And that was a promise she could do without.
CHAPTER SIX
'What is this place?'
They had been driving for about an hour, the last quarter of which had been spent negotiating a roughly made forest track, straight as a die and probably a firebreak, and now the headlights revealed a small building huddled at the centre of a clearing, the tall trees crowding on every side.
'A shack,' he told her drily. 'Rented and basic it may be, but you may look on it as your temporary home.'
The dim green light from the dash made his face look unearthly, carved from some alien lunar stone and, to counter the terrifying feeling that she no longer knew him at all, had never truly known him or realised just what he was capable of, she snipped back sarcastically, 'Gee—thanks! What have I done to deserve such a treat?' ending tartly, 'Where are Zanna and Harry?' Not here, for sure. Charles might have proved himself willing to do anything for the woman he loved, go to the ends of the earth, but the sophisticated Zanna wouldn't spend a moment under the roof of a hovel in the heart of a forest, miles from anywhere.
'Where the hell do you think?' he bit back tersely, the underbrow look he shot her saying he thought her mad, or despicable. Or both.
Beth shrugged, huddling deeper into the rug. His reply told her nothing, of course. He hadn't meant it to. But she could guess. Living the life of Riley in some top international hotel in the south while Zanna waited for him to complete any unfinished business he had with his wife.
She shuddered then, beginning to panic as she wondered what that business would be. Everything could have been dealt with in a civilised way, through solicitors. Why his need to drag her here, subject her to the torment of being near him?
And the panic became almost uncontrollable as he cut the engine and headlights. The darkness was thick, impenetrable, the only sound the pattering of her heartbeats. She was sure he must be able to hear it, able, too, to read the chaos and confusion of her thoughts. But he pocketed the ignition key and told her, 'Stay where you are while I open the place up,' and she was able to breathe more easily as his dark form disappeared into the enveloping blackness. And by the time she saw the orange glow of light shining out from one of the tiny windows she had herself more or less under control.
If she'd been working for a woman, or if Charles hadn't seen what she'd been too blinkered to notice regarding the way William was beginning to feel about her, then he wouldn't have gone to these lengths in order to discuss their pending divorce. She would never have believed his possessiveness to be so deeply ingrained that it extended to the wife he no longer wanted if she hadn't borne the brunt of it.
Having sorted that out, she felt less confused, more able to face the coming twenty-four hours. Whatever it was Charles wanted to discuss with her personally couldn't take longer than that and he would be anxious to rejoin Zanna and their son. And the only way to handle what was to come was to behave with dignity, use her common sense and try to hide the way she was hurting.
Beginning right now.
Clutching the rug tightly around her, she opened the car door and slid out her long, naked legs. Thankfully, it had stopped raining, but she could still hear the storm grumbling away in the distance, a dark counterpoint to the steady drip-drip of raindrops from the eaves of the forest, and she had only gone two slithery paces towards the little light from the cottage when Charles appeared as if out of nowhere, his tall shadowy figure forbidding.
'Where the hell do you think you're going?'
His sudden, silent appearance had shocked the breath out of her lungs, making her doubt her ability to handle this at all, but pride came to her rescue again, had her hauling herself together, helping her to inject a note of sarcasm as she flung back witheringly, 'Out on the town, where else?' and made to walk past him, heading for that square of orange light, but he muttered a harsh expletive and scooped her up into his arms and she pummelled furiously against the hard bones of his shoulders, yelping,
'Put me down. I am capable of walking a few yards!' Being held so very close to him was seriously undermining her mental stability, she told herself, cursing the fragility of her resolve where he was concerned. This close she could easily find herself melting against him, all liquid invitation, begging him to allow her to try, once again, to teach him to love her.
'Suit yourself. If you want to wade through ankle-deep mud, so be it,' he snapped out, then slid her down the length of his body which, she decided in miserable confusion, rated even higher in erotic stimulation than being carried in his arms.
