Second-Best Bride

by Margaret Rome

  'Certainly,' she bobbed, backing away from her new mistress, 'it shall be as you wish.'

  The small incident aggravated her already frayed nerves to such an extent that she found she could not drink the coffee left by the thoughtful young maid. With a sigh, she pushed her cup away, wondering how she could even begin to cope with a situation that seemed hopeless. Terzan had been quite right in his assumption—she now felt bound to stay. Cilla would not have given in to emotional blackmail but would have returned home without compunction, but she could not because her conscience would not allow her to lie to her father about the annulment of a marriage that had been consummated.

  'Are you there, elika?’ With the confidence of a cat in the dark he had found her, drawn by the scent of roses, the perfume he had asked her always to wear. He was lounging in the doorway, dressed casually in denims and a black T-shirt that hugged muscular chest and shoulders like a second skin and responded with a powerful ripple to every flexed sinew. She found herself unable to lift her eyes above the buckle of a belt clasped around a flat, athletic abdomen, unwilling to meet a bright amber gaze even though she was aware that it lacked vision.

  'Of course I'm here,' she told him calmly, 'exactly as you intended me to be—don't you always get what you want?'

  'Not always,' he strode forward to remind her cruelly. 'Sometimes I have to make do with second best.'

  The caustic thrust brought her sense of in­feriority, her feelings of inadequacy, surging to the fore. Just in time, she managed to smother the pained gasp that would have told him his arrow had landed on target, and concentrated hard upon instilling indifference into words formed on lips that felt ice-cold.

  ‘Isn't the whole of life a compromise? We must both learn to live with the fact that we've had to forsake what is ideal for what is possible.'

  When his dark head snapped erect she guessed that it had simply never occurred to him that she, too, might have cause for regret, might have carried in her heart an image of the man she wanted to marry.

  The notion seemed to displease him. ‘I suppose, like most puritans, your ideal man is a reflection of your father,' he sneered, 'a mild-mannered curate, no doubt, of such saintly disposition his lack of avarice would soon have reduced you to taking in laundry!'

  'Poverty has many different appearances,' she retorted lightly, refusing to become riled. 'Given a choice, I would much prefer to be rich in love and affection rather than become a member of a society made up of the most over-dressed, over-fed, and over-indulged paupers in the whole world!'

  With mild interest, she studied the slow rise of colour spreading beneath his tan, then dismissed as absurd the notion that Terzan Helios was cap­able of feeling an emotion as human as shame when he voiced a reminder so brutally insensitive that every nerve in her body recoiled.

  'You had a choice, beggar maid, and you opted for the touch of Midas—even pleaded to be taught the secret of turning dross into gold.'

  It was some seconds before she was composed enough for speech and even then she could manage no more than a few bitterly-breathed words.

  ‘I had no wish to be taught to hate,' she choked, fastening wounded eyes upon his dark, sardonic face, 'yet upon reflection I realise what a fool I was to expect to learn anything different from a man who is ignorant of kindness and considera­tion and a complete and utter stranger to love.'

  'But not to passion, eh?' jeered the blindfolded Greek, who, like Eros, the god of desire, had no qualms about inflicting suffering in order to further his aims. With one swift, feline movement he closed the gap between them and caught her slim shoulders between hands gripping as claws. It would have been undignified to struggle, so she made no attempt to escape his trap but waited immobile for whatever blow was about to fall.

  He had discarded his dark glasses, and as his head lowered towards her she caught the glint of flame trapped in amber eyes so vitally alert it was incredibly hard to believe that he was unable to see the waxen pallor of her face, the trembling of almost bloodless lips, and the sheer terror reflected in her wide eyes as she watched lips formed into a tight cruel line hovering, ready to pounce upon her defenceless mouth.

  ‘I may have lost my sight, elika,' he bit savagely, 'but the rest of me is functioning perfectly—too perfectly. Until last night I had not realised how deprived I had allowed myself to become, how starved of feminine comfort, but now, Angel Rose,' the hands on her shoulders clawed her closer, ‘I feel like a beggar before a banquet, voracious of appetite, and having no intention whatsoever of resisting the temptation to gorge!'

