Valley of the Devil

by Yvonne Whittal

  Rafe took only one look at the dark terror in her eyes before he pulled her into his arms. 'It's all right, Jo. It's all right,' he murmured reassuringly, brushing the damp strands of hair away from her pale, quivering lace and drawing her down under the duvet in curve her trembling body into his. It was only a dream.'

  Only a dream! The arms that held her were very real, and so was that hard, muscualar body against her own. Oh, thank God, it was only a dream!

  Her shoulders started to shake and, not caring what he might think of her, she clung to him a little frantically as she gave way to those terrible, choking tears of relief which were erupting from deep within her.

  Rafe slid his hand into her hair, and with his fingers gently cupping the base of her skull he pressed her head into the comforting hollow of his shoulder. 'It's all right, Jo,' he said again in that low, reassuring voice. 'Don't hold back the tears. Let them out.'

  He held her as if he were comforting a child, his stroking touch soothing and calming her until her weeping ceased and she relaxed against him with a shuddering sigh on her lips.

  'Feeling better?' he asked at length, combing his fingers gently through the long strands of silky auburn hair that trailed down to below her shoulders.

  'Yes, thank you,' she murmured huskily against his strong, sun-browned throat. A few hours ago Rafe had been so angry with her she had almost feared he might want to kill her, but now he was being so incredibly kind and gentle that she was reluctant to speak for fear of breaking the spell.

  'I didn't think you meant it quite so literally when you said you still have nightmares about that paraplegic friend of yours.' He lifted his head off the pillow and pried her tear-stained face out into the open with his fingers beneath her chin. 'You were dreaming about him, weren't you?' he asked, his dark gaze probing hers.

  'Yes,' she croaked. And no, she could have added, a haunted look entering her eyes while she tried to thrust from her mind the terrifying twist in the ending to that familiar nightmare.

  'Do you want to talk about it?'

  'No,' she croaked again, shrinking inwardly from the mere idea and turning her face back into the comforting hollow of his shoulder. 'Not now.'

  'Shall I get you something to drink? A glass of warm milk might help you to sleep again.'

  Jo moved her head in a negative reply against his warm shoulder. 'I don't want anything, thank you.'

  All she needed was to soak up the living warmth of his body, and drinking in the knowledge that he was alive was the only way she could shut out the horrifying memory of that dream that lingered so persistently in her mind. Rafe switched off the bedside light, plunging the room into darkness, but the darkness did not disturb Jo. She felt safe and secure in Rafe's arms with the length of his hard body against her own and the steady, reassuring beat of his heart beneath her ear.

  His hand left her hair eventually to trail down her back, and the firm, rhythmic movement of his fingers along the hollow of her spine eased the last fragments of tension from her body. Jo sighed deeply, relaxing at last in mind as well as body, and she stirred appreciatively against Rafe, her limbs entwining themselves with his in an unconsciously seductive way. She wanted to thank him, but she was not sure how until she felt his growing arousal against her abdomen. Rafe groaned softly into the startled stillness between them and made to move away from her, but Jo slid her hand down his side to his firm buttock and held him there. He drew an audible breath, understanding at once what she was offering, and then his mouth was seeking hers in the darkness with a hunger to which she responded without reserve.

  They kissed deeply and passionately, their tongues meeting and retreating in an erotic ritual that tantalised their senses and heightened their excitement until they were both driven to a peak of wanting more.

  Rafe helped her out of her nightdress and flung the flimsy garment to the floor. Now there would be nothing between them, they would be flesh against flesh, and Rafe gathered her in to him with a low, animallike growl on his lips.

  Jo was as hungry for him as he was for her, and she revelled in the feel of those hard, rippling muscles beneath her palms when she moved her hands up across his broad back. She stroked his smooth shoulders, and threaded her fingers through his hair to guide his warm, sensuous mouth down to her breasts where his fingers had already teased her nipples into taut, aching nodules of desire. Her mind was being stripped systematically of everything except the taste, the smell and the feel of Rafe. He knew exactly how to pleasure her body, and the probing intimacy of his stroking fingers heightened her excitement almost to the point of madness. Jo writhed beneath him, her body consumed with a desperate need for the closeness of his possession, but for some obscure reason Rafe was holding himself in check.