Biting her lip, she watched him stride ahead of her, sure-footed as a cat. What did she have to do to turn the tide of her emotions? How could she stop loving him, wanting him, and begin the long haul back to the peace of mind she craved?
Unable to find the answer, fearing she never would, she began to follow, ignoring the drag of mud, intent only on staying on her feet now, keeping the rug tightly wrapped around her body.
'The power's out,' he informed her curtly as she stepped over the threshold and closed the thick plank door behind her. And, rather than look at him, meet those clever, steely eyes, she peered about her.
It was a small room, the stone tiles beneath her feet cracked and uneven with age, the walls roughly plastered, painted white, the furniture mostly pine, cottage antiques. There were logs laid in the open hearth ready for firing, and the two oil-lamps he had lit cast a warm, intimate glow. A narrow wooden staircase led up from one corner of the room and he must have been following the direction of the assessment she had tried to make appear cool and only vaguely interested because he told her acidly,
'We have two rooms. This and the bedroom above. The kitchen and bathroom are tacked on. Primitive, but adequate. I imagine it was once a woodsman's hut; it's not large enough to have been a hunting lodge.'
'I can't imagine why you bothered.' A nice touch of derision there. She bent to remove her muddy shoes, careful to keep her grasp on the enveloping rug firm, still keeping her eyes averted from him, then padded past him, making a show of opening the door which led into the built-on kitchen.
Basic, as he had said, but, as they wouldn't be here for more than a few hours tomorrow, adequate enough. And then, because she could sense his eyes on her, watching her every movement, she told him coldly, 'If, for some unknown reason, you wanted to discuss the details of the divorce personally, instead of through solicitors, you could have done it by phone. Don't you think dragging me out here was a touch melodramatic?' Oh, nicely said, she congratulated herself hollowly. She was at last getting the hang of presenting a cool, almost disinterested facade around him.
But the small success didn't make her feel any better; worse, if anything. She heard the deep pull of his indrawn breath and she did look at him then, hoping there was no trace of her inner anguish in her eyes. And what she saw made her heart turn over because he looked like a man who had recently travelled to hell.
His skin was taut across his facial bones, the character lines more deeply drawn, and there was a brooding savagery in his eyes that she had only seen once before. And that had been when Zanna had left him that first time.
First time? She shook her head unconsciously, pushing that unbelievable thought aside. She dared not allow herself to believe that the woman he loved, always would love, had once again walked out on him. But why else should he look as though the light had gone out of his life?
And then the moment was gone, pushed away by his tempered steel voice. 'And left you happily where you were—enjoying Templeton's love-making, drawing up cosy little plans for when you could be married? Sorry, my dear,' his voice became a menacing drawl, 'but I don't operate that way. And neither, as my wife, do you.'
Pointless to remind him that she wouldn't be his wife for much longer, or to tell him that William had never made love to her, that she would have run a mile if he'd tried it. That he might have proposed but that she would never have accepted in a million years. Pointless.
> Suddenly Beth felt tears sting at the back of her eyes, making her throat burn. And she felt incredibly weary of the whole sorry mess, incredibly tired. She said numbly, 'If it's all the same to you, I'd like to get out of this rug,' then wished she'd kept her mouth firmly closed, a slow burn of colour covering her face as she remembered the way he'd looked at her naked body when, at his insistence, she'd removed her sodden clothing. Recalled how he'd asked if she turned on as easily for William. He must think she was a sex-starved tramp.
Besides, he had to remember her passionate, uninhibited response to his lovemaking before the loss of their child. The way he had refused to come near her, touch her, in the empty months that had followed. He would be putting two and two together and drawing the conclusion that sexual frustration had led her to jump into bed with William Templeton, not to mention wholeheartedly enjoying a sexual romp on the floor of the forest with the husband she had professed not to want, had walked out on!
