by Anne Mather
Immediately her senses stirred wildly, and her breathing quickened. She could feel the heavy beating of his heart beneath her palm and her eyes went automatically to his, wide and questioning.
‘Alain…’ she began uncertainly, shocked by the frank sensuality she saw there, but he merely shook his head and bent until his lips were caressing the skin of her neck just below one ear. ‘Alain,’ she said again, more huskily this time, and he slid his arms right round her, arching her body against his.
Her face was pressed against his chest now and she could feel his tongue seeking out the secret hollows at the nape of her neck. His breath was faintly scented with the sweetness of cognac, and his skin smelt of the talc he used after bathing. And something else… Something that she eventually identified as oil… Oil? For an instant her brain took over. Lubrication! The kind used in garages…
She tore herself away from him, breathing rapidly, staring at him scornfully. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she exclaimed furiously. ‘Don’t dare to lay your filthy hands on me! What’s the matter? Didn’t Vivienne come up to scratch this evening, or are you just intent on proving how virile you think you are? You came back here this afternoon casting aspersions on David and me, and then go out and spend the evening with your mistress! Just who do you think you are, Alain? Just what did you think you were doing just now?’
Alain regarded her in a way which, had she not been so incensed, would have demoralized her. Then he said: ‘I was merely satisfying that need you have to feel that you’re a woman.’ He inclined his head. ‘Obviously you’ve proved exactly the opposite!’
Ryan gasped, ‘Are you saying—I invited—that?’
‘Let us say you made no objection. Not—at least—until you had this crazy idea about Vivienne.’
‘It’s not crazy. I can smell the garage on you!’ she declared bitterly.
His smile was derisive. ‘And what do you think? That we lie down amongst the tools and lubricants? Oh, grow up, Ryan, for God’s sake! Vivienne does not live at the garage, and even if she did, she is too fastidious to enter the workshops.’
Ryan took a step backward. Put like that it did sound ridiculous. ‘Well, anyway, you can’t deny you’ve been with her—’
‘I don’t intend to. I do not have to categorize my movements for you.’
‘That’s right,’ she exclaimed. ‘Bluff your way out of it.’
‘I am not bluffing.’ Alain’s scowl was menacing. ‘Go to bed, Ryan. You make me rather sick.’
Ryan stumbled to the door, eager to get out of his sight, and crept up the stairs to her room. She was shivering, but the coldness came from within, not without. Her room had never seemed more bare, more unwelcoming, than it did at that moment, and she collapsed on to the bed, her shoulders shaking.
It seemed hours before she heard Alain making his way up to bed. His steps seemed more unsteady than before and she guessed he had been drinking downstairs. She heard him in the bathroom and then the slam as his bedroom door closed behind him.
For several minutes after the house had become silent she continued to remain motionless on the bed, and then she got up and walked restlessly about the room. Now that she had had time to think she was realizing how stupidly she had behaved. How on earth were they to sustain this marriage if she was to continually behave as if he owed allegiance to her? But her feelings towards him had changed, of that she had no doubts, and jealousy was her prime motivation.
With a sigh she opened her bedroom door and went along to the bathroom. When she came back, she unfastened her dressing-gown and was about to climb into bed when a slight movement in the corner of the room caught her eye. She turned her head slowly and saw two beady eyes staring at her in the darkness. Her skin went cold and yet moistened with sweat, and alarm feathered along her veins. What was it? A mouse? A rat? Oh, God, she thought sickly, let it not be a rat!
She groped for the lamp, but in her haste overturned it and the creature, whatever it was, scuttled across the floor. Stifling a scream, she wrenched open the door and flew along the passage to Alain’s room, bursting in without knocking. The light was out, he was already in bed, but her activities must have aroused him because, as she switched on the light, he was already upright in the bed. He blinked at her coldly and said: ‘Now what do you want?’
Ryan grasped the handle of the door like a lifeline, standing there quivering like a leaf. ‘I—there—there’s something in my room,’ she got out convulsively. ‘I—I think it might be—a—rat!’
