The Faithful Wife

by Diana Hamilton

  He went to the outer door and drew back the bolts. ‘I’m going to dig a way through to the fuel store. I’d appreciate it if you did your part and fixed breakfast.’

  He sounded weary, Bella noted crossly. Weary of the situation he found himself in. Weary of her. She watched him force the door open against the weight of snow, her chin jutting mutinously.

  Anger was her only defence. She dredged up every last bit she could find. Do as you’re told; she mimicked his voice inside her head. And vowed she wouldn’t. Not ever again.

  Besides, would it hurt him to offer her a kind word? Or, if he really couldn’t manage that, simply a civil one would do! Didn’t the insensitive brute remember what day it was? Christmas Eve—their fourth wedding anniversary! Did the date mean so little to him that he’d blanked it out of his mind?

  Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them furiously away, despising herself for the weakness of wanting things he could never give her—his love, his trust, the way things had been for them at the very beginning, when it had been as if he had known she was his woman, and had reached out and taken her.

  And she’d gone willingly because, almost from the time they’d met, she’d known she was his—for always.

  But it hadn’t turned out that way. The veneer of perfection had been very thin. Scratch it, and something ugly was staring you in the face.

  As soon as he was out of sight she reached for her padded coat. She hadn’t wanted him to walk out on her, but she was going to walk out on him. She couldn’t and wouldn’t endure the situation a moment longer!

  Bella knew she was acting irrationally, but how could she think straight when he was around, looking at her with those black, contemptuous eyes, making it plain he believed she had instigated this unholy mess?

  Walking out of here would show him just how wrong he was about that! And remove her from the disastrously growing temptation to try to make him believe she still needed him, that she only had to see him, hear his voice, to crave the touch of his lips, his hands—because for her the wanting had never stopped.

  And even if he did believe her—which was highly unlikely—his vaguely contemptuous pity would be the best she could hope to achieve. He would tell her to control her libido until she could get back to Guy. And that she could do without!

  Because of the wind direction there was less snow piled up in front of the cottage than there was at the rear. The sun shone brightly from a clear blue sky, and that was a heartening omen. She’d go carefully, she promised herself, sucking in lungfuls of the cold, cold air, pick her way until she came to the nearest habitation.

  She’d show him she hadn’t planned this sick farce! By taking this initiative, she’d damn well prove it!

  By the time he’d split enough dry logs to last for twenty-four hours, Jake’s temper was high. And rising. He’d long since discarded his sheepskin coat, the heavy exercise keeping him warm, but his trousers were wet through to well above his knees—the unpleasant result of wading through the drifts to get to the shed to look for a shovel to clear the damn stuff!

  He replaced the axe and shovel in the shed, flung his coat over his shoulder, gathered up an armful of logs and set off along the track he’d cleared from the shed to the cottage. He’d hoped for a rapid thaw, but it looked as if he wasn’t going to get one. Great snow clouds were gathering ominously now, blocking out the sky.

  He had never threatened physical harm to a woman in his life, but right now he felt like shaking Bella until her teeth fell out!

  Why wouldn’t the woman come clean and tell him exactly what she’d wanted to achieve when she’d ganged up with the sisters from hell and tricked him into coming here? The frustration of not knowing was almost worse than the deed itself.

  There was no sign of breakfast, and the coffee-pot was cold. He told himself he wasn’t surprised, and went through to dump the logs on the hearth, eyeing the cold ashes grimly.

  She was probably holed up in her room, painting her nails and doing her face, expecting him to do all the donkey work!

  He took the stairs two at a time, his black frown deepening as the wet fabric of his trousers clung clammily to his legs. If they were going to survive this damned incarceration without coming to blows there was going to have to be some give and take around here!

  It took him less than five minutes to discover she was nowhere in the cottage, and mere seconds more to check out the front and verify what he’d sinkingly begun to suspect.

  Footprints heading out of there, imprinted in the deep snow. Had the woman gone completely mad?

  He collected his coat, glowered at the sky and slammed the cottage door behind him. Attention seeking, that was what this latest crazy stunt was all about!

  He’d made his irritation with the situation pretty clear, refusing to play along with her game—whatever it was. So she’d trudged out into the snow, knowing full well he would feel obliged to fetch her back, thereby forcing him to give her his undivided attention.

  When picking out this cottage for their ‘unexpected’ reunion, she’d have made good and sure it was remote, far enough from any other habitation to make getting out on foot anything but easy—and totally impossible in these conditions.

  And if he didn’t have a conscience he’d sit back and let her get on with it, leave her to come crawling back when she realised that playing the injured heroine wasn’t getting results!

  By his reckoning, he’d spent around half an hour clearing the path and splitting wood. Even if she’d shot out of the front door the moment he’d exited the back, she couldn’t have gone far in that small amount of time. And when he caught up with her he’d haul her back and lay down a few firm ground rules. By hell, he would!

  Half an hour later he’d followed her trail to the rim of the valley and over, zig-zagging to avoid obvious drifts and on across the flanks of the now trackless mountains. Trouble was, it had started snowing again almost as soon as he’d set out, and it was rapidly becoming a blizzard.

