by Penny Jordan
‘No!’ The sharp revulsion in her own voice startled her, and Campion avoided looking at Guy.
‘No? Why not?’ he asked her quietly.
She felt like a butterfly pinned down for inspection. She desperately wanted to escape, to be left alone. She hated this merciless probing, this constant pushing at her to produce something that… That she was incapable of producing? Despair stabbed through her. She couldn’t tell him that. She had her pride, after all. There must be a way… While she was still trying to sort out her confused thoughts, she heard Guy saying softly, ‘Campion, I’ve read all your books over the last few weeks. There’s an odd lack of sexuality in all of them, do you know that?’
Odd? Her body stiffened, sensing danger, her head lifting defiantly as she met the look in his eyes and forced herself not to cringe beneath it.
‘Why should I be considered odd just because I don’t spatter my work with lurid passages of pseudo-pornography?’
His eyebrows rose. ‘Is that how you see sex? As pornographic? You surprise me. The written word can be pornographic, I agree, but it can also be very, very sensual.’
‘It isn’t my job to write that kind of thing,’ she protested sharply.
‘No, but it is your job to flesh out the character of a young woman whom you seem to be dooming to a course of behaviour that’s totally out of keeping with the personality you’ve given her, and thus making her totally unbelievable in the mind of the reader.’
‘I could change her character.’
As she looked at him, Campion was unaware of the desperation in her voice and eyes. All she saw was a sudden and totally unexpected softening in the grey eyes that held her gaze. Guy lifted his hand from her manuscript, and instinctively she flinched back. Immediately, that slight softening was gone, and tiny sparks seemed to ignite in the depths of his eyes, as though he was very, very angry indeed. But he still continued to smile, and she decided that she must have been wrong. When men got angry they lost control, said and did things that were hurtful in the extreme, as she knew to her cost.
‘Tell me, Campion, why do you find it so hard to give your characters any sexuality? Your men, for instance. I’ve noticed that, even when you’re sticking to historical fact, you manage to avoid the human side of their natures completely. Why?’
She was frightened now. He was probing too close to things that hurt. Things that she had always thought were her secrets, and hers alone. Helena had never talked to her like this. All right, so sometimes she had laughed and teased her, sometimes she had made gentle suggestions which necessitated some small alterations in her work, but she had never, ever done anything like this.
Suddenly, her anger left her, and in its place came an icy thrust of fear. Why was Guy doing this to her? What was he trying to get her to admit? That she was inadequate as a woman? Her skin crawled as she realised how much she might have unwittingly betrayed about herself in her writing. Was this why she had so fiercely resisted the idea of having a secretary? Had she known, without actually acknowledging it, that she was vulnerable? Had she been afraid of what someone working closely with her might discover about her?
Panic built up inside her, coiling and burning, seeking some means of escape.
Guy was sitting far too close to her. She felt trapped, hemmed in. She stared desperately at the wall, as though she could somehow conjure up a gap in it through which she could escape, but there was none. She turned to face him, her eyes darkening as she saw the calm, waiting quality in his composed silence.
‘What is this? The Inquisition?’
To her relief, he didn’t laugh at her. Instead, he asked seriously, ‘Is that how you see me, Campion? As an inquisitor; a man capable of great cruelty; a man who enjoys inflicting pain on others; a man so zealous in his pursuit of what he believes in that he’s prepared to go to any lengths to secure those beliefs?’
Of course she didn’t. It had been stupid of her to choose that particular simile.
‘I’m just trying to help you, that’s all.’
‘I don’t need your help…’
‘I think you do,’ retorted Guy quietly. ‘Shall I tell you what I see when I look at you, Campion?’
Now, when she wasn’t prepared for it, he did reach out and touch her, his hand cupping the side of her face firmly. Her skin hurt, and she shook with shock and fear. She could feel the hard pads of his fingertips against her skin. She was shaking like someone in the grip of an intense fever, and there was nothing she could do about it—not a single thing.
She could see the irises of his eyes—clear, cool grey. His eyes were thickly and darkly lashed, his jaw dark where he shaved.
Campion opened her mouth to cry out to him to let her go, but no sound emerged. Panic flooded her. She wanted to cry and scream. She wanted to tear his hand from her skin. She wanted…she wanted to turn and run, and go on running until she could find somewhere to hide, both from him and from herself.
What was he doing this for?
‘Your skin feels like silk velvet.’ He smiled at her, and tiny lines fanned out from around his eyes.
Campion felt as though she were disintegrating, as though she was being torn apart by the pain of what was happening. How could he do this to her? Did he think she was blind, that she didn’t, couldn’t see for herself the differences between them? Did he honestly imagine she was stupid enough to believe that he could actually find anything physically attractive about her?
‘Stop it! Stop it! Don’t touch me!’
At last she had found her voice, even if the words did come out high and strained. She jerked back, her eyes wild with emotions that made Guy release her immediately.
‘You don’t have to waste your time complimenting me, Guy,’ she told him harshly. ‘I know exactly what kind of woman I am.’
