'Forgive me if I was rough with you,' he said hoarsely, meeting her hungry glance at last. 'I never intended frightening you.'
'You didn't frighten me,' she whispered.
`Do I take that to mean that in future you'll be my wife in every possible way?' His eyes passed over her like a slow caress and a shiver of delight surged through her, spreading like a ripple and filling her being.
'Yes.' Her voice was a mere thread while she blushed profusely beneath the ardency of his gaze.
'Samantha, you're so small you are almost like a child,' he said savagely, gathering her into his arms, 'but you're so very beautiful, and so infinitely desirable.'
Her lips parted beneath his as she slipped her arms about his neck and pushed her fingers through his crisp dark hair. She could feel the heavy beat of his heart against her and then, inevitably, the gentleness of those strong hands moving caressingly against her creamy skin. With an exclamation of delight she slipped her hands beneath his silk shirt and felt the rippling of his shoulder muscles beneath her fingertips as he threw the covers aside, the pressure of his lips and hands demanding an finding an instant response in her.
His mug of cocoa remained almost untouched in the tray, making way for more important matters such as a husband and wife discovering each other for the first time.
Samantha cherished every moment she spent with Brett during the weeks that followed. He was a demanding and exacting husband and lover, never allowing her to forget the power he wielded over her. She existed only for him, for his smile, however mocking, and his touch. He had ensnared her heart completely, bringing her to the full bloom of womanhood as she came to know the heights and depths of love.
Love! The only thing that marred her ecstatic happiness was not knowing whether Brett loved her, or was merely using her as an instrument to satisfy his physical needs.
With the advent of spring Samantha began to suspect that a new young life was growing inside her, and this was confirmed by the family doctor when he was called out one day after she had fainted. Brett was away at the time, but he appeared to be pleased when she finally confronted him with the news.
'You must take more care of yourself in future,' he said with unusual concern, lifting her on to the bed where she had been resting until his arrival.
'Brett, you are happy about this, aren't you?' she pleaded for assurance. 'You're not just saying so to please me?'
His glance was an instant rebuke. 'Do I ever say anything I don't mean?'
'No, but
'I want this child very much, Samantha,' he interrupted swiftly. 'But I want you to take great care of yourself.'
'Brett, stop thinking of me as a child!'
'I don't,' he assured her mockingly, sliding his lips along her throat to where a pulse throbbed in response. 'Not when I'm holding you in my arms like this and can feel your heart beating so fast beneath my hand.'
'Oh, Brett ...' she moaned softly, a sudden urgency taking possession of her as she moved against him. Her arms tightened about his neck, but he held back, his look of concern deepening.
'My dear, we must be careful.'
`Brett, hold me close,' she cried passionately, unexpected tears shimmering in her eyes. 'I promise I shan't break. Don't shun me physically now that I'm to have your child.'
`Shun you?' He looked startled for a moment and then, with a throaty sound, drew her wholly into his arms. 'Good God, Samantha, I could never do that. You know very well that at this moment I want you more than anything else.'
She tried to speak, but he silenced her effectively, her immediate doubts and fears swept aside as he set about proving her desirability.
CHAPTER NINE
REDECORATING the old nursery became a major operation. Paint and wallpaper had to be bought as well as new curtaining and carpets to replace the old. The flurry of plans being made and the excited gurgle from Aunt Emma at the prospect of having a child in the home caused many raised eyebrow from Brett. It was difficult to know just what he was thinking, or how he felt about his whole household being disrupted to accommodate the expected baby.
Samantha grasped every happy moment with both hands, almost as if she feared it would disintegrate at any moment. Loving Brett the way she did brought its own pain; the pain of not knowing what lay in his heart, and the inability to reach him at times when he erected that cold, impenetrable wall between them. He appeared occasionally to lose patience with her and, confused and deeply hurt, her failure to understand made her plunge to the depths of despair.
Brett handed her a letter one evening while they were having coffee in the living-room. It was among my private post that came this afternoon, but I've only just noticed it,' he explained.
The handwriting was not familiar to Samantha and she ripped open the envelope, extracting the single sheet of paper. Her curious glance went swiftly to the name at the bottom of the sheet, and she froze instantly. It was from Clive!
'Samantha,' she read, frighteningly aware of Brett leaning against the fireplace, his dark eyes resting
broodingly on her, 'How foolish of you to have married Brett Carrington. Didn't you know that he married you only to have an heir? If you don't believe me, then ask him about the stipulation in his father's will that states he has to produce an heir before he reaches the age of forty, or lose his inheritance. He's now thirty-nine.
'It is not my intention to upset you, but I felt you ought to know. Yours always, Clive.'
Samantha's face was deathly pale as she read the letter through once more before tearing it to shreds between her trembling fingers. There was a drumming in her ears that made her head feel as though it wanted to burst, while every word in that incriminating letter seemed to tear her heart to shreds. Could it be true? Was that all she meant to Brett—someone to produce the heir he so desperately needed to retain his inheritance?
Was that letter from Clive?' Brett asked coldly, his face taut with anger.
Samantha nodded, unable to speak as her throat tightened with the pain of knowing the truth at last.