Alain heaved a sigh and she averted her eyes as he swung his legs out of bed and pulled on the towelling robe lying at its foot. He brushed past her without a word and went along to her room while she stood there trembling, dreading his anger when he came back.
He came back silently and shrugged his shoulders. ‘There’s nothing there now. I’d hazard a guess that it was a mouse, not a rat. We don’t get many rats around here. But I’ll lay a trap for it tomorrow and see what happens.’
Ryan nodded, straightening, endeavouring to regain her composure. But her nightgown was no kind of covering, and coldness of one kind or another enveloped her.
Alain stood by his bed, regarding her steadily. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Ryan shook her head. ‘N-nothing.’ She looked at him. ‘Alain, I—I know this is not the time or the place, but I’m sorry for what I said this evening—’
‘Forget it.’
She half turned away. ‘Good night, then.’
‘Good night.’ He was abrupt.
She took a step and then glanced round. ‘Alain—’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Ryan, what are you trying to do to me?’ His voice, thickened by the wine he had consumed, sent a thrill of apprehension along her spine. In a couple of strides he had reached her, his hands sliding round her waist and over her stomach, pressing her violently back against him. ‘If this is what you want, why didn’t you say so?’ he muttered fiercely, and the full realization of what she was inviting hit her.
She struggled then, but it was a futile exercise against his strength. Besides, curiosity was fighting a battle with common sense inside her, and even her fear was no certain defence. He picked her up and carried her to the bed, extinguishing the light before shedding his robe. Ryan fought desperately then, as fear overcame all else, but he was determined to show her that there was no turning back, and her horror increased as waves of pain swept over her…
* * *
She lay awake long after his breathing had become deep and relaxed, and hatred for him filled her with the desire to hurt him as he had hurt her. She ached in every limb, and she knew there would be bruises on her body in the light of morning. And yet she made no move to go back to her own room. She told herself it was because she still feared her small nocturnal visitor, but if she was honest she had to admit that deep inside her she wanted to feel the satisfaction that Marie was always talking about. Who knows, she thought miserably, perhaps it would come. She could not believe that any woman could find satisfaction in the thing which had just happened to her, and she could only imagine that a sense of well-being might follow such an event. But no well-being ensued, just a sense of inadequacy, and eventually she slept.
She awakened in the grey light of early morning to feel Alain’s lips caressing her neck and ears and she twisted desperately beneath his hands, trying to thrust him away. But his mouth sought and found hers. She was still half relaxed and sleepy, and his urgent lips awakened a response inside her which refused to be denied. Her protests died under his deliberate expertise and far from simply taking his satisfaction as he had done the night before in his anger, he seemed determined to give her the pleasure she had not known existed. Soon she was responding eagerly to his advances, winding her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him, uncaring of the pain she only half remembered.
‘Ryan…’ he murmured, half protestingly, ‘Ryan, this is madness!’ But it was a madness they were neither of them strong en
ough to withstand, and their union was as satisfying and pleasurable as Ryan could have desired. Afterwards she snuggled against him like a cat, falling asleep in his arms without care to the future.
* * *
She awakened in the middle of the morning to find sunlight slanting down on her through a crack in the curtains. She rolled over expectantly, but the bed was empty. Alain had gone, and only the yielding lethargy that lingered in her limbs bore witness to the fact that she was his wife now in every meaning of the word.
Reluctantly, she rose and bathed and dressed, and then went downstairs in something of a daze to find Marie making coffee at the stove. The sight of the other girl sobered her, particularly as Marie’s smile had a knowing quality about it. But she could know nothing, Ryan told herself severely. Alain would never discuss what had happened with her, and it was up to her, Ryan, to behave naturally and not arouse comment.
‘Good morning, madame.’ Marie was polite. ‘You are late.’
Ryan was unable to control her colour, but she did managed to control her voice. ‘Er—where is my husband?’ she inquired.
