by Anne Mather
‘Information from your sister is invariably suspect,’ he countered grimly. ‘Where did you walk? Into the village? I would prefer it if you would refrain from behaving like one of the village girls, and acted instead in the manner to which they would expect my wife to be accustomed.’ His gaze licked her contemptuously. ‘And take your hair out of that ridiculous plait, before I tear it out by the roots!’
Martha quivered. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer me to have it cut,’ she suggested, remembering how in the old days he had insisted she should always keep it long, and his eyes narrowed ominously.
Leaving the door, he approached her on predator’s feet, his mouth thin and dangerous, but the impulse to turn and escape from him was frozen by the anger in his eyes. She stood, motionless, while he went behind her, tearing the elastic band from her braid and dragging the strands free with reckless fingers. His careless action brought the tears to her eyes, but she didn’t move, and presently he circled her again, to look down at her with warning insistence.
‘Do not play games with me, Martha,’ he told her coldly, holding her gaze with his own. ‘And take off this ugly dress, too, and put on something more suited to your femininity.’
Martha’s jaw stiffened. ‘Perhaps you’d better choose that, as well,’ she articulated, almost choking on the words, then gasped in horror when he took hold of the neckline of her dress and tore it half to her waist.
‘Perhaps I had better,’ he agreed savagely, turning aside from her to scan the garments laid out on the bed in readiness for hanging. ‘This will do. Put this on. Or would you like me to dress you as well?’
‘No—’
Martha clutched her tom bodice together with anxious fingers, and his expression revealed a bitter impatience. ‘I have dressed you before,’ he remarked, the silky lashes shading his eyes. ‘And undressed you, too, if I remember correctly. I can act the lady’s maid, when it is necessary, and get more—enjoyment out of it.’
Martha’s breathing had quickened beneath the disturbing sensuality of his words. She had no doubts that Dion would do as he had threatened if she chose to oppose him again, and while her senses quickened at the prospect of his hands upon her body, her mind revolted from the images it created.
‘Please, Dion…’ she whispered, despising herself for letting him abase her in this way, and with a careless shrug he gave the outfit he had chosen into her outstretched hand.
In the bathroom, she quickly removed the tom sundress, realising it was probably beyond repair. Then, after sluicing her face and arms beneath the taps, she stepped into the soft folds of the gown he had selected.
It was cream, a beautiful silky cream crêpe, with a classically draped bodice and a skirt that clung where it touched her flesh. There were no sleeves, but the shoulder draping of the bodice allowed folds of the material to brush her arms to the elbow, separating to reveal the honey-gold warmth of her skin. It was as well she didn’t need a bra, she reflected, viewing herself with reluctant approval. The draping of the gown allowed for little in the way of undergarments.
She had expected him to be gone when she emerged from the bathroom, but Dion was still there, lounging against the dressing table, one foot raised to rest on the stool.
‘Maressi,’ he remarked, at her appearance, straightening from his indolent position. ‘I like it. Now, the hair. Would you like me to brush it for you?’
‘I can manage,’ retorted Martha, stepping jerkily towards the dressing table. ‘You can go. I shan’t do anything to spoil your creation.’
‘I will decide when I choose to go,’ he replied smoothly, lifting the brush and handing it to her. Then, as if compelled, he added: ‘You are a beautiful woman, Martha. Why do you try so hard to hide it? You are not still afraid of me, are you?’
‘Afraid? Of you?’ Martha’s mouth was dry as she tried to concentrate on her task. ‘Don’t be silly!’
‘You think so?’ he commented, moving behind her, and as her skin fairly prickled in expectation of his touch, he deliberately allowed his hand to slide under her arm to cup one rounded breast. She had to steel herself not to move as his fingers spread against the silky material, and the coolness of their touch was tangible against her over-heated flesh.
‘I—wish you—wouldn’t,’ she got out at last, when the strain of holding herself motionless became almost unbearable, and his eyes met hers in the mirror.
‘Why?’ he challenged. ‘I like touching you, I like feeling your reaction. And I have wasted too many years already, have I not?’