‘Do you?’ Unexpectedly, his own voice was far from its normal, even tone. ‘I wonder.’
She couldn’t stand it any longer; the atmosphere in the small room was far too fraught and tense for her to even think about working.
She got up clumsily, almost flattening herself against the wall in her desire to avoid touching him.
‘I’m going out for a walk.’
‘You’ll get soaked.’
‘I don’t care.’
If he suggested going with her, she would probably push him down the first hillside they came to. She had to get away from him. To her relief, he stepped easily to one side to allow her to leave.
Her outdoor coat and her wellingtons were still in the car. She found them and pulled them on, ignoring the rain pelting down on her.
Out here she could breathe, she could relax, and most of all she could forget how she had felt when Guy French touched her.
* * *
Campion had walked in Pembroke before on visits with Helena. For mile upon glorious mile, the headland and cliffs belonged to the National Trust, and their paths were open to walkers, but that had been in summer, and she had gone less than a mile when she realised how very cold and wet it actually was.
The cottage and the village were only a couple of miles from the coast, but she would be a fool to try and walk there today, Campion acknowledged. The wind seemed to have trebled in force since she had come out, and already she was almost bent double under the force of it. It had whipped back her hood and tormented strands of her hair free from her French pleat to plaster them wetly across her skin. Her hands were icy cold, and she discovered that her wellingtons seemed to leak. Even so, despite all her discomfort, she preferred to be here outside rather than cooped up in the cottage with Guy.
What had he been trying to do? Surely he must know how aware she was that a man like him would never find her attractive? So why touch her…why make that stupid remark about her skin? She shivered, and not because of the cold or the damp penetrating her coat.
The sensation she had experienced when he touched her skin had been so electrifying, so shocking, that she was still shaken by the memory of it.
Her whole body had seemed to leap to meet his touch, and for one horrendous moment she had actually wondered what it would be like to experience his hand against her naked skin.
She had never known anything like it before. Not even with Craig. It was all Guy’s fault; all his probing and digging had unleashed an awareness in her of all that was missing from her life. For one incredible moment in the study, she had actually found herself envying and resenting her own heroine, jealously wishing that she was Lynsey, free to explore and enjoy her sensuality.
She must be going crazy, she told herself. It was this damn book. She should never have agreed to take it on. But she had agreed, and her pride would not let her give up now. She had to finish it…
Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by a frantic need to get back to work. She turned blindly and started to almost run back. The sooner the alterations were done, the sooner she would be free to escape from Guy. She would even let him tell her what to write, if that got the work done faster…
A sudden gust of wind caught her, winding her with its force. She staggered and slipped on the treacherously muddy path, landing uncomfortably, but not too painfully, on the wet ground.
When she got up, she saw with despair that her coat was covered in mud and soaking wet. She shivered. The wind had developed an icy edge that cut through her jeans and top.
By the time she got back to the cottage, her teeth were chattering and her hands turning blue.
Guy was in the kitchen when she staggered in, stirring something in a pan. The rich smell of hot soup filled the room, and Campion couldn’t help despairingly contrasting the calm efficiency of this man, who seemed to have a deftly sure touch in all he did, with her own apparently doomed attempts to show him that she was entirely self-sufficient.
She couldn’t even go out for a short walk without inviting disaster, she reflected bitterly as she struggled to tug off her wellingtons.
‘Here, let me…’
Of course, the damn things would have to slide off easily the moment he touched them.
She stiffened as she looked down at his dark head as he kneeled to help her. Why was it that there was something almost vulnerable about the sight of the nape of his neck? His skin was faintly brown, his muscles moving easily as he helped her out of her boots.
She felt oddly lethargic; unable to move. She felt the warmth of his hand on her skin, and the ripples of heat that spread out from the place where he touched her.
‘Are you all right?’
Humiliation filled her, and she struggled to step back from him. How had he known about that peculiar sensation of pleasure she had just experienced? And then she realised he was looking at her muddy coat.
‘I fell over, that’s all,’ she told him shortly. ‘The path was muddy.’
‘Why don’t you go up and have a shower, and then we can have lunch?’
The thought of warm water on her cold, wet skin was too blissful to be ignored.
It took far longer than she had anticipated to remove her wet jeans. They clung stubbornly to her legs, resisting all her attempts to tug them off, but at last she managed to remove them. Underneath, her skin was red and chafed from the irritation of the harsh cloth.
She had to take down her hair as well, but only realised when she was in the bathroom that she had forgotten her shower cap, so she had to use some of Guy’s shampoo, and waste even more time.
When she stepped out of the shower, she discovered she had left her fresh underwear on the bed. What was happening to her? She was normally so organised.
Still wrapped in the damp towel, her hair curling wetly on to her shoulders, she stepped irritably out of the bathroom and walked straight into Guy.
His hands steadied her, holding on to the bare skin of her upper arms.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘You’ve been up here so long, I thought your fall must have been more serious than you were letting on.’
