by Robyn Donald
CHAPTER SIX
When Arminel came along past the office it was to hear the sound of raised voices through a door not quite closed. Kyle. Kyle and Rhys. For a moment she hesitated, frowning, her ears straining to hear. Then she sighed and made her way past. She would only make matters worse.
Davina was waiting, a Davina tight-lipped and, in spite of her excellent make-up, bearing signs of a bout of weeping. They exchanged wary smiles and Davina said something innocuous about the weather.
Following her lead, Arminel found herself thinking that in another situation she and Davina could have been friends. Or if not friends at least friendly acquaintances. But then in any other situation she and Davina would not have met.
Mrs Beringer was next, her expression so composed that for a moment Arminel thought she knew nothing of her sons’ quarrel. Until she met the full impact of the older woman’s gaze and read bitter condemnation there. Arminel checked a sigh. Much as she hated to give in to Kyle’s threats, it was obvious that her time here was over. She would tell Rhys tomorrow. Misplaced notions of loyalty could not be allowed to cover the fact that her presence was an irritant. Life at Te Nawe would be much simpler for everyone when she left.
When Rhys arrived he was in a strange mood. At first it seemed that the quarrel had had no effect on his temper, but as the evening wore on it was clear that beneath his light-hearted attitude there was another, darker mood. He treated Davina to a half-aggressive teasing which revealed only too clearly what had caused her reddened eyelids, ignoring both the protest in his mother’s eyes and his brother’s icy contempt. Towards Arminel he was almost amorous, sliding quick meaning glances at her, smiling, using every pretence to touch her lightly but possessively. When shortly after dinner Kyle left them Arminel hoped Rhys would stop his calculated provocation. But no, he sat on the arm of her chair and ran his fingers over the slender bones of her shoulder while he pretended to watch television. In a muted voice he whispered compliments, dropped kisses on to her hair and the top of her ear, only leaving her to refill his glass. Quite clearly he and Davina had quarrelled and then there had been the clash with Kyle. Rhys was busy showing both of them that they had no power over him or his actions. In many ways he was very like a child misbehaving when it knows it cannot be reprimanded.
Although Arminel was angry with him she could feel his confusion and pain and her pity made her gentle. If she repudiated him now he would lose face. But compassion would not prevent her from going. Tomorrow she would tell him and he would have to find his own way out of his predicament.
Out on the seat beneath the ponga trees she had at last faced the fact that she had only stayed this long because of Kyle. Now pride impelled her decision. Humiliation was her need to be close to a man who felt nothing for her but a degrading desire laced with contempt.
At last Davina left them, excusing her pallor with the pretext of a headache. Her smile was brave and gallant. Arminel felt her pain as if it was her own. Sickened and angry, she followed her lead.
‘Oh, but darling—’ Rhys protested, the false affection abruptly banished.
Arminel gave him a steady look, not scornful, but with a measure of reproof.
‘I’m tired,’ she said quietly.
‘Then I’ll escort you to your door.’
‘You needn’t bother.’
But with the obstinacy of the half-intoxicated he came and followed her into her room, ignoring her protests to sit heavily down on the bed. The covers had been turned back; he stared around angrily before he muttered:
‘Oh, God, what am I going to do?’
Arminel said nothing.
‘We should have got married in Australia,’ he pursued, his voice heavy and slurred.
‘Even though you’re in love with Davina?’
He frowned, then gave her a sly look from beneath his lashes. ‘Oh, sit down, for God’s sake, Arminel. And don’t look at me as though—as though I’m the lowest form of life!’ His fingers tugged at the soft sheet. ‘Would you let yourself be goaded and chivvied into marriage? Like dogs working sheep, a bark here and there, a little eye-work, always pressure, pressure . . .’ His voice trailed away as he watched his fingers plucking aimlessly at the sheet. ‘Like a sheep being penned,’ he said vaguely, adding with a burst of aggression, ‘Nobody sh— should do that to a man. It’s—it’s not bloody fair!’