Martha’s tongue appeared, almost involuntarily, circling her dry lips in trembling awareness of what he was doing to her, and with a muffled oath he released her, turning away towards the door, as if no longer willing to indulge in those kind of games.
‘Come,’ he said, impatience bringing an edge to his voice. ‘Miss Powell is waiting to meet you.’
Martha hesitated only long enough to add a shiny lustre to her lips before accompanying him put of the room. Then they walked together the length of the corridor, emerging through a vine-hung archway on to the sunlit warmth of the patio.
Alex rose at their appearance, his dark eyes widening at the unexpected elegance of his sister-in-law. He had grown used to seeing her in shorts and jeans, and the cotton dresses she sometimes wore in the evenings, and Martha could see the youthful admiration deepening his regard.
But her eyes were searching for the nanny’s, this woman Dion had employed to look after Josy, and when she found her, she experienced a certain amount of astonishment herself.
Miss Powell was nothing like Mrs Bennett, nor indeed typical of any nanny she had ever encountered. She was young, no more than twenty-two or three, with a slim attractive appearance, and curly dark hair. Her uniform was the only thing that set her apart from any other guest they might have entertained—a neat white blouse, and a suit of dark green linen, embroidered with the initials of the training establishment from which she had been recommended. She had a nice smile, too, showing a row of slightly uneven white teeth, and had it not been for Sarah’s vaguely triumphant cynicism, Martha might well have liked her on sight.
The girl got to her feet, too, at their approach, and Josy, who had been sitting beside her, left her chair to come eagerly towards her mother.
‘That’s Miss Powell,’ she announced, making the introduction without really being aware of it, ‘Isn’t she nice? She’s been telling me I’m the first little girl she’s ever taken care of.’
‘Has she, darling?’ Martha glanced half awkwardly at Dion, and taking control, he smoothly completely the exchange.
‘This is—ah—Josy’s mother,’ he essayed easily, drawing Martha forward with a hand on her wrist, that only she knew was warning. ‘She has been looking forward to meeting you.’
‘Hello, Madame Myconos.’
Miss Powell held out her hand politely, and Martha was obliged to take it. They smiled at one another, though Martha’s acknowledgement was a trifle forced, and then Dion released her and suggested they should all partake of the cold lunch Maria had prepared for them.
During the meal, it was easier to make an assessment of the other girl, and listening to her answering Dion’s questions, Martha had to admit that she seemed genuinely fond of children. Josy, certainly, found her a fascinating addition to the household, and finding Sarah’s eyes upon her, Martha had great difficulty in hiding her own uncertainty.
‘I believe Mr Myconos told me that you are English, Madame Myconos,’ Miss Powell ventured, spearing a dark-skinned olive into her mouth. ‘Do you come from London, too?’
‘Wimbledon,’ Martha agreed, a trifle stiffly. ‘I—er—do you?’
‘Hampstead,’ replied the other girl eagerly. ‘But I’m looking forward to living in Greece. It’s a wonderful climate, isn’t it? And this island…’
Her enthusiasm was eloquent, and Alex leaned forward to ask her whether she had ever visited the islands before.
‘Well?’ murmured Dion in Martha�
��s ear, under cover of their conversation. ‘What do you think?’
Martha looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. ‘I—she seems very nice,’ she admitted in an undertone. ‘She—she says she’s looking forward to living in Greece. I gather she’s here to stay.’
‘But of course.’ Dion deliberately covered both her hands with one of his, the familiarity holding an intimacy only Martha appreciated. ‘This is a permanent arrangement,’ he added. ‘I thought you understood that.’
‘Permanent?’ Martha looked up at him uneasily. ‘For whom?’
Dion’s eyes narrowed. ‘That is an unnecessary question,’ he averred impatiently. ‘Eat your lunch, and stop looking at me as if I was Satan incarnate!’
Martha removed her hands from their imprisonment and picked up her fork again. ‘You always get your own way, don’t you?’ she demanded bitterly, and heard his weary intake of breath.