  'Show me you want me, Jo!' he groaned against her mouth, his voice angry and impatient as he explained the reason for his odd reluctance to take her. 'Touch me, for God's sake, and show me you want me!'

  Jo had been the reserved partner in their lovemaking sessions during these past weeks, but she discarded that reserve now to please Rafe as he had been pleasing her. She slid her hand down along his taut, flat stomach until her stroking fingers encountered his throbbing manhood, and she felt him shudder as he moaned his pleasure into her hair.

  It gave her a strange sense of power to feel Rafe's magnificent body trembling beneath her gentle, manipulative hand, but it also heightened her own excitement, and she was more than ready for him when he finally entered her with a savage thrust of his hips.

  Their bodies were fused together in passion and moving in perfect, rhythmic unison in their demand for satisfaction. Their senses had been honed to a sweet sharpness, spiralling them higher and higher until they spun out of control and came together in a shattering climax that left them both sated and gasping for breath.

  Jo felt content for the first time in the aftermath of their lovemaking as she lay in Rafe's arms and listened to their heartbeats subsiding to a more normal pace. Her mind had wandered happily back into the past, to that time when she had believed that Rafe loved her, and she clung to that memory now, wanting desperately to believe it even if it was just for the few hours left before dawn.

  'Well, that was quite a revelation,' murmured Rafe. 'If in the aftermath of your dreams you can be aroused to such phenomenal heights of passion, then perhaps you should have these nightmares more often!'

  Jo rolled away from him, and she could feel her cheeks stinging with embarrassment as she sat up in bed and dragged the duvet about her. She had never felt quite so vulnerable before, and that undertone of mockery in his voice had hit her on the raw with a sickening clarity.

  Nothing had changed. For the sake of her family she had allowed herself to be bought and used. There was no room for any of the finer emotions in this marriage arrangement, and she was never going to allow herself to forget that again.

  She leapt out of bed without switching on the light and scooped her nightdress up off the floor. 'You're an insensitive swine, Rafe!' she hissed fiercely, resorting to anger to assuage the pain of disappointment.

  'And I despise myself for thinking you could be anything else!'

  Rafe seemed to find that amusing, and his mocking laughter followed her as she fled into the bathroom, where she could give vent to her shame and frustration by shedding a few tears in private. She felt emotionally bruised deep down into her soul. How could she have allowed herself to believe, even for one moment, that he cared?

  CHAPTER SIX

  CLOUDS drifted like small tufts of white cotton wool across the blue sky, and it had become so hot in the sun that Jo had taken off her knitted jacket before descending the koppie with Fritz running at her heels. Taking a brisk walk up on to the koppie in the mornings after an early breakfast had become a daily ritual which she rarely missed, but on this particular morning she had lingered up there on the hill for almost two hours.

  She had lost track of time, thinking about her family and wondering why she had not heard fro
m them. She had written every week since her arrival at Satanslaagte, but to date she had received nothing in return. Didn't they realise that she would be anxious to know whether everything had worked out as they had hoped?

  'I've taken a tray of tea through to the lounge, and you have a visitor, madam,' Elsie announced all in one breath when the screen door into the kitchen slammed shut behind Jo.

  'Who is it?' Jo asked cautiously.

  'It's Master Chris, madam.'

  This was unexpected, and unusual. Chris Scheepers had never made a habit of dropping in uninvited at Satanslaagte.

  'Thank you, Elsie,' Jo murmured thoughtfully, walking on through the kitchen and down the passage into the hall.

  Chris had been standing at the window, looking out across the garden, but he turned when he heard Jo entering the living-room and flashed that boyish smile she remembered so well. Her frown faded and her mouth curved iii an answering smile. 'I hope you haven't been waiting long?'

  'I'd wait a lifetime for you, Jo,' he said, taking the hand she had offered him and raising it to his lips.

