The Virgin s Wedding Night

by Sara Craven

  ‘Rather like ourselves, matia mou,’ he’d added, his tone faintly jeering.

  And the bay, she thought. Does it have a flat rock with a table and chairs where people sit, drinking wine before they part in anger? And do you have other more pleasurable memories of it?

  And did not ask.

  But it was a relief to know she wouldn’t be sharing a roof with Constantine Zandros. His stay in London had only been brief, but she’d still found his narrow-eyed scrutiny, and habit of firing questions at her, distinctly unnerving.

  On his father’s departure, Roan had arranged for them to move out of the bridal suite, where she’d had to spend two more supremely awkward nights, lying, with her back turned to him, on the furthest edge of that huge bed, and into the penthouse where at least she’d had a room to herself.

  ‘But why can’t I go back to my flat?’ she’d queried rebelliously.

  ‘Because the newspapers are still interested in our story,’ Roan told her curtly. ‘Do you want them camped on your doorstep day and night, or would you prefer the hotel press office to deal with them while you stay here, shielded by our security?’

  She bit her lip. ‘I’ll stay here.’

  Not that there’d been much time to worry about lurking cameramen. She’d spent those final days in England feeling as if she was caught up in a tidal race—swept ruthlessly along against her will, as her life was swiftly and efficiently dismantled.

  She had never gone back to Flint Audley. Instead, her desk had been cleared, and its contents delivered to the hotel, while a different company was handling the letting of her flat.

  Sometimes she’d managed to make a stand, insisting on buying her own clothes in department stores rather than the salons of major designers, choosing classic styles and fabric in cool, light colours. Keeping it all simple—things she could still use as soon as all this was behind her.

  After all, she could well afford to do so, she thought. The cheque she’d paid Roan on their wedding day had been returned to her without comment. Just another business transaction.

  And she’d also adamantly refused all Roan’s attempts to buy jewellery for her.

  ‘I’m not a child,’ she’d told him defiantly, ‘to be placated with meaningless glitter. Indulge your next wife instead. She’ll need something to compensate for being the resident breeding machine.’

  For a moment, his mouth had tightened dangerously, but all he’d said was, ‘An unattractive thought, Harriet mou, unattractively expressed,’ before turning away without another word.

  Leaving her with the knowledge that she was in the wrong. She wasn’t even sure why she’d succumbed to such childish rudeness, especially when Roan was clearly doing his best to be considerate. Except—it would be so easy to respond to his kindness and generosity, she realised wistfully. To let herself warm to his charm, yield to the sensuous pull of his attraction, and ignore its dangers. And to forget, perhaps fatally, the only reason this marriage had ever come about.

  Gracemead…

  The reason they’d married. And the sole reason they were still together.

  She’d gone down to the house alone to say goodbye to her grandfather, expecting an emotional encounter, but instead she’d found Gregory Flint in robust mood, far readier to talk about the garden than her imminent departure.

  ‘Aren’t you going to miss me even a little?’ she’d asked eventually, trying to smile.

  ‘I imagine, my dear, that we shall miss each other.’ He’d patted her shoulder. ‘But you belong now with the man you’ve chosen, and I cannot be selfish. Besides,’ he’d added, ‘you’re hardly moving to the dark side of the moon. And your father-in-law has kindly invited me to stay with him in Greece whenever I wish.’

  He chuckled. ‘Your husband has also reminded me that we still have a chess issue to resolve.’

  ‘But I’ll be coming back here too—for visits. Won’t I?’ There was a note of pleading in her voice.

  And not just to visit, but to claim my inheritance. Because I did what you wanted, Grandfather. I—I married, and within the deadline you set, so when do I get my promised reward? When are you going to tell me that Gracemead is mine?

  ‘I’m sure you will.’ Gregory Flint gave her a brisk smile. ‘But first you must give yourself time to adapt to your new life—your new environment. After all, your priority now, my dear, must be making a home for your husband.’

  ‘I think he has servants to do that.’ His evasion of the issue made her respond waspishly, and she saw him frown.