She was carrying her wet briefs and top in one hand, and her toilet bag in the other. It wasn’t very warm on the landing, and already she was starting to shiver.
‘I’ve already told you I’m perfectly all right, and if you don’t mind I’d like to go and get dressed.’
When Guy didn’t release her immediately, she pulled away from him, and then gave a sharp cry of dismay as she felt her towel starting to slide away from her body.
She dropped everything she was carrying immediately, but even so Guy moved faster, catching the towel just as it slithered down to reveal the full curves of her breasts.
‘Whoops…’
Deftly, he caught up the ends and secured them more firmly above her breasts, and she, for some reason, simply stood there and let him.
She was having difficulty in breathing, and her brain seemed to have stopped functioning at precisely that second when she had felt the brief touch of Guy’s fingers against the swell of her breasts as he reached for the towel. Her body turned and then froze, her mind blank of everything bar the feeling his touch had engendered.
Sickly, she acknowledged the truth. When Guy had touched her, she had actually been physically aroused.
Oh, God, what was happening to her? She must be sick, deranged in some way. She had to be to feel like that. How could she be stupid enough to desire a man whom she knew could never, ever want her?
Dimly, she was aware of Guy bending to pick up the things she had dropped, and gently handing them to her. She focused on him, her eyes unknowingly dark with pain and shock.
He touched her arm and she flinched.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
All right? How could she be all right, when she felt like this, when her whole body was still tormented with the most acute thrust of need she had ever felt?
The sound of his voice brought her back to reality. She couldn’t let him see what was happening to her. She had to fight against whatever madness it was that possessed her; she had to stop herself feeling like this. If only he could go away and leave her in peace…but she couldn’t run away. Not a second time…
The betraying words hung in her mind, as though they were written there in the fire. A second time… Her mouth went dry, and she forced herself to swallow to relieve some of the tension invading her throat.
Was that why she had come here, then? Because of Guy French? Because she had known subconsciously that she was physically attracted to him?
They were questions she couldn’t bear to answer. There was only one way she could escape from her torment, she acknowledged, only one way she could stop herself from going mad thinking about her folly, and that was to lose herself in her work.
‘I don’t want any lunch,’ she told him harshly, ‘I want to get back to work. I…I had an idea while I was out…’
It wasn’t true, but she had had an idea the previous night, and she could work on that. Anything to get away from him.
CHAPTER FOUR
CAMPION dressed quickly in the first things that came to hand; a thin jumper and an old pleated skirt. She didn’t want to waste time doing her hair. She went downstairs with it still hanging in damp tendrils around her face.
Her breasts felt slightly sore and tender, an unfamiliar sensation that was extremely disturbing.
She saw Guy look at her as she went downstairs, but he made no attempt to stop her going straight into the study.
In the sitting-room there was a mirror over the fireplace, and Campion flushed with mortification as she caught sight of her reflection there, and saw the way her nipples thrust against the combined covering of her bra and sweater.
Work, that was the answer, she thought feverishly, dragging her gaze away and hurrying into the study. What was it Guy had said to her this morning about Lynsey wanting to experiment with the power of her womanhood?
She found the pages they had discussed, and read them quickly. Her description of Lynsey’s burgeoning feeling for her cousin was flat and uninteresting. She closed her eyes, leaning
back in her chair. She saw Lynsey studying herself in the mirror in her room, admiring the curves of her flesh, perhaps touching the high, firm outline of her breasts, and wondering what it would be like if Francis…King Henry’s court had been a licentious one; a girl growing up there could not remain unaware of the reality of sexual communion.
Campion shivered; her body felt so tightly coiled that the tension made her ache. What had seemed impossible to describe now seemed easy; the words flowed from her, so quickly, she could barely capture them. She typed until her wrists ached, and then stared in surprise at the number of pages she had done.
Almost as though he had been waiting for the typewriter to stop clattering, Guy walked in. He reached out to pick up the pages, but she stopped him.
‘No! I haven’t read them myself yet,’ she told him, conscious of how strained and fierce her denial had been.
She didn’t want him reading what she had written until she had read it herself, until she had made sure there was nothing in it to betray her…
But why should there be? Why should that momentary and totally ridiculous surge of desire she had experienced at Guy’s touch have any bearing on what she had just written? It was impossible.
‘What were you doing? Standing outside the door, waiting for me to finish?’ she demanded, desperately trying to find a way to get back to normal.
‘No. You just happened to stop as I came in to ask what you fancied having for dinner. We can eat out, if you like.’
‘No. At least… Look, why don’t you go out. I’ll fix myself something later. I’m not hungry at the moment.’
‘Still trying to get rid of me?’
Her face flamed, and one of the pages she was reaching for slid out of her reach.
Guy retrieved it for her.
‘Small, firm breasts, mmm…I’m glad you liken them to unripened apples, because personally I much prefer a woman’s body when it’s fully developed and mature.’
Just briefly, his glance slid downwards, and Campion felt as though she would choke from shock and disbelief as it lingered briefly on the telltale curves of her own breasts.