  He snatched her as easily as the boys of the vil­lage snatched the wild grey doves that hovered and circled around the island they had made their home, crushing her quivering body against his hard limbs, levering her backwards on to the bed that he knew, because of the brush of the sperveri against his cheek, was directly behind her. With an expertise that owed everything to familiarity with the task in hand, his hand slid upward along the length of her spine until his fingers closed around the fastener of a zip which he pulled down below her waist before pushing the straps of her simple cotton sundress away from soft, smooth shoulders. Then with a groan of longing he gathered her slim, trembling body against his heart and sought her mouth, kissing her tenderly at first, experimentally as a connoisseur sipping new wine, then drinking with enjoyment, deeper and deeper until she felt drugged with passion.

  To her everlasting shame, it was a matter of seconds before devouring kisses, searching inti­mate caresses, and the touch of his firmly muscled body ignited the charge left kindling deep inside her and exploded a wild burst of desire, a current of ecstasy that fused them together in rapture then after an idyllic lifetime slowly receded, leaving her shaken, tossed lifeless as a wraith against a pound­ing chest glistening with sweat, as sensuous to her as dark brown satin.

  'Glika mou!' he groaned hoarsely, nuzzling the sweet bare curve of her shoulder. 'Making love to you inspires in me a dash of madness! Never before have I been so strongly affected by a woman's touch, your gentle hands squeeze like a vice around my heart strings, your childish curves slip like silk through my fingers, I am seduced completely by the scent of roses, pungent as the perfumed cloud that rises above an English garden after a shower of rain. I thought last night was a mirage— which is why I had to return to find out...'

  A blush of heat spread throughout Angie's body as she lay trembling in his arms, deeply ashamed of her weakness, yet too much in love to draw away. Shy of his fierce Greek possessiveness, she burrowed her head into his chest, and knew he had sensed the reason behind the childish gesture when he uttered a throaty laugh and ran his fingers down her cheek in search of her small pointed chin. Tilting it upwards until she felt devoured by blazing amber, he reminded her kindly:

  ‘I regret I cannot see your nudity, Angel bride, but even if I could I would still be puzzled by your reluctance to reveal your lovely body. Perhaps it is because we Greeks have long pursued the cult of the nude and therefore see nothing shocking in the naked form. Adam and Eve romped naked, did they not? And one only has to see the simple un-ashamedness of small children to realise that notions of decency in regard to the covering of the human body are not inherent in men and women but must be inculcated.'

  She could have argued that she found his ag­gressive masculinity overpowering enough when fully clothed, could have told him that in order to retain a modicum of decorum between two people who were physically attracted clothing was a re­straining influence upon the impulse to spend the entire day and night making love—as he seemed intent upon doing, as she wanted him to do.

  The brazen thought shocked her back to sanity, a clear, cold state of reasoning in which she saw her­self as wanton, a willing plaything in the hands of a professional philanderer, a man who insisted upon claiming the rights of a husband, yet made no secret of the fact that he was still in love with her sister!

  Self-loathing ejected her out of his arms and as far away as possible from the bridal be
d and its enshrouding sperveri, the curtain fashioned by super­stitious women as an aid to connubial bliss. Im­mediately Terzan sprang from the bed and followed her, a striding naked Colossus intent upon mastery.

  'Don't touch me!' she flared, backing away from hands groping dangerously close. “I must have been mad...!' The words jerked from her in small, stumbled gasps as she flung herself into a dressing-gown and belted it tightly, showing the in­congruous attention to detail of one who has been robbed and means to ensure that it does not happen again.

  But employing an uncanny instinct to define her exact whereabouts, he lunged forward and caught her by the shoulders, pinning her back against a wall.

  'Mad to enjoy my lovemaking . . .?' He shook her thoroughly. 'Admit it, Angelina, you do enjoy it, I can tell! I could better understand your foolish prudery were we not married, legally bound—'

  'With typewriter ribbon,' she interrupted swiftly, 'and sealed with a rubber stamp! I used to think that love and marriage were indivisible, but to you marriage is no more than a cold-blooded business deal, a straightforward proposition with no heart­strings attached!'