‘No,’ she agreed gently, and came over and sat down beside him, her expression almost loving. He was hurting and he was drunk, and she felt so sorry for him that her heart almost burst, but she had to get him out of here before Kyle found him and took the steps he’d threatened. She shivered, remembering the merciless hardness of his features as he had told her what he would do.
‘You must go,’ she said. ‘You can decide what to do in the morning. You can’t stay here, Rhys.’
He smiled vaguely, then lay back against the pillows and went to sleep in spite of everything she could do to stop him.
‘Damn!’ she muttered when it was quite obvious that she was getting nowhere. She got up and went across and locked the door. Then she sat down in the chair and waited.
Two hours later he woke, groaning, rubbing his hand across his eyes before he stared around in confusion.
‘Lord, I’ve got a head,’ he said fretfully when he saw her.
She nodded and came across to the bed. ‘Do you want something for it?’
‘Yes.’
He swallowed the aspirin and drank the glass of water she brought him before frowning. ‘I’m sorry—I should never drink. Alcohol has that effect on me. And I’ve not been sleeping very well.’
‘It’s all right,’ she told him, smiling slightly. ‘But you’d better go now.’
‘Hell, yes.’ He sat up, winced, but managed a smile in return. ‘You’re a darling, Arminel. Sorry I dropped you into this.’
And that was all the apology she would get. He had no idea what he had done to her, what danger he had exposed her to; Rhys was essentially self-centred. Aren’t we all? she thought cynically as she unlocked the door for him.
‘Thank you,’ he said, and kissed her. ‘Thanks for everything.’
It was a tacit farewell and she accepted it as such, laughing. ‘You’re welcome. Now for heaven’s sake go before someone sees you.’
‘Oh, that’s all I need,’ he agreed morosely.
While he was asleep she had cleaned off all her makeup. Now she undressed and pulled on her nightgown, then got into bed, lying on her back with her hands behind her head, staring up into the darkness. Outside some small night insect shirr-shirred to itself. Through the open french window floated the scent of clove carnations. Frogs called, kraak-kraak, and she found herself wondering how they organised it so that they all croaked in concert, like a well-drilled choir. It was one of those languorous spring nights when everything seems awake and expectant.
There was no sound from next door. Not that there ever was. The homestead was well built and in spite of his size Kyle moved with a noiselessness which reminded her of a big jungle cat.
Kyle. Her mouth dried as she pretended that she had the daring of the truly desperate. Like her, he slept with his french windows opened to the sweet night air. If she had the courage enough nothing could be easier than to slip across the terrace and into his room. She had never been in there, but the starshine was bright enough for her to see and she would just stand inside the door, listening for his breathing. Like a wraith, silent, unseen, she would make her way across to his bed and slide free of her nightdress before she slipped between the sheets to join him.
And what would happen then? Contemptuous rejection, or equally contemptuous possession? She did not know, and although her body was singing with desire, she was not about to find out. Each was equally humiliating, each would mark her for life.
She half turned, suppressing a sob, and jerked upright as the door opened. Not Rhys again, surely!
‘Who—who is it?’
‘Don’t tell me you were
n’t expecting me.’
No—not Rhys.
‘What—what do you want?’
Teeth gleamed in the hard mask of his face as his eyes flashed over her shoulders and the long bare arm clutching the sheet to her as she sat up. He switched on a wall lamp as he came towards the bed. In its light he was enormous, a dark, dangerous man, such menace in his expression that her heart stopped in her throat.
‘Kyle?’ she whispered.
‘I warned you,’ he said silkily. ‘I never say what I don’t mean. Did you really think you could get away with it? You shouldn’t have made such a public farewell, darling. I have uncommonly good hearing.’
Twice she tried to order him out, but the words couldn’t force their way past the tension in her throat. His smoky gaze burned as it fixed on the muscles working fruitlessly beneath the silken skin.
‘I’d been along to his room to make my peace with him,’ he said between his teeth. ‘So I had a pretty good idea where he was. Did you decide to risk everything on a last throw, darling? It won’t work, you know. You’re leaving tomorrow, but at least you’ll be able to compare techniques. His and mine.’