  He said repressively, ‘We are hardly speaking of the same thing, Harriet.’ He paused. ‘Rust has been such a problem with the roses this year. I’m not sure the new sprays are as effective as the old ones were.’

  And that, Harriet thought wearily, had been the end of that discussion, with no guarantees to comfort her, or even a hint of his intentions.

  It had been Roan who’d organised a farewell dinner with Tessa and Bill, skilfully soothing their hurt feelings over the secret wedding by citing mysterious family reasons, then winning them over completely with an invitation to visit Militos before the summer was over.

  ‘Is a stream of visitors really such a good idea?’ she’d queried as they’d driven back to the hotel. ‘Couldn’t it be—awkward?’

  ‘Why, matia mou,’ he’d drawled, ‘are you saying you’d prefer to be alone with me?’

  Which had silenced her.

  There’d been an even trickier meeting with Jack and Lucy. The other girl had been polite but chilly, so perhaps she hadn’t thought the supposed affair funny after all. But when they’d briefly been alone, and Harriet had attempted a stumbling apology, Lucy had brusquely cut across her.

  ‘Do you think I care about that nonsense? The truth is I can’t bear to think of Roan, the guy I love best in the world after Jack and my father, throwing himself away on someone who doesn’t give a damn about him.’ She’d shaken her head. ‘What a waste. What a bloody waste.’

  But you don’t understand, Harriet had wanted to scream at her. I saw you that day because I was desperate for him—because I couldn’t bear to stay away any longer. Hearing about Tessa’s baby had started me thinking in ways I’d never known—about things I couldn’t afford to want. Stupid, unrealistic dreams that are not—not—part of my plan, and can never be, because they’ll ruin everything.

  Aloud, she’d said quietly, ‘It won’t last long, and then he’ll have his life back. We both will.’ And walked away.

  Remembering, Harriet suppressed a sigh. Today should have been wonderful, she thought, staring out of the window at the rich earth colours of the parched summer landscape, the greys and violets of distant hills, and the silvery masses of the olive groves that lined the road. A fairy tale—Cinderella travelling to her palace, her prince at her side—instead of a situation rife with potential for disaster. If she wasn’t careful.

  Because she didn’t belong here, and she must never forget that for a moment. Not that her father-in-law would permit her to, she reminded herself wryly.

  She turned to Roan to make some bright, innocuous comment about the landscape, only to find his attention obviously riveted elsewhere. And, following the direction of his gaze, Harriet saw with vexation that the brief skirt of her pale yellow dress had ridden up, exposing a length of slender thigh.

  She made a hasty adjustment, tugging her skirt down to her knees, and saw his mouth curl in swift derision.

  ‘Harriet, I have seen every inch of you naked, so spare us both the token gesture.’ He spoke with cool emphasis. ‘And if I wish to look at your charming legs, I shall do so, because I am reminded there was once a time when they were wrapped round my waist—to our mutual enjoyment.’

  Her face burned, and she said imploringly, ‘Roan—please. The driver will hear…’

  ‘Yanni does not speak English,’ he retorted. He pushed her skirt almost casually back to its previous level, letting his hand rest lightly just above her knee. ‘And don’t flinch, agapi
mou,’ he added mockingly. ‘As my wife, you should be accustomed to my touch by now. Should even welcome it.’

  She sat rigidly, not looking at him, staring at the passing scenery with eyes that saw nothing. Roan might choose to play games, but she would not—could not—let them get to her.

  ‘We shall be reaching the village quite soon,’ he said, after a pause. ‘And we are expected, so try to smile, pedhi mou. Be the happy bride they want to see.’

  ‘In that case, perhaps you’d remove your hand.’

  His mouth tightened, but he did as she asked, as the car began its descent into the village.

  Harriet thought he’d exaggerated, yet it seemed as if the entire population had turned out to mark their progress through the narrow streets, beaming with delight and waving, forcing a shy response from her in turn.

  Yanni turned with a flash of white teeth, calling something, and Roan shrugged, spreading his hands and laughing back at him.