`What did he want?' Brett continued harshly, his eyes narrowed to slits as she rose on shaky legs to drop the pieces of paper into the fire.
'He ... wished us well ... with our marriage,' she lied through clenched teeth, drawing a deep breath to steady herself as she avoided his eyes and watched instead the flames rise higher in the grate as Clive's letter disintegrated into ashes.
Ashes! That was all she had left of a wonderful dream that one day Brett might love her. Oh, how stupidly naive she had been!
`He's rather late with his congratulatory wishes,' Brett mocked her. 'Five months too late.'
'Too late! Five months too late!' she repeated to herself with rising hysteria. She was going to have Brett's child. His inheritance was safe—he had made sure of that!
'I'm ... rather tired,' she managed haltingly, turning away from the silent figure beside the fire. 'I'm going to bed.'
To her relief he made no effort to stop her and she made her way upstairs on legs that seemed unwilling to obey the commands of her numbed brain. Somehow she managed to undress and crawl into bed where she lay in a crumpled heap, allowing her aching misery to flow from her through the tears that appeared never ending.
She had no idea eventually how long she had lain there, but the tears on her cheeks had finally dried and the emptiness within her had become a lead weight she felt incapable of carrying with her through the future.
It was all so devastatingly clear to her now. Brett had married her merely to produce the heir he needed to enable him to keep his inheritance. Love was never involved. All that he had needed was a physical attraction to enable him to reach his goal ... and that goal was now accomplished. She was going to have his child. His heir! What happens now? she wondered tiredly. A slow degeneration of their relationship until they become like strangers living together, demanding nothing and expecting even less?
Oh, God, what a fool she had been ! What an utter fool to have given her heart, her very
soul, to a man like Brett Carrington. He had used her shamelessly to meet the requirements of his father's will and now, his mission accomplished, he would have no further interest in her. Indeed, he had so often shown that he had no lasting interest in her. He would, no doubt, take
care not to show his true feelings until after the birth of the child, but once the baby was there it would all be over. The end of a foolish dream she had harboured of Winning her husband's love.
Brett did not come to her that night, but slept instead in the dressing-room as he had done at the start of their marriage. His action indicated a clear break in their relationship which made the pain of loving him more acute.
It would be useless trying to make herself believe that she hated him, she realised that chilly spring morning as she stared at the empty space beside her on the bed. After a sleepless night she realised that she could not leave him either, for never to see him again would be even more agonising than knowing he did not love her. Life had become a vicious circle. There was no way out except to go on with the desperate hope that she would eventually come to terms with whatever the future had in store for her.
'I don't want you rush you, Samantha,' Aunt Emma said one evening, 'but I do think you should get the redecorating of the nursery done before you're incapable of attending to it personally. You have less than seven months to do so.'
'Perhaps you should go to Port Elizabeth. Bosmansvlei hasn't much to offer in that line,' Brett suggested from behind his newspaper.
'Yes ... I suppose so.' Samantha bit her lip thoughtfully. During the past few days they had acknowledged each other with a chilly politeness that brought a constant ache to her throat.
`Doesn't the idea appeal to you?'
Well ... we could fly there and back in one day.' `There'll be no flying for you at the moment,' Brett
insisted sharply, lowering the newspaper to glance at her sternly. 'I shall get Lucas to drive you there.'
'Lucas?' She felt a wave of disappointment sweeping through her. 'I ... I thought ...'
'I'm afraid it's impossible for me to get away at the moment,' Brett informed her dispassionately, disappearing once more behind his newspaper. 'It's lambing season.'
'I see ...' Samantha glanced at Aunt Emma, but the older woman merely shrugged her shoulders, indicating that she was at a loss to understand Brett's peculiar behaviour. It was, however, a rather weak excuse on Brett's part, for Ted Oosthuizen was quite capable of handling the farm without him
'I'll make arrangements for you to leave in the morning,' Brett said eventually, folding his newspaper and rising to his feet. 'My suite at the hotel will be prepared for you to stay overnight.'
'Brett,' Samantha said swiftly, clutching at his arm as he passed her chair, 'you won't change your mind about coming with me?'
'Surely I can trust you now, Samantha?' he said, raising his eyebrows mockingly as he carefully disengaged himself and left the room.
Aunt Emma let out an exasperated sigh as they heard the study door close behind him. 'Take no notice, my dear. Men are peculiar creatures at times, with peculiar notions.'
Samantha was not at all happy with the situation, but Brett's decidedly odd behaviour did not come as a surprise to her. He had lost interest in her, and the plans for the baby as she had thought he would. It could perhaps also be that he did not believe her explanation as to the contents of Clive's letter, and most probably thought that she had plans to strike up a new relationship with Clive. Would he care if this was so? she wondered distractedly. Or was he no longer concerned with what she did as long as the birth of his heir was ensured'?
Aunt Emma excused herself eventually and went up to her room while Samantha remained for a moment longer, staring thoughtfully into the dying embers of the fire. Clive had certainly ruined her life with his supposedly well-meant information. It had been intentional and vindictive, but it could only be the truth, or Clive would not have been so bold to suggest that she confront Brett with his accusation.