‘If it pleases you to think so,’ he replied, before turning to respond to Josy’s tugging at his sleeve, and Martha was left to contend with Sarah’s tight-lipped disapproval.
When lunch was over, Sophia appeared to show Miss Powell to her quarters, and after Josy had been forbidden to make a nuisance of herself, she accompanied them, leaving Martha feeling strangely deflated. Dion and Alex seemed engrossed in a conversation about oil production, and when Sarah excused herself to go to her room, Martha rose too.
However, Dion intervened. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, transferring his attention from his brother to herself, and Sarah’s rigid shoulders exhibited her opinion of his demand.
‘I—I’m going to my room,’ declared Martha, annoyed at the revealing tremor in her voice. ‘Is that all right?’
‘No, it is not all right,’ retorted Dion, pushing back his chair. ‘I want the company of my wife this afternoon, if that is not too much to ask of you.’ His eyes flickered to Sarah’s resentful features. ‘But do not let us detain you!’
‘You can’t treat Martha like a slave, Dion,’ Sarah asserted then, ignoring Martha’s sigh of uneasiness. ‘She’s a person in her own right. You’ve got no control over her, other than through the child, and I think it’s disgusting the way you’re deliberately tormenting her!’
‘Sarah…’
Martha’s plea was anxious, but Dion ignored it, ‘I have not tormented her,’ he contradicted coldly. ‘I have not distorted her mind so that she no longer knows what to believe! But I do intend to change all that, and if you do not like it, then I regret you will just have to put up with it.’
‘Martha!’ Sarah stared at her sister now. ‘Are you just going to stand there and let him speak to me any way he likes—’
‘Dion—’
‘Keep out of this affair, Martha.’ His voice was taut with anger, and with a sound of fury Sarah swung her chair about and wheeled herself away without another word.
She was obviously offended, and Martha felt terrible. This was all her fault. But when she would have hurried after her sister, Dion moved swiftly, putting himself between them and facing his wife with hard intensity.
‘Let her go,’ he bit out violently. ‘Believe me, I can be just as cruel as she can, and if you give me cause to do it, I can always send her away.’
Martha gasped, her mouth opening and shutting in speechless impotence, and with a groan of self-deprecation, he turned aside. ‘Get your bathing suit,’ he ordered, shrugging his shoulders at Alex, as if in apology for the scene he had just witnessed. ‘We are leaving in five minutes. Do not keep me waiting.’
‘And—and if I refuse?’ Martha tendered, pressing her palms together in revealing agitation.
‘Do not,’ he advised, as he walked back to his brother, and returned to their conversation as if nothing untoward had happened.
Martha hesitated about going after Sarah, but she really did not have the time, and she was wary enough of Dion to know that he did not make idle threats. So instead she went to her own room, the room her husband had declared his intention to share, and was relieved to find that in her absence, the rest of her new wardrobe had been hung away. She could not resist opening one of the wardrobe doors, however, but the sight of a row of jewel-bright dresses only reminded her that they were Dion’s choice, not hers, and she quickly closed it again. Even so, she reflected, if he intended to take her swimming, and she rebelled at the implacability of his command, the dress she was presently wearing was hardly suitable for the beach, and ignoring the racks of pants and sweaters, she tugged out her old shorts and a faded pink vest, and discarded the cream crêpe across the bed.
Her only concession to his instructions was to leave her hair loose, and when she reappeared on the patio, she had the satisfaction of knowing he had not had it all his own way. Clutched in her hand was the navy bikini she had worn that morning, and although it was not wet, it was still a trifle damp as it clung to her fingers.
Dion was alone. Alex had apparently departed about some business of his own, and her husband viewed her indulgently from his position on a lounger before getting lazily to his feet to acknowledge her.
‘Still the same old Martha,’ he remarked, coming towards her and indicating the swimsuit in her hand. ‘I am assured there were other swimming costumes in that collection of items I ordered from Hederakis,’ he added, mentioning the name of a famous Greek fashion house. ‘But no matter. What you wear is of little importance to me, as I intend we shall not be disturbed.’
