His face was a battleground of warring emotions, the conflict graphically painted in the hard slash of his mouth, the tightness of skin over jutting cheekbones and jaw, the deep dark silver glints in those narrowed, brooding eyes, and she looked at him compulsively, her heart beating heavily because the truth was here, between them, a cruel, cold and hurting thing.
She said quickly, 'You don't really want me. You never did. I got tired of being second-best.' And that was more of the truth than was wise to release. He could pick it up, examine it, and maybe find the knowledge of her long and hopeless love.
But he said rawly, 'I don't know what the hell you're talking about!' and strode over to the stone sink, tipping his unfinished meal into the waste bin. Then he turned and faced her, his shoulders rigid with tension, his eyes hard as he grated out, 'Didn't our recent lovemaking tell you anything about how much I want you?'
Their lovemaking. That beautiful, beautiful phantom happiness. It hurt too much to think about it. And if he looked back on it, too, he would recognise her unrestrained responsiveness for what it was, understand how much it revealed about her true feelings for him.
And so she made her face blank, lifted her chin and fixed her gaze on a point just above his head because if she met his eyes she would be defeated utterly, and told him with a tiny dismissive shrug, 'You couldn't bring yourself to touch me during the final months of our marriage—that tells me how much you want me. The other—well—' She schooled the wobble of misery out of her voice, replaced it with a throwaway nonchalance that surprised even herself. 'I've already written that off as frustration.'
It wasn't true, of course it wasn't. But it was slightly easier than admitting to the bleak suspicion that he had been simply using her to convince himself of her latent promiscuity.
She expected exasperation, perhaps annoyance, even, over what he would see as a blasé comment. Expected that, but not the white-hot rage which had him covering the small distance between them after one long, deadly moment of silence.
His face was tight with it, those narrowed eyes spitting fire, his hands cruel as he dragged her off her precarious perch on the rickety stool and set her on her feet. And his voice was murderous, low and clipped.
'You little bitch! Just thank your lucky stars I don't hit women.' His hands dropped away abruptly, as if physical contact with her disgusted him. But a stroke of hot colour burned across his high slanting cheekbones as he grated, his voice raw with emotion, 'I didn't touch you because I bloody well couldn't! I was full of guilt. Ridden with it, do you hear me?'
She heard. Oh, she heard. But she didn't understand. She shook her head, stepping back, her face white with misery, and the silence was heavy, thick with things she didn't understand, and she didn't know why he was doing this to them, why he was complicating the dreadful simplicity of his need to be free of one wife to take another.
He said sharply, each word cutting her like a knife, making her change her knowledge of him, of herself and her reactions to him, 'You were expecting our child. You were light with joy, a complete and confident woman.' His mouth twisted in a bitter line. 'And I changed all that. You lost the child and, for all we know, lost the opportunity of conceiving another. And I was behind the wheel.' He swung on his heels, as if unable to look at the beaten creature he believed she had become, and walked to the door.
Beth began to say he mustn't feel guilty, not over that, but the words were stopped in her throat when he whipped round again, facing her, telling her, 'I hired this place for a couple of weeks. I thought we needed and deserved at least that much time to resolve our future.' His voice was toneless now, totally without life, or even, seemingly, interest. 'But now I find I can't wait that long. I can't command the necessary patience and ingenuity to work it through.' He moved out of the door, into a shaft of sudden sunlight, but even that brilliance failed to thaw the ice in his eyes. 'I want you to return to South Park, where, as my wife, you should be. I want no further talk of separations—trial or otherwise—and certainly not of divorce.'
'But what about—?'
'No buts.' He made a slashing gesture with one hand, blocking her tumbling questions about where Zanna and Harry would fit into that particular arrangement. 'It's straightforward enough. Come back to England with me and we'll try to forget the past couple of months ever happened. Or tell me you don't want me at any price. Then we can both wipe the slate clean. I won't beg—I don't even want to. It's entirely your decision, and I want it by tonight.'
He walked away then and Beth stood watching his tall, broad-shouldered figure stride purposefully across the sunlit yard and on to a forest track, the trees swallowing him, taking him away, leaving her feeling more empty and alone than she had ever felt in her life.
Blindly, she walked back into the centre of the small kitchen and began to clear up, hurling her untouched breakfast into the bin, her movements clumsy and uncharacteristically uncoordinated.
No prizes for guessing why Charles had made that ultimatum. Her earlier, and quickly dismissed, idea that Zanna had once again walked out on him had proved to be correct. She could kill the bitch! How dared the hateful creature hurt her darling time and time again?
Then, realising that her feet were planted on the path to hysteria, she took herself in hand and, her soft mouth compressed, gushed a tepid stream from the ineffectual water heater on to the plates in the sink.
Despite everything, she loved Charles. And love could make a fool of the most sensible soul alive. She had been made a fool of once, through loving more deeply than wisely, and it mustn't happen again.
She had to think of herself, acknowledge the impossibility of remaining the wife of a man who was obsessed by another woman. That the other woman was a bitch, incapable of true and abiding love, uncaring of how much torment and pain she inflicted on the father of her child, had nothing to do with the case, she assured herself tightly as she dealt with the breakfast dishes.
