Something else had brought her here this afternoon, she knew, apart from the chance of having a look around without Quentin or Jenkins watching her, but she hadn't faced this yet. For a while she sat on the gate into the field where the horses grazed, talking idly to Hector and the little mare, Who came to see what she was doing.
Quentin hadn't told her not to go to the cottage where she had lived, but he had forbidden her to go further than the stables, which must be the same thing. With Jenkins always around, keeping, she suspected, a wary eye on her, she hadn't attempted to disobey, so Quentin had probably decided she had forgotten, or wanted to forget, all about the little house in the woods.
Which wasn't so. Gina was sometimes consumed by a great urge to revisit the cottage. For one thing, she often wondered what had happened to her father's books. Nor could she get rid of some faint feelings of guilt and remorse. John might not have been the best of fathers, but it seemed that she had abandoned his memory without so much as a backward glance. It was difficult to remember his acts of kindness, for they had been few, yet when he had been in one of his good moods he had often sat and talked to her, and his conversation had always been interesting and informative. She recognised now that he had been an extremely intelligent man whose life had tragically taken the wrong turning, and she was beset by the conviction that she might, if she had tried harder, have helped him more than she had done. Many a time, as she had asked questions and listened to Charles talking to her about her mother, she had wished things might have been different, that her parents could still have been alive and together.
But for all her conscience troubled her, Quentin's influence was strong. She felt more like a criminal than a dutiful daughter as she slid from the gate and made her way towards the woods.
The path leading to the cottage had never been easy, but she soon discovered that in places it was now almost overgrown. Quentin must have forgotten his resolve to clean up the woods, for she could see no sign of anything having been done. They were much the same as they had always been. So much for his hurry to evict them from the cottage, she thought bitterly, pushing her way with difficulty towards it.
She was surprised to find, on reaching it, that it hadn't changed. The door wasn't locked and even inside it was, like the woods, much the same. It didn't smell musty and she frowned, wondering if someone had been keeping it aired. Perhaps Quentin meant to restore it, when he got round to it, rather than knock it down.
Taking a quick breath, she opened the door of her father's bedroom, to find it empty and his books gone. The room had been completely stripped, unlike the rest of the cottage, which appeared to have been left exactly as it was. There was nothing at all in John's room to remind her of anything. Gently she closed the door, curious as to why she didn't feel overwhelmed. Well, it was no use pretending a great sorrow. John would be the last to expect it. At times, his cynicism had been worse than Quentin's.
In the kitchen she sat for a while, letting memories crowd in on her. She didn't see the old-fashioned grate, where even the driest of wood had often been reluctant to burn, she only saw the past. It was strange how, looking back, she could see her life must have been one long struggle, yet, in some ways, she had found it more satisfying than her present mode of living. Sometime in the near future, she must find something to do. A job might help to give some new purpose to her life and help to dispel such curiously restless feelings.
Then, quickly ashamed of herself, she brushed away a tear of self-pity, reminding herself of all her grandfather and Liza had done for her.
Around the cottage a light wind sprang up, rustling through the summer leaves on the trees. Then came a footstep behind her, on the stone floor, bringing her stumbling sharply to her feet. As she turned, her eyes widened in astonishment. It was Quentin, and she couldn't remember seeing him so angry—not, at least, since she used to live here.
CHAPTER SEVEN
'WHAT are you doing here?' Gina whispered, her face white as she rubbed another tear from her cheek. 'I thought you were in Paris?'
'That was cancelled because of illness. Some other chap's, not mine,' Quentin replied grimly. 'I was having lunch when I suddenly realised that with Jenkins gone you wouldn't be able to get here fast enough.'
She tried to bluff it out with an indifferent shrug. 'Does it matter all that much?'
'Naturally it matters,' he snapped.
Again she shrugged, and she saw it increased his fury. 'I could have been and gone.'