‘Monsieur Alain left almost two hours ago, madame. It is nearly eleven o’clock. But he said you had had a—restless night, and that you should be permitted to sleep on. I have kept very quiet, madame.’
‘Thank you.’ Ryan hid her annoyance. ‘And I do know what time it is.’ She sighed, wondering why she had imagined that Alain might not leave before seeing her. ‘I—er—I wasn’t well enough to go to Lyon yesterday.’
‘No, madame.’ Marie turned back to the stove. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘Oh—yes. Yes, please.’ Ryan endeavoured to speak calmly. ‘That would be nice.’ She glanced round. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘Monsieur Alain told me you had been frightened by a mouse in your bedroom last night, madame. I have set a trap there to catch it.’ She poured steaming black coffee into a patterned earthenware beaker. ‘There. Can I get you anything else?’
There was a note of challenge in her voice which Ryan could not ignore. It was obvious if Marie had been upstairs to set a trap she must know that Ryan had not spent the night in her own bed. She thought quickly, not really knowing whether she should say anything or not. Until Alain came home, until she had had the chance to discuss this new development in their relationship with him, she did not feel able to make any statements. Nevertheless it would have been cowardly not to say anything, so cupping the beaker between her fingers she said: ‘I—I thought you just said my husband asked you not to disturb me?’
‘To disturb you, madame?’ Marie frowned, and Ryan’s pulses quickened. ‘Oh—oh, yes, I understand. You mean in the matter of setting the trap.’ She smiled. ‘Monsieur Alain explained that as you were nervous about it, he allowed you to sleep in his bed and he took yours.’
Ryan was glad she had the beaker to hold. So that was how Alain had explained it. She might have known he would not be stuck for an excuse. Now it was up to her to explain herself again.
‘I—er—I just thought that fiddling about with mousetraps could be—awkward. Particularly if they unexpectedly sprang themselves.’
Marie shook her head. ‘I was very careful, madame.’ She paused. ‘And are you feeling better today?’
‘Better?’ the word slipped out. ‘Oh—yes, thank you, Marie.’ She swallowed a mouthful of coffee. ‘I suppose I’d better hurry up. I haven’t even begun to think what we can have for lunch.’
‘Monsieur Alain said to tell you that he would not be in for lunch, madame.’
‘Not be in? Why not?’ Ryan stared at her.
‘He has gone to Lyon, madame. As he did not go yesterday he has gone today.’
Ryan could not have felt more shattered. That he should go to Lyon today of all days! Not only that, that he should not invite her to go with him!
‘I see.’ She managed the words with difficulty. ‘There—there’s no hurry then, is there?’
‘No, madame.’
It was a curious day and not one Ryan would have liked to have gone through again. Marie left at lunchtime and the afternoon stretched ahead to infinity. Some sewing occupied the earlier part of the afternoon and later on she took a bath and washed her hair. She had no idea what time to expect Alain, so she made some meat and vegetable pasties which could be quickly heated under the grill, left a tossed salad in the fridge beside an apricot flan.
By eight o’clock she was ravenously hungry and helped herself to one of the pasties and a little salad. She was beginning to feel concerned about Alain and the emptiness inside her didn’t help.
It was almost nine-thirty when the station wagon came into the yard, and by this time her nerves were taut as violin strings, and an awful feeling of foreboding was cooling her flesh. Alain came in without any apparent stress, gave her a slight smile and removed his coat. He washed his hands at the sink, and then drying them, said: ‘Sorry I’m late, Ryan. I got held up. François Dupon insisted I stayed and ate with them. You haven’t made anything special, have you?’
Ryan, who had been in the course of lighting the grill, immediately turned it off. ‘Nothing special,’ she replied, in a tight little voice.
Alain turned to her slowly. ‘Marie told you I had gone to Lyon, didn’t she?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
Ryan refused to look at him. In a cream shirt and cream suede pants he was disturbingly attractive to her, but in spite of her newly washed, silky soft hair, and the sinuous folds of the velvet caftan he seemed indifferent to her. She could hardly believe this was the same man who last night had made violent love to her and who, early this morning, had aroused in her the kind of feeling which until then she had only read about.