Her failure to win his love in the past had taught her a lesson she would be a fool to forget. That their relationship had degenerated abysmally, with little hope of salvation and no hope at all for a return to the civilised and caring thing it had been during the early months of their marriage, had been clearly demonstrated by his ultimatum.
Obviously, with the feckless Zanna out of his reach yet again, he would prefer her to return to South Park and take up her duties as his wife. It would save him from having to face the unsavoury gossip which would undoubtedly follow on a divorce, and, she thought cynically, stowing the last of the cutlery away in a drawer, she had made a career out of being his wife, had been good at the job. Yes, he would prefer her to go back with him but wouldn't much care if she didn't.
Even if she had been tempted to stay married to him, his blunt ultimatum, his careless take-it-or-leave-it attitude, his open admission that he didn't have the patience to try to persuade her—which would entail making love to her at every opportunity until she was utterly seduced into mindless acquiescence—would have put an end to that!
And his insensitive comment about forgetting the past couple of months demonstrated exactly how little he thought of her. How could she ever possibly forget Zanna's return—with their son tucked under her arm—and his obvious desire to get rid of his existing wife in order to marry the woman he couldn't stop loving?
Her chores finished, she wandered outside and sat on a wooden bench near the front door, closing her eyes and allowing the green and golden peace to surround her. She would face her future alone. When Charles came back she would tell him so.
It was all over. Except for one last thing. If they parted tomorrow, or even later tonight, never saw each other again, she had to rid him of those feelings of guilt about the loss of their child.
Slow tears trickled from beneath her closed eyelids, the last she would ever shed for either of them, because if she had known his feelings she wouldn't have felt so worthless and rejected herself, and they could have helped each ot
her through those dreadful days and lonely nights, and the last few months of their ill-fated no-hoper of a marriage would not have spawned the bitter memories they were both going to drag into their separate futures.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Beth was calm, very calm. At least, she thought she was, until Charles walked in on her and every cell in her body went on red alert.
He appeared in the open doorway of the kitchen and he must have walked for miles. His shirt was wet with sweat, sticking to his body, his dark hair damp, unruly, as if he'd pushed his hands through it time and time again. She met the brooding intensity of his eyes and shuddered. He looked exhausted, driven, and her love for him made her tender heart twist in unwilling compassion.
Almost, she was ready to do whatever he asked of her, be whatever he wanted her to be. But only almost. Unconsciously shaking her head, she dismissed the aching temptation. The raw, emotional savagery coming from him had to be down to the pain of having Zanna reject him yet again. It assuredly had nothing to do with whether or not she was willing to forget the divorce she'd told him she wanted.
'We'll eat in half an hour.' The banality of his words was negated utterly by the low harshness of his tone, riven with a pain as dark as it was unknowable, and she nodded mutely, unable to speak, her mouth gone dry, and turned blindly back to the sink where, just before he'd returned, she'd been washing salad.
She heard him move behind her, on his way through to the tiny sitting-room, and felt her whole body tense with her unstoppable, helpless awareness of him. And only when she heard him mount the stairs, heard the sound of his movements in the bathroom overhead, the gush and rattle of the nightmarish plumbing, did she feel herself relax, her body sagging with reaction.
Closing her eyes, she leant against the sink and willed herself to recapture the calm acceptance, the stoicism she had found during the long green and golden day. She wasn't prepared to take second place in his life and she couldn't help him come to terms with what Zanna had done to him. No one could. He would have to call upon his own deep reserves of mental strength to accomplish that. And he, above all men, was strong enough to do it.
Fleetingly, she wondered why the other woman had taken off again. She had seemed determined to replace her as Charles's wife, more than happy with the situation, had agreed that yes, her intention was to legitimise their son, allow him to bear his father's name.
Motherhood had obviously failed to tame the wild and reckless streak that was such a strong part of Zanna Hall's wayward character. She wouldn't be tamed and she wouldn't be caged and she went through life doing exactly as she pleased, utterly regardless of who got hurt in her selfish, flamboyant progress.
Beth pushed herself away from the sink and straightened her shoulders. She refused to think about it any more. She had enough to do to keep herself calm. Telling Charles that she wanted that divorce was going to require a single-minded strength of purpose she only hoped she possessed.
She had a meal to produce and she would concentrate on that, but even so the steaks she had found in the fridge were only just beginning to sizzle when Charles came down and she shot him a quick, questioning look—which told her nothing about his mood, about anything, except that he had showered, changed into a black cotton sleeveless T-shirt and hip-hugging denims.
'Anything I can do to help?' he offered blandly.
She made her voice crisp and did her best to look extremely efficient as she bustled about, spreading the breakfast bar with the checked cloth, setting out the bread and the salad, telling him, 'No, not really. Thanks,' meaning that the only thing he could do for her was give her permanent amnesia, make her forget that she had ever met him, ever loved him.