'No, I rang my mother. She said you hadn't been this morning, so I knew it would be later.' As he moved closer, his mouth tightened as he noted her vivid hair tumbling about her shoulders, tangled from its contact with the trees. 'Why did you come when I asked you to stay away from the cottage, Gina?'
'Why did you want me to stay away?' she countered.
His hand came out to touch her face impatiently. 'Aren't these tears sufficient explanation? You've been prying. Isn't that reason enough?'
'I wasn't crying…' she was about to say—over that, when he cut her off curtly.
'Don't lie to me, my child.'
Such an unfair accusation shattered her composure completely. 'I'm not lying,' she cried. 'If I seem to be doing things behind your back, it's because I could never hope to win any other way. Not with you!'
'Gina!' his, voice rasped, 'would you mind telling me exactly what I've done to deserve this?'
'You can't remember?' Hysteria bubbled in her throat, while her eyes widened on his icy ones in sparkling contempt. 'You treated me horribly when I lived here. You never did a thing to help John. Your father did pay me something for looking after the horses, but you never gave me a penny. Quite often I had nothing to eat, thanks to you.' She knew this wasn't strictly true, but it only seemed to goad her further. 'You were mean and domineering, often cruel, and if you've changed since there has to be a reason!'
His face went white, and she felt a fleeting sense of triumph that she had shocked him. 'Have you quite finished?' he asked coldly.
When she nodded numbly, he said, 'You could have told me you hadn't enough to eat.'
'You mean people in my circumstances shouldn't allow themselves the luxury of pride. You must have guessed?'
'I didn't.' His voice roughened. 'Yes, maybe I should have done, but it all happened so quickly.'
'One can always find an excuse.'
'I wasn't even looking for one.'
'Just honest explanations,' she jeered, her eyes filling with wild tears.
'Gina, stop it!'
'Why should I?' She blinked her tears away with a fierce defiance. 'You always avoided the truth where I was concerned. I was something you didn't like, under your feet. You humiliated and hurt me, made me work in your house.'
'Gina, for God's sake, will you please shut up!' His eyes blazed so she thought they would scorch her. 'You don't even begin to understand, and while you're in this mood I won't try and make you. It's possibly doing you good, getting this all off your chest, even if it's knocking hell out of me. But I'm wiser than you and you'd better face it.' Harshly he enlarged, as she opened her mouth as if to question it, 'This, for instance. I told you not to come here.'
'No, you didn't.'
'I told you not to go beyond the stables.'
'Because of your guilty conscience? You threw my father and me out of our home so you could have it demolished, and you haven't done a thing about it. We could have been here yet.'
'Will you shut up!' He was speaking now between his teeth, and while she sensed he was controlling his temper with difficulty, she was driven to continue taunting him.
'No, I won't!'
'This way I'll make you!'
'No!' Guessing his intentions too late, she couldn't escape when his arms came out and snatched her to him.
She had a frightening glimpse of his eyes, dark with leashed anger, and what might have been desire, before his hard lips hit hers, forcing her tightly closed ones apart. For all the
cruel strength he used she felt an immediate response rushing through her. His mouth searched hers, probing every corner, until she melted helplessly against him, her clenched fists unfolding to curve tensely around his shoulders.
She moaned faintly and felt his muscles go taut under the thin clothes he wore, but he didn't let her go. He went on kissing her with unabated anger until her whole body was on fire and lax against his. Roughly his hand went to her blouse, pulling open the buttons, finding the softness underneath, holding her tightly when, with a gasp, she would have drawn away. She wanted to fight him, but instead found herself submitting weakly as his arms tightened fiercely.
It was minutes later before he lifted his head again, to ease her slightly away from the strong beat of his heart. 'Perhaps now you'll be willing to marry me?' he said grimly, narrowly surveying her warmly flushed cheeks.
His curt query shocking her into abrupt awareness, she opened her eyes to stare at him in amazement. 'No!' she whispered. 'Never. You can't be serious?'