  'Don't say things like that,' she rebuked him gently, gesturing him into an armchair when he released her fingers. 'I know you're not serious, but remarks like that can so very easily be misinterpreted.'

  'It never used to bother you before,' he pointed out, eyeing her speculatively when they sat facing each other across the low, marble-topped table where Elsie had placed the tray of tea and scones.

  'Things are different now,' she said without thinking, and she could have kicked herself the next instant when she saw his glance sharpen with interest.

  'How different?'

  Jo looked away and changed the subject. 'We'd better have our tea and eat the scones while they're still fresh.'

  She felt his curious glance resting on her during the ensuing silence while she poured their tea and offered him a scone, and she had an uneasy feeling that he was not going to leave the matter there.

  'You haven't answered my question, Jo,' he prompted, confirming what she had suspected when they settled back in their chairs with their tea. 'What's so different about your marriage this time around?'

  'I don't want to talk about it.'

  'Why not?'

  'I've said too much already, Chris,' she brushed aside his query. 'It was a slip of the tongue, and I regret it, so let's just leave it at that.'

  His speculative gaze held hers for seemingly endless seconds, then he nodded. 'I won't pry, Jo, but I'll always be here for you if you should need someone to talk to.'

  'I know... and I thank you for that.' She took a sip of tea and felt the tension ease slowly out of her body.

  'You haven't told me yet to what I owe the pleasure of your company this morning.'

  'I was on my way home from the hospital when I decided to drop in.'

  'There's nothing wrong, is there?' The clinical side of Jo was instantly on the alert. 'Eric hasn't had a relapse, has he?'

  Chris shook his head reassuringly. 'The patient is healing nicely, and the doctor says he should be able to come home tomorrow.'

  'That's wonderful!' she exclaimed in relief.

  He held her glance, his expression grave. 'Eric has you to thank for his quick recovery, and we're all in your debt.'

  His praise embarrassed her. She had done no more than anyone else with a good knowledge of first aid would have done, and she did not want anyone to feel indebted to her for being on hand to help.

  'Have another scone,' she suggested, offering Chris the plate.

  'Are you trying to shut me up, or fatten me up?' he demanded, his smile teasing as he helped himself to a buttered scone and bit into it.

  'Both,' she confessed, flicking a faintly critical glance over his lean, long-limbed body ensconced in the chair facing hers. 'I couldn't help noticing the other night that you've lost a lot of weight in the three years since I last saw you. Have you been ill?'

  Jo's innocent observation triggered off an unexpected and startling reaction. Chris's eyes darkened with pain, and for one awful moment she thought he was going to cry, but he seemed to pull himself together as he rose abruptly and walked to the window. He stood with his back to her, his hands pushed into the pockets of his brown corded trousers and his shoulders hunched beneath his tweed jacket. She had unintentionally touched him on the raw, and she was still wondering what she could say or do to rectify the situation when Chris surprised her by launching into an explanation.

  'I met a girl last year. Alice Montgomery,' he said, his voice clipped and his sentences disjointed with the obvious effort to remain in control of himself. 'We were going to be married. She was driving home to George to spend Christmas with her parents.' His shoulders moved beneath his jacket as if he was making a physical attempt to ward off the pain of remembering. 'There was an accident.'

  Compassion tugged painfully at Jo's heart. 'Was she killed?'

  'Oh, God, if only she had been killed, then it might have been easier for me!' His voice cracked with emotion, and he took a moment to pull himself together before he turned to face Jo. 'She's been in a coma ever since the accident,' he gestured helplessly with his hands, 'and the chances are slim that she'll ever come out of it.'

  His anguished expression drew Jo to her feet. 'I'm so sorry, Chris,' she murmured sympathetically, going to him, and taking his hands in her own.

  He lowered his gaze to those small, capable hands gripping his and a crooked, faintly embarrassed smile curved his mouth. 'I guess we all have our problems, and I certainly didn't come here today with the intention of burdening you with mine.'