When she crossed the hall on her way upstairs she saw the light beneath the study door, and knew that she would not rest until she had spoken to Brett once more.
'Come in,' he called in answer to her knock, and she stepped inside gingerly, closing the door behind her and leaning against it for support. Brett sat behind his desk, his raised glance sending a sudden chill along her spine. 'What is it, Samantha?'
She steadied herself and took a deep breath. 'Brett, I hope you're not thinking that I have any desire to see Clive again?'
His eyes narrowed slightly but his expression remained unfathomable. 'My dear Samantha, if you're entertaining such thoughts then there's nothing I can do to stop you.'
'That sounds funny coming from you,' she laughed without mirth, 'considering how you went out of your way to keep us apart.'
'That was eight months ago.'
'What's that supposed to mean?' she asked warily, dreading the direction her thoughts were taking.
'You can interpret that in whichever way you please,' he remarked, showing signs that the conversation was
beginning to bore him. 'Take my advice, Samantha, and get to bed early. You have a long drive ahead of you tomorrow.'
Dismissed, Samantha went up to her room with a growing fear in her heart she could no longer ignore. It was over—Clive's letter had seen to that. It had made Brett doubt her, and it had shattered her hopes of winning the love of the one man who mattered above all else. She had trusted Brett implicitly, and he had let her down—something she had never thought him capable of. Now there was nothing left to live for except the child, which meant so much and yet so little to Brett.
Samantha moaned softly as a searing pain lodged in her heart. Dry-eyed, she fell across the bed and buried her face in her arms, the agony of failure too unbearable to think about. Brett would never ask her to leave; to him marriage was binding, but he had made it perfectly clear that she could expect nothing more than consideration and disorientated affection.
How strange, she thought when she finally went to bed. She had thought she would never get over losing Clive, but it had been accomplished without much suffering. Losing Brett would be a different matter entirely, for merely thinking about it made her wish for the oblivion of death.
She was still awake when Brett eventually entered his room. She heard him moving about and take a shower, but she knew he would not come to her. Whatever significance he had placed on Clive's letter, it had been damning enough to make him avoid her and, despite everything, she longed for his arms and his lips. Humiliation and anger had made way for a deeper realisation during these few heart-breaking days—no
matter what he had done, she needed him. She would always need him.
Samantha awoke the following morning to find a cryptic note from Brett on her breakfast tray, and with unsteady hands she unfolded it.
'I'm sorry I couldn't wait to see you off this morning,' he had written in his bold handwriting, 'but I shall telephone you this evening. I've made all the necessary arrangements for your stay in the city. Take care of yourself. Brett.'
She read it through once more before crushing it in her hand, determined now to show Brett that she was unaffected by his behaviour. If he could be cool and aloof, then so could she. Never would she let him know how much she loved him, or how his callous behaviour ripped her heart to pieces. Never l From that moment onwards she would dish out as much as she received, and in kind.
The drive to Port Elizabeth was tiring, but they arrived at the hotel before lunch that day and Samantha was installed into Brett's private suite with its plush furnishings and gold drapes with a pomp and ceremony that left her gasping. When she tried to do away with some of the servants, Brett's manager appeared almost affronted.
`Mr Carrington's instructions were most explicit, Mrs Carrington,' he informed her. 'Nothing should be spared to ensure your comfort. The servants attending to you have been handpicked by Mr Carrington to attend to him personally when he is here, and they wo
uld be most dissatisfied if you don't give them the opportunity to do the same for you, Mrs Carrington.'
Faced with this argument Samantha was forced to relent. Her meals were served to her in the suite, doing away with the necessity of mingling with the other
guests and, when she inquired, she was told that Lucas had been given accommodation in the servants' quarters in order to be at hand when she should need him. Everything appeared to be taken care of, leaving her free to do the shopping she had come for, but she could not help feeling like a novice when it came to handing out instructions.
With her shopping partially done that afternoon, Samantha sat down after dinner at the marble-topped writing desk and made a list of the items she still required. The faint sound of music drifted up towards her from the hotel restaurant and suddenly she was overcome with loneliness. She thought of the two other occasions she had entered Brett's suite, especially on that first occasion when he had invited her to dinner She had been overcome with nervous anxiety at the time, overawed by the splendour of her surroundings and the forcefulness of her host. She had, at that time, still considered herself to be so much in love with Clive, but she knew now what it was to love someone deeply and passionately. She knew also the heartache of never being able to express that love for fear of being rejected. She was to have Brett's child, but it seemed now as though she would never have his love —a love she craved above all else in the world.
Overcome with self-pity and knowing she must fight it, she tried to concentrate on the list she was drawing up, but the longing for Brett became almost too much to bear, and she finally closed her eyes to ease the ache behind them. She jumped violently when the telephone rang shrilly beside her and, composing herself, she lifted the receiver.
'A gentleman to see you, Mrs Carrington,' the receptionist informed her. He says he's an old friend of yours.'
Samantha searched her mind for a possible friend,
but found herself unable to think of anyone else at that moment except Stan Dreyer. He could be the only male friend who would consider paying her a visit. 'Is it a Mr Stan Dreyer?'
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