His face was white, his mouth clamped in tight disgust, a muscle working sporadically along his hard jawline and, to dispel what he was obviously thinking, she said sharply, 'Don't worry, I'm not offering anything. I'd simply like to have a hot bath, if there is such a thing, and turn in. Whatever you have to say to me can wait until tomorrow.'
He didn't say a word. He gave her a long, complicated look then picked up her suitcase and walked up the narrow stairs. Beth followed, reluctantly and only because she had to, had no other option, clutching at the rug, hoisting it above her knees, afraid she might trip.
The stairs gave directly into a bedroom with a sloping ceiling. It was basically and simply furnished with a double bed she thought she might need a step-ladder to climb on to, a pine chest of drawers and a chair, and no door except one in narrow, white-painted pine boards, set into the opposite wall.
'The bathroom, such as it is, is through there.' Charles put the case down and gestured towards the white-painted door. 'No bath, but there is a shower and if the power's gone out recently there should still be some hot water.' He turned and took a dark navy sweater from one of the drawers, pulling it over his head.
She snapped out, all too revealing, 'About time, too!' Half naked, he presented a problem, especially so in the confines of the small room. She only had to look at his bronzed, hair-roughened skin to ache to touch it, to feel the vital warmth of flesh and blood, the hardness of bone and sinew, to feel his body respond to her as once it had done.
And one brow arched darkly, as if he knew what lay behind her snapped retort, but his mouth was unsmiling, the look he gave her long and hard before wide shoulders rose in a slight, dismissive shrug beneath the clinging, expensive wool. 'It's gone colder. I'll put a match to the fire before I make supper. Soup and rolls be enough?'
It had gone colder. The storm had cleared the air and the interior of the cottage felt chilly. Still Beth's slight body was burning, every cell, every nerve-end ignited by the mere fact of his presence, but she wasn't going to admit to that. And she wasn't going to prolong the torment of this crazy evening.
Tomorrow morning, after a night's sleep, would be soon enough to get to grips with his reasons for bringing her here, listen to whatever it was he had to say that couldn't have been discussed by letter or over the phone.
'I don't want anything.' She turned her back, opening her suitcase and rummaging around for the old, worn T-shirt she had taken to wearing to bed since leaving him.
Before then, before that fateful day when Zanna had reappeared, she had always worn the finest satins and silks at night, the most seductive night-wear money could buy, because she had never given up hoping that he would change his mind and come to her…
'Just one thing…' The harshness of his tone made her spine go stiff, her fingers rigid among the muddle of her hurried packing. 'Did you meet up with Templeton before, arrange to leave me and go to him? Or was it sheer coincidence that you went to work for him and made him fall in love with you?'
She did move then. Moved in one swift, fluid movement, totally oblivious of the way the rug pooled at her feet. And her head came up, her eyes sparking emerald defiance, clashing with his icily narrowed, probing gaze.
'Don't tar me with the same brush that blackened you!' Throughout their married life he had secretly yearned for the woman he really loved, had at some stage met up with her, arranged for her, Beth, to be tossed aside like an old rag. Must have done. Zanna had already known that his marriage was over. He had to have told her. Had he pleaded with Zanna to return to him, promised to get rid of his unwanted wife?
'Talk about double standards!' she spluttered on, furious now, forgetting her vow to remain calm, in control, act as if she no longer cared, had stopped caring a long time ago. 'But no, I had never met William before I went to work for him. And no again, I didn't "make" him fall in love with me.'
She was in a prime position to know how cold-bloodedly he'd married her, making no secret about his desire for a family, young children to fill the empty rooms at South Park, to inherit his considerable wealth. He had never even pretended to love her. Simply decided, after that six months' probationary period, that she would make an acceptable mother of his children, a good hostess, a biddable wife. So, knowing all that, she couldn't help tacking on, her short upper lip curling scornfully, 'Do you really see me as the sort of woman who could go around seducing every man she meets into falling in love?'