‘No!’ she gasped, warding him off with her hands.
‘Yes.’ His eyes lanced up to meet hers and she winced at the hatred she saw in them. He spoke rapidly, thickly, the words underlined with a concentrated contempt which seared her. ‘Why protest? It’s what you’ve wanted ever since you arrived here. I knew within five minutes of laying eyes on you that I could have you any time I wanted. Tramps like you are easy enough to understand.’
Arminel’s eyes fell to the hands resting on his hips. They were trembling as if he resisted an unbearable urge to hurt her.
‘Yes,’ he said harshly as she closed her eyes and shook her head, half in terror, half in anger, ‘you’ve turned this house into a hell-hole. How do you do it? How can a slut like you create such turmoil and desperation and pain? What is it that promises me such untold, unknowable delights when I look at you, incites me, excites me until I can’t think of anything else but my need to know how you feel and sound and taste when I make love to you?’
He smiled with cruel purpose and stretched out his hand. Repelled and angered though she was by the grim savagery of his words, they struck home in some deep primitive part of her, and she felt her breath come faster through her lips. But she twisted away, trying to fling herself across the bed and out of reach. Kyle laughed softly beneath his breath, a chilling sound on the waiting air, and caught a handful of hair.
‘Tonight,’ he said, ignoring the tears which started to her eyes. ‘I’m going to find out if that promise is genuine or as worthless as the rest of you, you tormenting, teasing . . .’
Her hands tugged against his, trying to free her maltreated scalp. He cursed and wrenched the sheet back and came down beside her twisting, writhing body, its pale slenderness barely hidden by the drift of blue lawn that was her nightdress.
‘Pretty,’ he said, almost calmly. ‘Take it off.’
‘No!’ she spat, her expression fierce as she jerked her knee upwards, hoping to catch him where it hurt.
He was ready for her. With contemptuous ease he bundled her over on to her face, then while she gasped into the pillow and fought for breath he grabbed her flailing wrists and held them up behind her shoulders at an angle just the wrong side of pain. One knee held her legs pressed into the mattress.
Arminel turned her head sideways, half sobbing with fear and outrage. The smooth material of the pillowslip and the sheet moved sensuously against her cheek and throat.
‘Kyle—’ she began, hating herself for pleading. ‘It wasn’t what you think. Nothing happened. You must believe me—’
‘I’ll believe that to you nothing happened.’ His voice was level, almost bored. ‘I don’t suppose sleeping with Rhys counts as much for you. Ever slept with two brothers in the same night before? Perhaps that will be something for you to remember!’
His mouth brushed her shoulder, moving across the smooth skin in a slow exploration. She could feel the heat of his lips, the small trail of moisture left by his tongue. He was tasting her with open, erotic enjoyment, and her whole body responded in a spasm of hunger and need. His fingers tightened on her wrists.
‘Please don’t,’ she whispered tightly. ‘I’m going tomorrow.’
‘I know. But before you go we’ll get to know each other.’
It was no threat. It was a simple statement of fact. Arminel’s skin tightened, grew damp. His mouth moved on its inexorable trail to the nape of her neck; she gasped as he bit gently. ‘I don’t want to,’ she said, her voice high and frightened as that merciless mouth moved with erotic mastery across her shoulders. ‘I don’t want you.’
‘Liar!’ He laughed, a soft breathy sound, hot against her sensitised skin. ‘I know exactly what you want, because it’s what I want too.’
He relaxed his grip on her wrists, but only so that he could hold them both in one hand. His free hand slid beneath the folds of her nightdress, smoothed up her thigh and across her stomach, stopping at her navel to explore. Arminel’s whole body jerked; she had never been touched so intimately before, and she was terrified.
‘No!’ she pleaded thickly. ‘Kyle, I don’t want this. I’ve never slept with anyone before and I don’t—I can’t—please, don’t!’