Alain came towards the fire and warmed his hands at the blaze. ‘Have you had a good day?’ he asked, seeking her eyes with his, but still she avoided him.
‘I’ve had a—very quiet day.’
‘No visitors?’
Her hackles rose. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘Why, nothing. I wondered if the Abbé might have been up. He told me yesterday evening he would try to get up and see you.’
Ryan chewed her lower lip. ‘No one came.’
Alain straightened, thrusting his thumbs into the low belt of his pants and surveying her appraisingly. ‘You’re looking particularly elegant this evening. You should wear long clothes more often. They suit you.’
Ryan raised her eyebrows but she didn’t make any response. She was trying to gauge his mood. He seemed amiable enough, and certainly he was not trying to bait her as she had at first thought he was. But still this wasn’t altogether like him. He was assuming a surface charm, behaving in a polite and civilized manner, and yet she sensed that underneath he was controlling emotions of a very different kind. But what emotions? What were his real feelings? She wished she knew.
She busied herself, tidying the unused plates away, putting the flan and salad back into the fridge, while he lit a cheroot and stood with his back to the fire, his expression brooding in repose. This was crazy, she told herself helplessly. After what had happened last night there had to be other things to say, other arrangements to make, but how could she presume to make them? Although she now knew herself to be in love with him, he had never, even in his most passionate moments, mentioned love to her, and it was not something she should necessarily expect from him. But surely things could not go on as they were… Could she stand that? And if not, could she stand to leave him?
At last, when there was nothing else for her to do, she came to stand beside the fire, too, praying that he would make some move towards her. He glanced at her averted face, and then throwing the stub of his cheroot into the flames, he said: ‘Ryan, I have something to say to you.’
‘Yes?’ Her heart lifted and she looked up at him expectantly.
‘Yes.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Ryan, when your father made his will and insisted on this—ridiculous condition, that of our getting married, I mean,
he made no actual mention of where we were supposed to live.’ He paused. ‘What I’m saying is—well, to begin with it seemed reasonable that we should share this house, as it was here, and live as an ordinary married couple, except—except in one instance. Do you agree?’
Ryan pressed a hand to her churning stomach. ‘Yes,’ she managed faintly.
‘Yes. Well, that was at the beginning, as I said.’ He lifted his broad shoulders. ‘Perhaps it was a foolish arrangement, but I thought—’ He broke off. ‘Anyway, what I am trying to say is this: there is no real reason why we should—share this house. I mean, your father doesn’t lay down that stipulation. There’s no earthly reason why you shouldn’t leave here, go back to England if you want, make a home for yourself elsewhere.’
Ryan stared at him in horror. ‘What are you saying?’
He shook his head impatiently. ‘I was a fool ever to imagine we could live together without hurting one another,’ he muttered. ‘But I needed a housekeeper and you needed a home…’
Ryan felt sick. ‘You—you still do. I still do,’ she protested weakly.
‘Yes, I know. But the situation has changed, hasn’t it?’
‘You mean—after last night…’
‘Of course I mean after last night,’ he exclaimed. ‘Good God, I never imagined myself capable of—of seducing a child!’
‘But I’m not a child,’ she cried.
‘All right.’ His face was grim. ‘You are not a child. But you are little more. You trusted me, and I betrayed that trust. I could say that I was not entirely to blame for what happened, that there are limits to my endurance, but that does not excuse me. I have little self-respect after last night. At least allow me to keep what little I have.’
‘You make it sound—sordid—’
‘It was sordid!’ he declared coldly. ‘Do you think I am proud of what I did?’
Ryan shook her head. ‘I—I was to—to blame—’
Alain’s expression contorted. ‘For God’s sake, Ryan,’ he swore violently, ‘let us be done with it.’ There was no trace of that surface tolerance now. ‘I warned you once about trying your claws on me. What happened was the direct result of too much wine and too little self-control!’