The very idea was risible, insane, and Charles was at last showing himself in his true colours, revealing the tortuous reasoning behind his strange behaviour.
He hadn't followed her to France to discuss their divorce, dragged her here because he had some complicated settlement to talk out. The cunning devil was trying to turn the tables, to make her seem the guilty party. How he must have rubbed his hands when he'd walked in and witnessed William's proposal of marriage!
He was sneaky and devious and—
And he was looking at her, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, his eyes caressing her heaving breasts, sliding over her narrow waist, the gentle curve of her belly, down her long, slender legs, then slowly up again. And the smile became very slightly cruel as he told her, 'Very capable indeed. Capable of seducing any man who's once looked on that delectable body and is fool enough to think he can hold on to you.'
And only then, at last penetrating her fury, came the knowledge that she was stark naked!
She swooped, almost toppling over in her panic, her fingers scrabbling for the protective covering she hadn't, in her blind anger, realised she'd lost, dragging it up in front of her, colour scalding her face.
And when her stormy eyes at last locked with his she was sure she could detect the cruel light of amusement in the stony depths, and he said, slowly and very deliberately, 'That's one thing straight. Something we can begin to work on tomorrow.' Then turned on his heels. And although she couldn't make sense of what he had said she could swear she could hear his silent, derisive laughter ringing inside her head as he went swiftly down the stairs.
As soon as he'd gone she made a determined effort to pull herself together and began to hurry. She wouldn't put it past him to come back up, and having him walk in on her while she was in the shower was something she could do without.
Thankfully, he'd left the lamp he'd carried upstairs and as she put it down carefully on a marble-topped washstand in the tiny bathroom she reflected that he might also decide to share her bed. The thought made her go cold.
They hadn't shared a bed since her miscarriage and if he decided he wouldn't be able to sleep on the small, hard-looking sofa downstairs and took it into his head to join her she didn't know what she would do.
Throw him out? Physically, she was no match for him and if he'd made up his mind there would be nothing she could do or say to make him change it. And if she tried to leave him to it, sleep on the uncomfortable sofa herself, he would be angry and she knew what could happen then.
It was anger, nothing less, that had
sparked off his arrogant male desire that afternoon in the forest… And her control was still too fragile to be relied on…
He hadn't been near her. Which shouldn't have surprised her, given his track record during the latter part of their marriage. But it did, she thought, struggling into a sitting position, her knees up to her chin, the duvet huddled around her.
Or was it disappointment? asked a snide little voice from deep inside her. But she pushed the notion away, quickly. No, of course not. If he'd joined her in bed she'd been planning on feigning sleep but knew that if he so much as touched her—even accidentally—she would have jumped like a scalded cat or melted straight into his arms. Either way, the ending would have been the same.
And although having him make love to her would be nothing short of ecstasy it would also be a massive stumbling-block where her resolve to get on with her life without him, never looking back, was concerned.
Besides, on his part, it would only be animal lust. He didn't love her, never had. He'd never stopped loving Zanna. So, it would be lust, allied to his desire to stamp her in his own mind as a tramp, always willing, whatever the occasion, whoever the man!
She was quite sure now that he was intent on making her out to be the guilty party, finding all the evidence he could to point to that—hence the lovemaking on the first occasion he'd tracked her down. She could be turned on by anyone—the first man she'd come into contact with after leaving, the man who happened to be her employer—even the husband she'd asked for a divorce only had to touch her to get her half crazed with desire, begging for more!
Oh, yes, she thought sourly, running her fingers through her rumpled hair, she knew he intended making her out to be a shameless tramp, the guilty party in the break-up of their marriage. And, what was more, she knew why!
The Savage family had been at South Park for generations, owning most of the land, most of the property, for miles around. They were looked up to, almost revered as good landlords, local squires noted for their compassion and concern, interested in the lives and problems of the village and surrounding scattered farm population.
Savage Obsession Page 8