  ‘What did he say?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘You really wish to know?’ His glance was sardonic. ‘He was suggesting that as we robbed them of a wedding, we should not keep them waiting to celebrate the christening.’

  Which serves me right for asking, Harriet thought, subsiding into fresh embarrassment.

  Then the car turned a corner, and suddenly the sea was in front of them, a sheet of exquisite blue glass in the windless afternoon, blending seamlessly with the sky in a distant shimmering haze of heat.

  She said on a sigh, all other considerations momentarily forgotten, ‘Oh, God, that’s so—incredibly beautiful.’

  ‘Yes,’ Roan said quietly. ‘And each time I see it is like the first.’

  ‘But you must surely be used to it.’

  ‘As I told you, I spent most of my childhood in England with my mother. Until I returned, I had almost forgotten what it meant to me—that it was in my blood and always would be.’

  She forced a smile. ‘I—I know the feeling.’ And was aware of his dry glance.

  They traversed the small harbour, with its bobbing caiques, then turned inland again, the road climbing. In the distance, Harriet could see a sprawl of white walls topped in terracotta.

  ‘The Villa Dionysius,’ Roan said. ‘Where my father lives. You will find that I have built on a smaller scale—but with room for expansion.’

  ‘When you become domesticated? The settled family man?’ She made her voice light and cool, even faintly scathing, to cover the pain that had come from nowhere to twist inside her at the thought of Roan with his firstborn in his arms. A baby that she had not given him…

  No, she castigated herself. Stop right now. Because you cannot—must not go there. It—it’s just not safe.

  She managed a laugh. ‘I find that hard to imagine.’

  He said quietly, ‘My friends who have children might not agree with you, Harriet mou,’ and turned away from her.

  She could see the other headland now, just as he’d described. Could observe that the house was single-storeyed, built on three sides, with a roof tiled in dark green.

  ‘Welcome to your home, Harriet mou.’ His voice was almost expressionless. ‘And prepare yourself to be adored.’

  For a moment his words startled her, then she saw the group of people waiting in high excitement to greet them at the main entrance, and understood.

  She said, half to herself, ‘I feel such a fraud. I don’t think I can do this.’

  ‘You wish to go back to England? Tell your grandfather the truth?’

  ‘No—he’d be so disappointed in me. I can’t do that to him.’

  Roan said with sudden harshness, ‘Then please do not distress my people with your honesty either.’

  As the car came to a halt, he leaned forward. ‘The man in the grey linen jacket is Panayotis. He manages the house for me, does the hiring, orders the supplies—everything. He speaks good English, and you may rely on him completely.

  ‘The woman next to him, almost dancing, is Toula, my housekeeper.’ He paused. ‘She was also my nurse when I was born, and because of this, like Yanni and the villagers, she may have certain—hopes of this marriage. Try to be patient with her.’

  She said bitterly, ‘How to feel guilty in one easy lesson. You should have left me in England.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said curtly. ‘But perhaps I too wished to spare your grandfather’s feelings. Shall we go?’

  Harriet felt hideously self-conscious as the introductions were made. The smiles did not waver, but she could sense the surprise behind them, and knew she was not the glowing, beautiful bride they’d anticipated.

  Takis, the portly chef, already seemed to be running a measuring glance over her slenderness, the light of battle in his bright eyes.

  And she was briefly aware of one openly disparaging glance emanating from a ravishingly pretty girl, full-lipped and sloe-eyed, who was standing at the back of the group.

  Perhaps she was hoping to catch the master’s eye herself, Harriet thought dryly, and thinks I’ve spiked her guns.

  Roan was talking to Panayotis. ‘All the work I ordered has been completed, I hope?’

  ‘Ne, kyrie.’ Panayotis nodded vigorously in confirmation. ‘The men finished two days ago, and the new furnishings came yesterday. Everything is ready for your bride.’

  ‘Shall we take a look, agapi mou?’ Roan’s arm was round her waist, urging her forward, but at least he wasn’t carrying her across the threshold.

