the same time wanting you so much I could hardly see straight. Dreaming of you every night, and, God help me, thinking of your face and your mouth when...’ He closed his eyes and leaned back on the sofa.

  Guessing at the rest, Tara didn’t ask him to complete the sentence.

  After a while he said tiredly, ‘Even today—I’m sup­posed to be mourning Averil, you’d think at least I’d be able to honour her memory. I know Phil took me along to the picnic hoping to take my mind off losing her, but when he mentioned that the mall retailers were organis­ing it, I thought immediately, Tara will be there, I’ll see Tara. From that moment I knew I couldn’t stay away. It’s been the same for months.’

  He lapsed into silence again. Except for the tight, tor­tured line of his mouth she’d have wondered if he was asleep. ‘Did Averil know?’ she enquired softly.

  Sholto’s eyes opened. ‘I think she knew something had gone wrong. The worst thing to bear about her death was my guilt and remorse. You see, I had decided that when she came back from that trip I was going to have to tell her I couldn’t go through with our marriage.’

  ‘Oh, Sholto!’ Instinctively, Tara put out her hand and closed it over one of his.

  ‘It wouldn’t have been fair to her. I didn’t think for a minute that you’d have me back,’ he said. ‘But how could I promise to forsake all others when every time I saw you I lusted for you?’

  He turned her hand in his and held it in a hard grasp, looking down at her imprisoned fingers, a fierce frown on his face.

  ‘Lust,’ Tara repeated sadly. ‘Is that what it is?’

  His grip increased so much that her bones ached. The silence stretched. She could hear a distant hum of traffic, and the sound of a twig tapping intermittently on her bedroom window. A wind had sprung up while they talked. She must trim the hibiscus, a task she’d been putting off for weeks.

  At last Sholto stirred. ‘No,’ he said, sitting up so that he could look into her eyes. ‘No. It was... longing—it was... love. You know I love you, Tara. I’ll always love you as long as I live. You have my heart and my soul. My body and my mind. Everything I am. That may not be much, and I don’t suppose you want it. But once you did. Once you did, and if memory is all I have to live on for the rest of my life, then—’ he swallowed as if it hurt him ‘—so be it. I should warn you, though, I don’t think I can ever stop doing my damnedest to win you back. If you find that unwelcome, I’m sorry. If you tell me to go away, I’ll try—’

  Tara placed her free hand over his mouth. ‘Stop,’ she said. ‘Sholto...’ she gave him a shaky smile ‘... I never thought I’d say this, but I wish you’d stop talking—stop talking and kiss me!’ She took her hand away and looked into his dazed eyes. ‘Please?’

  She began to lean towards him, and Sholto, whose sudden stillness had been stone-like, moved so quickly that she gasped, and gathered her into his arms, holding her against him as though he’d never let go. At the touch of her mouth on his he shuddered, and even as his lips opened hers he was pressing her down against the sofa cushions, one hand fumbling for the elasticised tie that confined her hair.

  He hauled the band off and then lifted his mouth as his hands stilled. ‘If a kiss was all you wanted,’ he said unsteadily, ‘you’d better tell me now. I’m not going to be able to stop later.’

  She smiled at him. ‘I don’t want you to stop. But if you’re planning more than a kiss, why don’t you take me to bed?’

  ‘If I can wait that long.’ He grabbed her hands in his and pressed them to his mouth. ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘Are you? I’m all sandy, you know.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn. So am I.’ Pulling her up with him, he said, ‘Do you mind? I mean, if you want to shower or something...’

  Tara shook her head, and her hair spilled about her shoulders. ‘Later.’ She kissed his
chin and moved closer to him. ‘Take me to bed, Sholto.’

  He did, with no more words. He adored her with his body, and gave her everything of himself. And received from her all the love and passion that had been denied him for those barren years.

  ‘I love you,’ he said once, the confession torn hoarsely from his throat, and heard her echo the words back to him.

  Later there would be time for talking, and next time the talking would come more easily to him. He had bared his soul for her, perhaps the hardest thing he had ever done. He had trusted her as he’d never trusted anyone. He loved her as he’d never loved anyone. For her he had broken all the self-imposed rules by which he’d lived—never explain, never excuse, never forgive or ask forgiveness.

  He was no open book to anyone, this man of hers. But he was her man, and she had all their lives to learn to read him, and teach him to read her. Tonight, she thought, before she stopped thinking and gave herself over to the sweet sensations evoked by his hands and his mouth and his warm body moving against hers, tonight they had made a good second start.