  The powdery snow was being blown around in ever-thickening flurries, filling in the marks of her passage. If he gave the storm another ten minutes, he wouldn’t have a clue how to track her down. If he didn’t find her soon, he never would.

  Anxiety quickened his heart rate and he forced himself to move faster, cursing the elements. Despite her height, she was too fragile to last long in these desperate conditions.

  He thought of the slenderness of her bones, the delicate grace of that ultra-feminine body, and groaned, pushing himself harder. His breathing was ragged now, more from the persistently clawing anxiety than from the very real exertion.

  If anything happened to her he would never forgive himself.

  When a rent in the swirling clouds of snow revealed a figure up ahead, gallantly trying to get up off her knees and pathetically failing, the sense of relief he felt forced him to face what he’d tried so hard to hide—he still cared deeply for the little witch. If he’d lost her out here his life wouldn’t have been worth living; his future wouldn’t have been worth having.

  It took him two desperate minutes to reach her, to scoop her up from her knees and hold her as tightly as he could without crushing her slender bones.

  ‘Oh, Jake—’

  Her voice was a whispery thread of sound against the wail of the wind, but he heard it, and it reached deep inside him and touched him where it hurt. It hurt like hell.

  ‘Don’t talk,’ he commanded gruffly, his heart twisting inside him as his hands went to steady her shoulders to allow him to search her face.

  White skin was transparent with fatigue; lips were tinged blue with cold. But her eyes were clear bright pools, pools he could drown in, and the barriers went crashing down, each and all of them, as she spoke to him.

  ‘I’m so sorry, so sorry. Criminally...stupid...’ The words were strung out, as if she hadn’t the strength to say them but would, even if it was the last thing she ever did. ‘Stupid thing...to do.’

  ‘I said, don’t t
alk,’ he reiterated thickly, his throat tight. He rubbed the balls of his thumbs gently over the parchment-thin skin stretched over her cheekbones, then cradled her head between his hands and bent to touch his lips to hers, moving them slowly, softly, transmitting what he could of his warmth to her.

  He felt the sweet movement of her cold lips beneath his—opening, receptive, stroking, growing warmer, much warmer now. His heart rate quickened, sending the blood pounding thickly through his veins, until the smothered whimper of pleasure that seemed to come from the depths of her being—sapping what little energy she had left—had him reluctantly moving his mouth from hers.

  This wasn’t the time, and it most decidedly wasn’t the place.

  ‘Let’s get you home,’ he muttered, sweeping her into his arms. ‘Trust me, you’ll soon be warm and dry.’

  ‘Jake—I can walk!’

  ‘Shut up,’ he ordered smoothly, briefly touching his lips to her eyelids, closing the fatigue-bruised skin over those perfect, precious eyes. Then he lengthened his stride. The elements would have to do a damn sight better than this if they wanted to stop him taking her to safety!

  He barely noticed the weather as he fought through the blizzard, and her slight weight was nothing. Immeasurable relief overrode everything else; aching muscles didn’t get a look in.

  At one point she seemed to fall asleep, nestled in his arms, her head tucked in beneath his chin. But she woke when he shouldered open the cottage door, momentarily cuddling closer into his body before murmuring, ‘Put me down, Jake. You must be exhausted.’ She was deeply reluctant to leave the haven of his arms, to relinquish the closeness of the last hour when he’d found her, held her and kissed her and carried her back every step of the way. But his effort had been monumental and, strong though he was, every muscle had to be aching.

  If only they could stay this close, scrub out the past and build on the future...

  ‘I’ve managed this far; a few more steps won’t hurt me.’

  There was no condemnation in his voice, just a gruff thread of something she couldn’t put a name to, and she wound her arms around his neck as he carried her up to the bathroom with no apparent effort at all.

  He slid her down his body to put her on her feet, and she did her best not to sway or wobble. Out there, when the storm had worsened, she’d been truly frightened. But her hero had come and brought her home.

  He had always been her hero. Even when she couldn’t understand him, had believed he’d never really loved her and had married her because he lusted after her, she’d never been able to topple him off the pedestal she’d created for him in her mind. Which was strange, considering everything.

  Her throat tightened. There were things that had to be said. Now, in this softer, more receptive mood, surely he would listen?

  He released his hold on her slowly, as if reassuring himself that she wouldn’t fall in a wet and soggy heap, and bent to turn the bath taps on.

  She reached out and touched his arm, and he straightened immediately at the slight contact, his breath bunching painfully in his lungs. Turning to her, his eyes narrowed with concern as he saw the glitter of unshed tears in her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jake—’

  ‘You’re back now, no damage done,’ he said quickly, his eyes sweeping her tense features. ‘Don’t waste your breath apologising.’

  ‘I want to! Not just for taking off like that, but for everything else!’ she cried, needing him to know how much she regretted what she’d done, needing him to understand why she’d done it. There had been too many thoughts left unspoken in the past, culminating in a total lack of communication. She should have tried harder to make him listen, make him understand. She could see that now.

  ‘Shh.’ He placed two fingers against her lips, silencing her, clamping his jaw tightly as he felt her mouth tremble beneath the gentle pressure, and stamping on the near-desperate urge to kiss her senseless as her lids fluttered closed, colour stealing into her flawless skin.