'In that case, I'll open the wine.' Toneless. Polite. She wondered frenziedly when he would ask for her decision, then mentally slammed that enervating thought out of existence. He would ask when he was ready and in the meantime there was something she could do for him. One last thing.
She turned the steaks and took the glass of red wine he held out to her, drank it down in two long swallows and immediately felt better. Dutch courage was better than no courage at all, she informed herself sagely as she reached into the wall cupboard for the mustard and marmalade.
'Templeton's lavish hand with the champagne must have given you a taste for the bottle,' he said drily. 'The most I've ever seen you put back before is half a glass, and you've made that last all evening.'
Nevertheless, he refilled her glass and she ignored that taunt about the Pol Roger he must have noticed when he'd walked into William's home and dragged her out. It wasn't important. What she had to say to him was.
Forking the steaks on to two plates, she carried them over, sucked in her breath and told him, not quite meeting his eyes, 'What you said earlier—about feeling guilty. You mustn't. What happened wasn't your fault. No one could have avoided that accident.'
She did look at him then because the silence was so long, burdened with tension, and when her green eyes locked with his narrowed grey gaze she turned her head quickly because what she had seen was compassion, pity. She couldn't handle that.
And he said huskily, 'You were so happy until then. I knew how badly you wanted that child. How could I not have felt the burden of guilt? It was like a ton weight.' He seated himself beside her and reached for her, tilting her small chin between the thumb and forefinger of one hand, forcing her to meet the shadowed power of his eyes. 'And I was right, wasn't I? It was something you couldn't spring back from. Your jealousy of Harry cut me like a knife. During that weekend I watched you freeze, die a little more inside. You can't imagine what it did to me. Culpability isn't easy to live with.'
Culpability. A draining word, defeating them, slicing through the tenuous bonds there had once been between them. Little wonder he had shut her out of his life, had sought out the warmth and vibrancy of the woman he had been unable to stop loving. And discovering she had borne him a son had only fuelled his obsession.
Compressing her lips, she twisted her head away and picked up her cutlery. Jealous of young Harry she had been, but only because the little charmer was his son. His and Zanna's. Not for the reasons he had manufactured in his head. She didn't know how he could be so blind, so insensitive to her feelings.
On the other hand, she knew very well, she thought drearily as she cut into her meat, suddenly and inexplicably ravenous. Even during their most intimate moments he had never pretended he loved her. And, because of that, she had never been able to confess how she felt. Protestations of love on her part would only have embarrassed him, made him feel trapped by the weight of it. And increased her own sense of vulnerability, which had been terrifying enough as it was.
And nothing she had said, it seemed, had lessened his unreasoning sense of guilt over the loss of their child. She didn't know how she could further help him over that hurdle, except by telling him that the consultant's dire prognosis had been unfounded, that she had, in fact, conceived again.
From the corner of her eye she saw him begin his own meal. He didn't seem to have much of an appetite. She sighed. She could help him to lose some of that sense of guilt, but she had no intention of doing so. Not yet. Perhaps not for a long time to come. Because for the first time in her life she was going to be utterly and completely selfish.
She was going to keep the fact of her pregnancy secret until she had sorted out a new life for herself and was better able to handle the future ramifications of the visiting rights, the watchful interest he would insist on taking in his child. It would be appalling to have to meet him at regular intervals. The only way she could kill off her futile, hopeless love for him was to cut him completely out of her life, never see him again. If he knew about the coming child he would make that impossible.
'The steak's good.' She had to say something, didn't she? Something, anything, to break the aching silence. Any moment now he would ask for her decision. And she would give it. And that would, irrevocably, end the marri
age that had once been her whole existence.
But she wasn't going to think of that right now. Her metabolism was demanding sustenance and the meat was good, but needed something…
Her mouth watering, she reached for the marmalade she had unconsciously put out and unthinkingly spread it thickly over her steak, cut into it and popped a morsel into her mouth. Delicious.
And at her side Charles said tightly, 'You're pregnant.'
Beth swallowed convulsively, her face going scarlet. She felt as if she had been discovered doing something shameful. And unbidden, swift memory blazed across her mind.
Two months pregnant the last time. She and Charles dining out. Both choosing Chateaubriand. And then that sudden craving for, of all crazy things, marmalade on her meat…
The discreet hit of the waiter's eyebrows had, to give him his due, been hardly discernible. But Charles had lounged back in his chair, and even now, in memory, she could see the indulgent curve of his mouth, the warm pride in his eyes as he'd drawled amusedly, 'My wife is in what is politely known as an interesting condition, and has developed a few outrageous eating habits.'
And she had glowed then, then and for the remainder of the evening, secure with him, so secure…
Her eyes winged up to his, her cheeks still stained with hectic colour, and she saw a blaze of something she could only translate as that one closely shared memory in those narrowed grey depths, and she couldn't for the life of her, even attempt to lie to him.
'You've always blushed easily,' he said with soft irony, his shadowed eyes dropping from her warm, shell-shocked face, down over her rounded, thrusting breasts to her narrow little waist. 'When were you going to tell me? Or weren't you?'
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