Martha’s nerves revealed themselves in the fluttering turmoil of her stomach, but she managed to hide her fears from Dion, and accompanied him through the gardens and across the courtyard to where an open-topped jeep was waiting.
The breeze soon brought disorder to her hair as they left the drive and circled the grounds of the villa, setting off across the island on the tussocky track more often used by sheep and goats. Yet it was exhilarating, feeling the wind tugging her hair from her scalp, and cooling the heated moistness at her nape. Dion’s hair too was threaded into strands, falling thickly across his forehead as he turned his head to glance at her.
‘We are going to Atvia,’ he told her, referring to a tiny cove to the west of the island, protected by a rocky headland, that forestalled any attempts at landing there. Martha had not been to the cove for more than seven years, not since long before their separation, the problems they were having precluding any romantic idylls, that could only end in argument.
She did not respond to him now, busy with her own thoughts, and he went on sharply: ‘What is wrong? Does it bring back too many happy memories for you? Memories you would possibly rather forget!’ and her nails dug into her palms at his obvious perception.
‘I—I was thinking about Sarah, actually,’ she lied, although her sister had not been far from her thoughts. ‘You shouldn’t treat her as you do. What has she ever done to you? Why should—’
‘We will not speak of Sarah this afternoon,’ Dion interrupted her harshly. ‘I do not intend that this short time we have together should be poisoned by that woman’s jealousy.’
‘Jealousy!’ Martha gasped. ‘You’re a fine one to talk about jealousy!’
‘Martha!’ His use of her name was driven from him. ‘Please—I am appealing to you. Let us not speak of these things this afternoon. Can we not—simply enjoy the day? Is it impossible for us to be together without involving some other personality than our two selves?’
‘I’m only saying…’ Martha began to speak, but then she closed her mouth again. What was the point of antagonising him? If they were to spend several hours in each other’s company, wasn’t it easier just to keep her own counsel? She could tell him what she really thought on their way home.
To get down to the cove it was necessary to leave the jeep and scramble down the scrubby face of the cliff. There were footholds, but its very inaccessibility made it more attractive. Dion went ahead, carrying a rucksack and some towels, and Martha came behind him, endeavouring not to require his proffered assistance.
The sand wa
s bleached almost white by the sun, and warmed her curling toes as she surveyed the sheltered stretch of sea and shoreline. Only seabirds showed their disapproval at this intrusion, and the splashing sound of the water as it invaded the rock pools was a rhythmic background to their indignant cries.
Martha felt herself relaxing as the beauty of the place tore down her resentment, and when she found Dion watching her, she made him a little half rueful grimace.
‘I’d forgotten what it was like,’ she said, almost defensively, and he inclined his head in silent acquiescence.
Tossing down the towels and the rucksack, Dion walked to the water’s edge, removing his sandals as he did so, allowing the rippling waves to curl around his toes. Martha watched him for a moment, and then, afraid of being observed in this activity, she squatted down on the sand, crossing her legs and unconsciously adopting a meditative pose.
When Dion turned back, he was unbuckling his belt, but although Martha stiffly concentrated at some point in the far distance, when he dropped his pants it was only to reveal a pair of blue cotton shorts. Then he removed his shirt before stretching his length beside her, the natural darkness of his skin requiring no protection from the undiluted rays of the sun.
Martha remained sitting in her cross-legged position, but gradually it became uncomfortable to maintain, and she longed to plunge herself into the blue-green water, and feel its softness washing away the sticky heat from her body.
Dion had closed his eyes when he lay down, and believing herself unobserved, she released the cotton vest from the waistband of her shorts. The slight coolness this engendered gave some relief, but not enough to make any appreciable difference to the prickly clamminess between her breasts.
‘Why do you not take off your clothes?’ Dion suggested softly, his words exploding the myth that he might be asleep. ‘Put on your swimsuit, or swim without it. Whichever you do, there is no one to disturb us here.’
Martha drew an unsteady breath, smoothing her palms over her shapely knees. ‘This—er—this bikini is still damp, from this morning,’ she demurred. ‘Besides, there’s nowhere to change.’