Ignoring her startled plea, his voice hardened and she was frightened by his expression as he stared down at her. 'If you don't agree, I'll have you now. God knows I've wanted you long enough. I realise, though, that the exact change in our relationship hasn't been easy, but I've tried to help, not hurt you.'
'You must be joking!' she gasped, intending, in spite of owning the truth of his words, to defy him for ever.
His eyes glittered. 'I don't have to put up with insults from a skinny little redhead any longer,' he retorted savagely. 'I want you and intend having you. It's up to you which way.'
'You wouldn't dare touch me!' Knowing her first flicker of fear, she caught her breath.
'Wouldn't I?' His mirthless laughter was utterly quelling. 'After this afternoon, I assure you, you could be only too ready to agree to anything.'
Frantically she tried to hit out at him, as the grim determination on his face convinced her he meant everything he said, but he simply caught her arm, jamming it down by her side. As she gasped with pain, he muttered something under his breath and swung her high in his arms. As if she were a feather, and without hesitation, he carried her through to her old bedroom. When, wishing feverishly she hadn't aroused his anger, Gina tried to speak, she was unable to utter a single word.
She had no chance to speak again, for the last breath seemed knocked out of her as Quentin threw her on the bed and slid down beside her. When she turned her head from him desperately, he merely caught her chin, turning her back. Then his mouth renewed its contact with her own with passionate intensity. She wanted to resist, but the pressure of his lips aroused such powerful emotions that she lost all inclination. Without being aware of it, she found herself relaxing, clinging to him, offering herself to his demanding mouth and exploring hands as though she had no desire left but to please him.
He shrugged out of his shirt, then removed hers, his hands and then his mouth caressing her throbbing breasts. He had her twisting frantically away from him, moaning with pain from the roughness of his chin, before pleasure took over and she twisted back, her arms going around his neck to hold him even closer.
Sensuously, as she stirred, his gaze slid slowly over the slender whiteness of her limbs, then he groaned out her name, his voice husky with emotion as he pushed her back against the mattress with the hard force of his body. The next instant she was gasping with shock as he came completely over her, his intentions very clear, even to one of her complete innocence.
'Quentin!' she was struggling through the avalanche of passion and desire to find enough strength to wrench her too vulnerable mouth from under his. 'Quentin,' she gasped, 'I give in…!'
Again he groaned, becoming utterly still, so she wasn't sure he had heard her. Or if he had replied and she hadn't heard him, for the blood was drumming so loudly in her ears she could hear nothing else.
At last he spoke, as if it were an effort. 'What do you mean by that, exactly?'
'Oh,' her already hot cheeks grew hotter, as she understood how her own reply might have been interpreted, 'I—I mean I'll marry you.'
When he still didn't move she wondered if she had left it too late. But suddenly it didn't seem to matter any more. She could hear the harshness of his breathing, feel the heaviness of his hard, muscular body. It drove every other consideration from her head. Blindly she began searching for his mouth again, pressing her hands flat against his chest, feeling the roughness of it tantalising her soft fingers. 'Please, Quentin,' she whispered, 'love me, love me.'
Abruptly he let her go, rising swiftly to his feet. Instinctively she knew he had found it almost impossible, yet when she blindly put out an arm to stop him, he shook her off roughly. 'No more,' he snapped, thrusting into his shirt and tucking it into his trousers. As he finished his task, he walked over to the window, presumably giving her a few moments to do the same.
'So—when's the wedding going to be?' he asked, turning back to her at last and staring at her quite impersonally, although there was a white grimness to his mouth. This week, next week? No longer.'
'I thought you were asking me?' she faltered, thinking this must be the strangest proposal a girl had ever had. In a bare room, in a condemned cottage, without a word of love exchanged. Why did Quentin want to marry her? To make amends for the past, or because he was attracted to her? Or because a wife might be useful? Somewhere among these three possibilities might lie the answer?