  ‘It does not mean that, because we omitted the usual courting ritual and dispensed with all the romantic trimmings, you are any less my wife,' he drawled dangerously. 'There is no reason why your prim and proper conscience should be offended simply because you have discovered you have a husband possessed of all the qualities neces­sary to an expert lover.'

  His conceit and overbearing arrogance were ex­ceptional even for a Grecian god. Anger was an alien emotion to her, yet her tense, highly-strung state made it easy for her to sound withering.

  'The type of woman with whom you usually associate would no doubt agree that to be attrac­tive a man needs to be handsome, or rich, perhaps even dominating, but men who lack imagination, whose sole consideration is to satisfy their own needs, do not appeal to me. I like quietness, gentle­ness, and compassion—I also place an ability to laugh at oneself high on my list of priorities,' she concluded quietly, 'and in that respect, I consider you're sadly lacking.'

  His expression of astonishment would have struck her as comical had the atmosphere not been so highly charged, so packed with conflicting emo­tions. It must have been many years since the master of Karios had been subjected to such criti­cism. He had fought, even clawed, his way up the ladder of success, had striven with courage, daring and cold-blooded ruthlessness towards a pinnacle that had gained him respect, even adulation, thoughout the hard, impersonal businessworld. Which was probably why her cool contempt un­earthed a raw spot on his tough, insensitive hide.

  'Damn you!' he groaned, jerking her forward into his arms. The barrier of cotton that she had wrapped around her limbs seemed to infuriate him, for with an oath he ripped it from her shoul­ders, then pressed his palms flat against her spine until their bodies were so close not even a whisper could have passed between them.

  'Don't try to teach me manners, English schoolmarm! Men of Greece, land of the patriarchs, insist upon ruling the household and demand of their wives that they remain slaves to their hus­band's needs! I need you now, Angel bride, so don't fight me,' he commanded, his lips teasing her trembling mouth, 'let lovemaking be a pleasure, not a punishment.' Angie resisted with all the strength that was in her, knowing she was beaten before she began, yet urged on by an indomitable spirit and the courage of desperation.

  Yet he plucked her into his arms with ease, then, keeping his mouth fastened upon hers and with the bitter taste of her tears upon his lips, he lowered her gently on to the bed.

  ‘I hate you!' she sobbed. 'Almost as much as I hate myself...'

  'Then please don't stop, Angel bride,' he urged in a mocking whisper, 'because I love the way you hate...'

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sunshine so hot flowers drooped on their stems, leaves hung limp, and colourful fish lay motionless at the bottom of the pool seemingly unable to summon sufficient effort to glide beneath the pro­tective canopies of waterlily leaves, flooded every corner of the garden.

  When Angie laughed aloud Nikos beamed, pleased with himself for having discovered a method of amusing his shy, too solemn young mis­tress. He continued to enlarge upon his theme as he served from a trolley the light lunch that she and the kirios had requested.

  'Truly, there is no need for you to learn our difficult language, for we Greeks use signs and ges­tures far oftener than words to communicate our feelings. For instance,' he demonstrated by push­ing out his lower lip and patting it with an index finger, 'no Greek would have difficulty in inter­preting this gesture as meaning, "I want to talk to you". And in this way,' he tilted his head, thrust out his chest and placed one hand over his heart, at the same time raising the other to point a finger in her direction, 'we tell someone: "You-are my friend, I love you!'

  The strong vein of affection running through his voice, an affection for his young mistress that everyone on the island seemed to share, cast a frown of annoyance over Terzan's brooding face. His shoulders jerked, the irritable movement cut­ting sharp as a knife through the happy atmo­sphere.

  ‘If you don't mind, old fool—' He tilted his head and pointed down his throat with the fingers of one hand held tightly together, gesticulating in a manner that declared plainly, even to Angie, "I want to eat!"

  'Parndon . . . parndon . . .!' Nikos managed to sound apologetic while at the same time directing a conspiratorial wink towards Angie. ‘I was merely trying to add an extra bit of sizzle to the steak.'

