Wedding Fever

by Lee Wilkinson

  Business completed, he returned to say casually, ‘We have a log cabin over at Owl Creek. Would you like to stay there for a few days and see something of the backwoods? Or would you prefer to go somewhere more civilised? ’

  Without hesitation, she burnt her bridges. ‘Oh, stay at Owl Creek.’

  They flew over forests of spruce, fir, pine and birch, interlaced with gleaming waterways, and landed on the mirror-like surface of Owl Lake, disturbing its evening cloud reflections.

  Ringed by hills clothed in the scarlet and gold, green and bronze of ash and maple, tamarack and cedar, it was the most beautiful place Raine had ever seen.

  The substantially built, single-storey log cabin was on the lakeshore about half a mile from Owl Creek. Set well back from the water, it was in the centre of a wide clearing and raised on piles, with an open veranda running along three sides and a screened porch.

  Nick opened the heavy door, and, having stooped to put a match to the stove, left her to look around while he brought their luggage from the plane.

  The kitchenette was fairly basic. Apart from a sink and an old-fashioned hand-operated washing machine, it had a gas cooker, which was connected, and a gas fridge, which wasn’t. But the larder was stocked with all manner of dried and tinned goods, including tins of butter and malted brown bread.

  Beyond the kitchenette was a small, separate bedroom and next to that a bathroom—luxurious, Raine guessed, by backwoods standards—with a porcelain sink and bath, a shower cabinet and a flush toilet.

  But most of the space was taken up by a large, attractive, open-plan room on split levels.

  The living area was simply furnished with two long bookcases, a coffee-table and a comfortable black leather suite. There were boldly patterned cushions and curtains, and matching Aztec-type mats were scattered on the polished wooden floor. The huge wood-burning stove stood in a stone fireplace, and in front of it lay a shaggy bearskin rug.

  To one side, on a curved, slightly raised dais, were a stripped pine wardrobe, a dressing-table, a blanket chest and a large divan.

  The air was cold and held the faint mustiness of a place that had been shut up for some time, but already crackling flames were devouring the kindling and licking around the pile of split logs in the stove.

  ‘Like it?’ Nick asked as he carried in their cases.

  ‘Love it,’ she answered lightly, trying to ignore the tension between them—a sexual tension which had been growing ever since she’d agreed to come here. ‘Incidentally, the bathroom surprised me.’

  He grinned briefly. ‘I’m old enough to prefer a certain standard of comfort.’

  ‘But how do you manage it?’

  ‘The water’s pumped from a well, and bottled gas provides heating and lighting. Speaking of which...’

  Dusk was falling rapidly, and, after bending to light a taper, Nick touched it to the gas mantles, which lit with little plops and blossomed into yellow flowers. That done, he drew the heavy curtains over the windows, making the place cosy and intimate.

  ‘I’ll cook tonight,’ he said. ‘Your turn tomorrow. But first we’ll have a drink.’

  While she stood by the stove, enjoying the blaze, he brought a bottle of Chablis from the larder, and, having opened it, poured two glasses and handed one to her.

  As she accepted it his fingers brushed hers, and she caught her breath audibly.

  Their eyes met and held. Something deep and primitive flared in his—a look that was at once a challenge and a statement of intent.

  She knew without a shadow of doubt that if she didn’t want him, now was the time to make that plain. All she had to do was break eye contact and step back.

  But she did want him—with a passion that made her blood run through her veins as hot and impatient as molten lava. Green eyes drowned in blue, she took a step forward.

  Removing the glass from her nerveless fingers, he set it carefully on the table.

  But, instead of leading her to the bed, he laid her down in front of the stove with a cushion beneath her dark head, and, stretching out beside her, kissed her eyes and her throat and her mouth with a passionate hunger that turned her very bones to water.

  She was his to take then, and he must have known that, but, keeping his own desire leashed, slowly, unhurriedly, with enjoyment and finesse, he set out to rouse hers to fever-pitch.

  The fire-glow gilded her creamy skin as he slowly undressed her, savouring each new discovery, erotically exploring her exquisite, sensuous body with eyes and hands and mouth.

  High, perfectly shaped breasts with dusky nipples firmed enticingly to his touch, offering themselves as tempting morsels for a hungry mouth. A slender waist asked to be stroked and spanned by two strong hands. Curving hips invited leaner hips to fit into their seductive cradle.

  ‘You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,’ he told her huskily as he stripped off his own clothes. ‘You enchant me.’

  Her body responded to his without shame, arching to his touch, welcoming him, holding nothing back.

  He was a skilful, considerate lover, and, though she was a virgin, there was no pain, only a joyous acceptance and a growing, spiralling delight that finally ended in a climax so intense that she felt as if her body had imploded into a white-hot core of pure sensation.

  She was lying in his arms, her head on his shoulder, her heartbeat and breathing slowly returning to normal, when he queried softly, ‘First time, Raine?’

  Wondering if he preferred experienced women, she asked, a shade hesitantly, ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Mind? I feel like a king!’