'I'll leave the final decision to you,' he replied magnanimously, 'but within those limits.'
Angrily she said, 'It's not long enough. What would my grandfather think, for one thing?'
'I don't much care, but somehow I don't think he'll object, Gina.' He came to sit by her again on the narrow bed. 'He knows I'm not a patient man.'
'Don't you care for me at all?' she burst out.
'Yes, I care,' he said soberly, his eyes intent on her face. 'Ours has been a difficult relationship, but I've wanted you since the night I rescued you from the lake. I've considered you mine from that moment, but you're older now, which makes a difference.'
'Does it?' she asked hollowly, wondering if she could believe him.
'Damn it all, Gina, haven't I said enough? Might I ask how you feel about me?'
She flinched from his weighted sarcasm. He enquired as if he were interviewing her for a job! and while she knew how he could make her feel, she had no clear idea of her feelings otherwise. Once she had thought she loved him, but he had killed that emotion long ago. Hadn't he?
Unhappily, she avoided a straight answer. 'Getting married is your idea, not mine.'
With his eyes fixed on her, he might have been following the drift of her thoughts exactly. 'If the idea was in my head, Gina, maybe you helped put it there. You respond very passionately.'
There was a world of experience in the glance he ran over her and she felt a flush of embarrassment rise to her face. 'I hope you aren't marrying me just for that!' she retorted tartly. 'Anyway, you could be mistaken.'
'I don't think so,' he drawled. 'But let's not worry too much, too soon. The future will take care of itself.' Bending his head, he kissed her again, as if to still further indignation, and much as she tried to resist her mouth clung to his with a gasp of undisguised pleasure. Slowly he eased the pressure he exerted, teasing her mouth open with a gentle thumb before placing moist, warm lips over hers again.
Fire spread within her, along her nerves, entering her bloodstream, dispensing to centre points of sensation. Blindly she clutched his hand, placing it wantingly over her heart, wanting his touch, his caresses almost greedily.
'Do you still need convincing?' he mocked derisively, although as he drew back she saw he was pale.
'Didn't you ever try to persuade Blanche like that?' She didn't know why she asked, but she had to find some release from the tension inside her.
'Leave Blanche out of this!' He was suddenly so curt, Gina was startled. 'You're the only girl who's any use to me now.'
'Was
n't it always my role?' she returned, with matching shortness, 'to be useful? Ever since I can remember.' Suddenly unable to bear staying there any longer, she jumped to her feet and almost ran from the room, her sentence trailing off behind her.
More slowly Quentin followed and, as they left the cottage, rather than continue about Blanche she attacked him another way. 'What did you do with my father's books?'
'What do you think?' he closed the door firmly—and locked it. 'I kept them for you.'
Glancing at him with sudden hatred, she noticed he pocketed the key. 'You burnt them, of course.'
'Always so ready to believe the worst, aren't you, Gina? What a delightful wife you're going to make!'
'No doubt you think you'll soon have me licked into shape? What a good start for you, that you know all my faults. When you've had time to consider them, you mightn't think marriage such a good idea, after all.'
He smiled sardonically at her flushed face. 'Don't worry—it's going to happen.'
From past experience Gina knew she could only defy Quentin so far, and never yet had she succeeded in winning a battle against him. If she hoped to win this one, instinct warned her she would have to be devious. She wanted revenge for the past, not his caresses, she argued, but these she might have to endure before she could reap her revenge and be rid of him for good.
'I'd rather you didn't say anything to my grandfather for a day or two,' she said slowly as they emerged from the woods.
'Why not?' Grimly Quentin dusted some twigs from his broad shoulders.
'You were going to have the woods cleared?'
'Gina! Please answer my question.'
She shrugged. 'He seemed worried at lunch. It's probably not much, but he has seemed rather down lately.'
'Our engagement might cheer him up. Look at it that way.'
The Loving Slave Page 11