  'Which is already so well seasoned it does not require the sauce of your impudence,' Terzan re­buked dourly and with a puzzling lack of humour. It's almost, Angie thought, as if he resents the rap­port that's grown up between myself and Nikos.

  Hastily, Nikos withdrew out of the orbit of his master's displeasure, leaving her to cope, as lately he had often elected to do, delighted by the fact that to some extent he had become superfluous because there was now one other person upon whom the kirios felt able to depend upon.

  Suppressing a quiver of anxiety, she dipped into a bowl of salad and began doling out two portions into individual bowls. She had fallen with con­tented ease into the ways of the fastidious Greeks, adopting their respectful attitude towards the pre­paration and enjoyment of their national dishes, and especially their salads which she loved. Not for them the pile of limp greenery so often seen on the plate of an English diner, they picked accord­ing to preference from a communal bowl of crisp lettuce, thin strips of pepper, pieces of tomato no bigger than a walnut, black olives and crunchy spring onions before seasoning to taste with a dressing of lemon juice and olive oil, a pinch of salt, and several grinds of black pepper, until they arrived at a harmony of flavour as pleasing as a sweetly-tuned lyre.

  Angie pushed the bowl towards him, then watched him carry out the ritual, marvelling, as she did more and more each day, at the ease with which he carried out simple, everyday tasks she knew she would find impossible to manage blind­fold. When a colourful butterfly flew past her nose she gave an involuntary cry of delight.

  'Look at that, Terzan, did you ever see such a glorious colour combination!'

  Dismay gripped her by the throat immediately she realised her gaffe. She gasped, then swallowed hard before apologising:

  ‘I'm sorry, that was silly of me, I quite forgot that you were blind.'

  Her fingers twisted nervously in her lap as she waited to be drowned in one of the storms of sar­casm that were becoming more frequent and squally with each passing day. She dared a peep from behind lowered lashes, and was relieved to discover that he was not glowering, that his brow was clear, the line of his lips uptilted as if tempted to smile.

  'Don't apologise, it proves that you are becom­ing a little less inhibited by my affliction and, that being so, it is not unreasonable to expect that where you lead others may follow. I have waited for months for a sign that I am becoming accepted as normal instead of being pitied and patronised, and at last it has happened! Thank you, elik
a,' his smile sent her pulse rate soaring, 'you could not have paid me a nicer compliment.'

  Feeling ecstatically grateful to the colourful tres­passer who had winged into their midst bringing a moment of rare harmony, Angie continued eating her lunch, but with her mind on a plane so high the taste of the food did not register. Obviously, Terzan looked upon her unthinking remark as a breakthrough. She found his reaction equally satisfying. Today their marriage was three months old, during which time she had been forced to come to terms with the fact that emotionally she was too weak to resist the advances of the demanding Greek whose touch turned her bones to water, whose kisses drew the heart from her body, whose hands stroked, caressed, and moulded her into a pliant, loving, giving creature whose only wish was to please the husband she adored—even though he discarded tenderness like a cloak the moment he left her bed. Each sunrise brought a dawn of shame, each sunset a plea for respect that was crushed into extinction by Terzan's forceful kisses, so the only recourse left to her was prayer, a prayer for guidance that she might find a way of penetrating his tough, defensive shell and unearth the cache of compassion he liked to pretend did not exist.

  'Do you ride?' Abruptly he intruded into her daydream.

  'Yes ... Cilla and I shared a pony when we were children, then when we were older one of Father's parishioners made us a present of a mare that I kept almost to myself once Cilla, who became im­patient of her plodding, began exercising more mettlesome mounts from our cousin's stable. Do you ...?' she queried innocently.

  ‘I did,' he grated, rising to his feet, 'and would like to do so again. I find idleness even more frus­trating than helplessness, which is why I should like to attempt to ride, even though it means sub­mitting myself to the indignity of a leading rein. How about it?' his lips twisted wryly. 'Are you willing to act as my nursemaid?'

  'I'll help in any way I can,' she agreed quietly, 'providing you choose a decent, steady mount and agree to accept your limitations and to keep within them.'