  He couldn’t listen to her raking over the past, hear her apologising for the act of adultery, promising it would never happen again. ‘No post mortems,’ he said thickly, taking his fingers from her mouth because touching her hadn’t been one of his better ideas.

  He tested the temperature of the water and turned off the taps. ‘What you need is a warm bath and a hot drink.’ He unbuttoned her soggy coat and removed it, his hands brisk, impersonal, his movements economical. Then he bent to tackle the laces of her walking shoes.

  Looking down at his dark head, his wet hair plastered to his skull, Bella bit back a groan as the breath snagged in her lungs, making her heart race. Willing her fingers not to reach out and touch—not yet—she curved them sharply into her palms.

  Maybe in a moment she could make her move...ask him to share the bath with her...? If the signs were right... If she had the courage...

  Out of those three years of their marriage they’d spent a total of one hundred and thirty-one days together. She knew the tally exactly. She’d kept a record.

  But she’d done her best, for the first couple of years at least, to make the most of their time together. And they’d shared a bath on many memorable occasions. Highly memorable occasions...

  Her heart felt as if it were about to explode in her chest, her body too narrow to contain such tumultuous emotions. They’d been so good together—sexually at least—their need, their physical generosity, dovetailing perfectly, their passion carrying each other ever higher, reaching unbelievable realms of rapture.

  Surely that spectacular closeness couldn’t all be lost? There had to be something left they could build on. There had to be!

  She stood like a rag doll as he undressed her. She could manage for herself perfectly well, but wasn’t about to tell him so. Her damp sweater disposed of, he hooked impersonal fingers beneath the waistband of her leggings and dragged them down over her slender hips.

  Bella shuddered as molten fire pooled deep down inside her. She wanted him so; her entire body was on fire for him, transformed into a silent, desperate cry of need, a plea for his lovemaking—a cry he surely must hear deep inside him, an inner cry of such longing she could almost hear it throbbing on the air.

  His eyes slid over her body, lingering, dark colour slashing his hard, prominent cheekbones. And she knew, even before she heard the harsh rasp of his breath, that her body’s silent cry of need had reached him, touched him....

  Instinctively her hands went out, small palms sliding against the darkly stubbled, hewn contours of his face, long and elegant fingers resting on his temples, feeling the violence of the pulse there.

  Jake moved sharply back, as if stung by a horde of angry hornets, his eyes bleak and mouth compressed as he delivered tersely, ‘Shout if you need anything. I’ll leave the door open.’

  And he walked out on her, chilling indifference clearly stamped on the rigid lines of his broad back.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BACK in his room, Jake leaned against the closed door, teeth gritted, his head thrown back.

  It had been a close call. Damn it, his body was still shaking. For several minutes his concern for her had been his salvation, helping him to strip her down as if he were a professional carer.

  Only when she’d stood before him wearing nothing but those wicked wisps of lace that so lovingly cupped inviting, rosy-tipped breasts, and yet another scrap of lace-trimmed silk that covered...

  He groaned, levering himself forward and shrugging out of his soaked jacket. He’d been doing fine until then. Just fine. But looking at her, remembering the passion and glory of their lovemaking, the meeting of their souls that had made them seem indivisible, had brought him to the point of reaching out for her, holding her, making her his again, and only his, for the rest of time.

  But the smouldering, drowning invitation in her eyes when she’d slowly reached out and touched his face had brought him right back to his senses. Back with a hard, resounding crack.

  Sex had been someth
ing she’d always been good at. Very good. As insatiable as he’d been himself where she was concerned.

  So insatiable, indeed, she’d been hopping into bed with that wife-stealing, wife-cheating bastard Maclaine whenever he’d been away. While he’d been working his guts out for them both, determined to secure their future, she’d been playing around with the man who’d been her lover all those years ago.

  He’d keep that firmly to the forefront of his mind. It was a cast-iron, rock-solid defence against whatever acts of sorcery she dreamed up next!

  It would be masochistic madness to weave the fabric of his life with hers again, naively hoping she would stay faithful. He couldn’t take the heartbreak and disillusionment a second time around.

  He’d been short on trust ever since his father—the man he’d loved, respected and, above all, trusted—had committed that ultimate betrayal, taking his own life and leaving his family to make what they could of the financial mess he’d left behind.

  When Bella walked down the stairs, reluctantly dressed in flowing black silk trousers topped by a sleekly narrow white linen jacket worn over a black body, she was perfectly in control.

  Watching as he’d walked out of that bathroom, she’d been devastated, hardly able to believe he’d been turning his back on the possibility of a mutual admission that they still cared for each other.

  Because for a little while they’d been close, she knew they had, both physically and mentally. Closer than they’d been for a long time before their marriage had finally broken up. She’d felt it in her bones, felt the blossoming of hope in the quiet certainty of her heart.

  The briefly wonderful hope had been cruelly shattered when he’d walked out of the door. He’d fought the growing closeness because he didn’t want it. So be it. She could handle it, couldn’t she? What was that old saying? You could take a horse to water but you couldn’t make it drink...