‘Why do you keep on lying? Does it hurt to tell the truth?’ The slurred sensual note in his voice intensified as his hand probed further to cup the curve of her breast. Her sobbing gasp made him laugh again. When his thumb brushed across the tight, unbearably sensitive nub he said derisively, ‘Your body doesn’t lie, sweetheart.’
Then, so quickly that she could not resist, he dragged her over to face him, the same swift, rough movement serving to haul her nightdress above her head so that her arms were entangled in its folds. Her eyes glared like hot sapphires, her mouth tightened to hide its trembling, but he wasn’t even looking at her face. The pale eyes blazed across her breasts, branding her with shame and pain, lingered on the flat plain of her stomach before probing the most intimate parts of her body.
‘So you can blush,’ he observed sardonically as his head swooped and he took her nipple into his mouth.
A sudden, fierce rigor shook Arminel’s body; for a moment she lay taut in his arms as she fought for breath and the strength to resist the ravishing sensations his mouth brought into being from every nerve-end. Beneath her the sheet was warm against her back; she gave a funny, half-choked moan when his mouth traced the contours of each breast. His lips on her skin were torment, torture; she groaned, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, clenching her hands, as his mouth moved to her waist, dropping kisses in a girdle across its narrowness.
She could not move, every muscle locked in a rigid rejection of his practised seduction. When he lifted his head she opened her anguished eyes to stare into his set face. He was frowning slightly, the pale irises swallowed by darkness as he looked down into her flushed agonised countenance. Not even her most stringent efforts could control the soft shaking mouth, the flickering, drooping lashes, the heat along her cheeks as she turned her head away in despair.
He smiled, and lowered his mouth to hers, pushing her head back into the pillow as he explored the soft inner depths. Arched in his arms, she gave in to the promptings of her heart and body, passion overriding her brain in a red haze. He knew, of course. Again there came that set, humourless smile as he pulled her nightdress free, throwing it on to the floor.
She watched as he undressed, her gaze wide, almost distraught as she took in the splendid breadth of shoulders, the play of skin over muscle, the tangle of hair across his chest which arrowed down his stomach. Until then she had not known what physical attraction meant; what had happened before was a pale foreshadowing of this intolerable hunger that racked her now.
His hard warmth against her was the most potent aphrodisiac in the world. Without a word she turned to him, offering him herself. Lost in the sensuous ambience he
created for her with his mouth and his hands and his potent masculinity, she followed where he led, barely hearing the words his urgent, harsh voice whispered, her whole being shuddering with sensation until finally, after pain, she entered a delight such as she had never imagined even in her most abandoned fantasies.
Kyle’s arms were rigid with corded muscle, separating her from the softness of the pillow. Head flung back, her breath rasping through her lungs, the beat of her heart so strong that she could hear nothing else, Arminel lay at last quiescent beneath a weight at once strange and familiar, her arms locked about his shoulders. Beneath his sweat-soaked skin the muscles that had been rock-hard had lost their tension; like her, he was exhausted, tumbling back through long, slow aeons to reality.
So that’s how it is, she thought almost sorrowfully. That is what separates a virgin from the rest of womankind. Not for every woman such a perfect introduction to sexuality, passion combined with a strange tenderness, his knowledge and her innocence melding into an experience of such profound rapture that she thought she could die having known the sweetest that life could offer. Did he know now that she had been a virgin? His experience had been so apparent that she was sure he must.
But she didn’t care. The warm expectancy of the night had given way to a drowsy repletion. Tomorrow was far away; tonight was a time out of time.
At last he moved, freeing her. Across the pillow her hair lay in a black sweep of silk; his cheek came to rest on it and he said harshly above her head, ‘I’ve dreamed that some night your hair was going to make a silk sheet for me. Witch-woman, with your siren’s body and your enchantress’s face, you could coax me into hell with the fierce delight of your body.’
The slow words sent her pulses throbbing. No longer shy she lifted her hand and traced a path across his chest, touching, stroking, her forefinger deliberately provocative.
‘What do you want?’ he whispered.