  ‘You’ve been having alterations done already?’ It was infinitely cooler inside the villa, where massive fans hung from the ceilings, and the light was beguilingly dim, thanks to the shutters drawn across the windows, filtering out the immediate fierceness of the sunlight.

  Looking round, Harriet approved of the immaculate walls washed in clear pastel colours, and the marble floors which emphasised the same sense of space and peace she’d aimed for in her London flat. However, here any starkness was relieved by the rich greens and ochres of the fabrics—by lamps and ceramics—by clusters of books and magazines, and masses of greenery. The organised clutter of everyday living.

  She added with bewilderment, ‘But the place looks brand-new.’

  ‘I decided that the main bedroom needed some refurbishment.’ Roan smiled at her. ‘Now that I am no longer a bachelor. Shall we take a look?’

  ‘If—if you want.’ Her voice sounded hollow, matching the panicky sensation inside her, as Panayotis led the way, beaming, down a wide passageway to double doors at the end.

  ‘You see, kyrie,’ he announced proudly, flinging them wide.

  The shutters were open, and the room was flooded with light. As she hesitated in the doorway, half dazzled, she received a confused impression of pale walls warmed with a hint of apricot—gauzy drapes framing the enormous window with its stunning view of the sea—and a vivid splash of blue silk, the same deep colour as the Aegean itself, lying across the foot of the big bed facing the door.

  Yet it was the scent that Harriet really noticed—a heavy, cloying fragrance that seemed to fill the air, and make it difficult to breathe.

  Somewhere near at hand, she heard someone gasp, and then as she took a step further into the room, she saw for the first time what was also on the bed, propped up in the centre of the mountain of snowy pillows, and the remaining breath left her lungs completely.

  It was the unframed portrait of a woman lying on her side, her head resting on her folded arms, and one leg slightly drawn up. A very beautiful woman with hair so fair it was almost silver, and cropped close to emphasise the elegant shape of her skull. A woman with slanting dark eyes in an olive-skinned face as pointed as a cat’s, her curved crimson mouth smiling an invitation that was so smoulderingly, blatantly explicit that she did not actually need to be nude.

  Yet she was naked, just the same, every line of her perfect body glowing from the canvas, provocative and unashamed.

  And there was no possible doubt about the identity of the artist who’d brought her so sensually alive. One gl
ance told her that, because Harriet now recognised his style as immediately as she knew the face she saw in the mirror each morning.

  She was aware of a subdued shocked murmur from the servants crowding into the doorway behind her—of Panayotis moving forward, his face an image of disbelief—of Toula giving a little wail as she threw the skirt of her white apron over her head.

  She turned slowly and looked at Roan. He was standing, hands on hips, head tilted almost critically, regarding the canvas as if he was considering what improvements he could make to the composition.

  And as she stared at him, she saw his mouth curve faintly into amusement, as if he was also enjoying some agreeable memory. Recalling a time, no doubt, when the girl lying across his bed had been flesh and blood, and not merely an arrangement of tones.

  Suddenly Harriet found herself remembering the sketch he’d done of her. A cross between a witch and a bat, she thought, faintly nauseated as another wave of that overwhelming perfume reached her. Could there be a greater contrast?

  He wanted me for one night, she told herself, because I was his virgin bride, and therefore a novelty. But how often has he made love here in this room with his silver-haired beauty? The room where I’m supposed to sleep alone, and in that same bed…

  With his—welcome home gift hanging on the wall for company.

  Misery rose in her, in a great swamping, choking rush. Anger too, and humiliation as she thought of his smile, and knew she could never compete with that kind of memory.

  She took a step forward. ‘You find this amusing.’ Her voice shook. ‘Well, I don’t.’ She swung back her hand and slapped him hard across the face.

  Then she turned and ran, the sea of stunned faces parting for her.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  R OAN caught her easily—for one thing she had no idea where she was going—his hand descending like a clamp on her shoulder, as he pushed her into the nearest room. Swung her to face him in its shuttered dimness.