  'I'm glad you told me,' she assured him with a quiet sincerity as she urged him back into his chair and poured him another cup of tea.

  Half an hour later when Chris left, his deep sorrow was carefully tucked away behind his boyishly charming smile, but Jo's heart bled for him. She had worked too long in a hospital not to know of the pain and suffering endured by the family and friends of a comatose patient, and she could only pray that in this instance the agony would not be prolonged.

  Talking with Chris had made her forget her own problems, but at the end of that week, when there was still no news from Cape Town, she decided to phone her mother. She dialled the home number, and the telephone seemed to ring for interminable seconds before it was answered.

  'Harris residence. Lavinia Harris speaking.'

  'Hello, Mother.'

  'Jo? Is that you, Jo?' came the somewhat startled query.

  'As far as I know I'm your only daughter, so who else would be calling you "Mother"?' Jo demanded sharply and with an unaccustomed ring of sarcasm in her voice.

  'Are you all right, Jo?'

  'Of course I'm all right,' she brushed her mother's anxious query aside with a measure of impatience.

  'How are things at home? What's going on? I've written every week, but you haven't answered my letters. You did get my letters, didn't you?'

  'Yes, yes, I received your letters, and I've been wanting to write, Jo, but I—er—I haven't really had time.'

  That odd hesitation in Lavinia's voice alerted Jo to something which she could not define at that moment. 'Did everything work out all right for Danny?' she persisted. 'Is everything settled with the business?'

  'Yes, I—er—yes, everything is...just fine.'

  'You don't sound very sure,' Jo accused suspiciously.

  'Of course I'm sure,' Lavinia insisted in much stronger tones. 'You know I've never had much to do with the business, but

  Danny assures me that everything is going well.'

  'Good!' Jo sighed audibly. 'I'm glad.'

  Lavinia was by nature an extremely talkative person, but on this occasion she was oddly reticent, and Jo was frowning down at the black and white tiled floor in the hall when their conversation ended moments later. She had hoped that speaking to her mother would ease her mind, but instead it did exactly the reverse.

  Was there something the matter, or was she imagining it? Danny would know, sh
e decided, lifting the receiver again and dialling her brother's private number at the office. Danny's secretary answered the phone and, recognising Jo's voice, she put her through to Danny without delay.

  'Hello? Jo?' Danny's voice was clearly agitated when it came on the line. 'Are you all right?'

  'That was the first question Mother asked me,' Jo responded testily. 'For goodness' sake, Danny, why shouldn't I be all right?'

  The line crackled with silence for a second or two. 'You've spoken to Mother?' asked Danny.

  'A moment ago, yes. She sounded strangely distracted. Do you know that I actually got the feeling she didn't want to talk to me?'

  Danny laughed unexpectedly. 'I'm sure you're just imagining things, Jo.'

  'Perhaps I am,' she agreed with him, but she was not entirely convinced. 'You're not hiding something from me, are you? Mother isn't ill or something, is she?'

  'I assure you Mother was in perfect health when I left the house this morning. Look, Jo, I must rush,' he added abruptly. 'I've got someone waiting to see me. Give my best to Rafe, will you?'

  'Yes, sure I'll—' She stopped in mid-sentence when she realised that the connection had already been severed, and she felt strangely isolated as she dropped the lifeless receiver back on to its cradle. Why did she have the feeling that neither her mother nor Danny had wanted to talk to her? Was it her imagination, or had they actually sounded nervous?

  That long list of questions in her mind was getting longer instead of shorter. She needed some answers, but she wasn't getting any, and if she didn't get out of the house for a while she would go crazy with frustration.

  Jo went for a brisk walk to clear her head, but she was passing the old store-room below the stables when she stopped suddenly to stare contemplatively at the thatch-roofed building. She had passed the store-room every day on her way up to the koppie, but this time she walked purposefully towards it. The paint was peeling badly on the wooden door and she wondered if the rusted bolt still worked. It did, but the hinges on the door squealed in protest when she pushed it open, and the dusty, musty smell made her wrinkle her nose when she stepped inside.