  After that first rapturous coming together they made love morning, noon and night, as though they were on their honeymoon, leaving the bed they shared only to shower or to eat, to take an occasional walk or a canoe trip on the lake.

  Nick called her, ‘My green-eyed witch,’ and told her how lovely she was and how much he wanted her.

  He never said the three words Raine was longing to hear, but it was only a matter of time, she felt sure—just an initial reluctance to admit to the deepest and most binding human emotion of all.

  Neither wanted that idyllic week to end, but when, all too soon, the weekend came, he sighed and said they had to return.

  They got an early start. During the journey home Nick seemed silent and abstracted, but, transported by love, Raine travelled back to Boston on cloud nine, deliriously happy with the present, glowingly confident about the future.

  On reaching Mecklenburg Place, they found that Harry and Ralph had gone to a ball game and that an urgent message from Nick’s secretary was waiting.

  ‘Damn!’ he muttered, frowning. ‘I need to talk to you—to tell you something—but I’d better go into the office first. There are some important papers I have to look through and sign.’

  Taking both her hands in his, he gave them a squeeze. ‘I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours at the most. Will you be all right on your own?’

  ‘Of course.’ She smiled at his concern.

  He claimed her mouth in a hard, almost savage kiss, and, before she could even kiss him back, he was gone.

  Wondering what he wanted to tell her, hoping she knew, she went up to her room and unpacked the small case she’d taken to Maine, blushing a little to think how few clothes she’d worn for most of the time—how few either of them had worn.

  She was on her way back to the big, sunny living room when Mrs Espling appeared in the hall and asked pleasantly, ‘Can I get you anything, Miss Marlowe? A tray of tea, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh, thank you. That would be lovely.’

  Raine was just pouring a second cup and finishing one of the housekeeper’s delicious blueberry muffins when, without warning, the door burst open.

  Looking up, a glad smile on her lips, she was surprised to see a slender, dark-haired woman, perhaps a year or two older than herself.

  ‘Hi!’ the newcomer said cheerfully. ‘I’m Tina. You must be Nick’s cousin. When he spoke to me on
the phone he told me you and your father were coming over... Is he home?’

  ‘No, he’s gone into the office.’

  ‘On a Saturday!’ The bright brown eyes clouded with disappointment. ‘Any idea how long he’ll be?’

  ‘He said possibly a couple of hours.’

  ‘Then I’ll have plenty of time to go home and unpack.’

  ‘Do you live far away?’ Raine asked politely.

  ‘Just next door—’ Tina dropped into the nearest chair, obviously quite at home ‘—so I’m used to seeing Nick most days. Now it seems ages since I saw him—and gosh have I missed him!’

  Then, by way of explanation, she went on, ‘For the last three weeks I’ve been staying in New York with an old schoolfriend. I’ve only just this minute got back. Nick was coming to the airport to meet me, only the—’ She broke off abruptly, then went on, ‘Only I found I could get home a day earlier than I’d expected, so I decided to surprise him.’

  She was pushing back a stray dark curl when Raine noticed the sparkling sapphire on her left hand, and, with a sudden premonition, she remarked through stiff lips, ‘What a beautiful ring.’

  Tina’s pretty pale face lit up. ‘Yes, isn’t it? I wanted a diamond solitaire, but Nick said it wasn’t my style and he chose this one.’

  Feeling as though she was being shut in an iron maiden, Raine asked, ‘How long have you been engaged?’

  ‘Nick proposed to me and we went to buy the ring the day before I left for New York.’

  Getting to her feet, Tina headed for the door. ‘I’ll go and unpack his present. I bought him a watch from Tiffany’s. I want it to be a surprise, so if he gets back before I do, don’t tell him.’

  ‘I won’t be seeing him,’ Raine said, and it was a prayer. Her voice controlled, even, she added, ‘Something’s cropped up and I need to go home, so I’ll be off to the airport myself in a minute or two.’

  ‘Well, so long, then.’ Tina gave her a wide, friendly smile. ‘I hope you’ve enjoyed your visit. Have a good journey home.’

  As soon as the door had closed behind the slim figure Raine phoned for a taxi. Then, hurrying upstairs, she threw her belongings into her suitcase with desperate haste, scrawled a note for her father, telling him that she was needed at home because Martha was poorly, and one for her uncle, thanking him for all his kindness, and was outside waiting as the cab drew up.

  Luck was with her and she managed to get a seat on a plane that was leaving for London within the hour. Throughout the flight she sat pale and tense, dry-eyed, though her heart wept tears of blood.

  Once a concerned stewardess touched her shoulder and asked, ‘Are you feeling ill? Can I get you anything?’

  Grateful for the kindness, Raine shook her head and said, ‘No, I’m fine, thank you. Just tired.’

  Tired and bitter and disillusioned, and swamped by such pain that, unable to bear it, she struggled to whip up anger to take its place.

  What a fool she’d been. What a blind, stupid fool! All he’d wanted was a little light dalliance, some casual sex while his fiancée was away, but she’d given him everything she had to give—her heart as well as her body.

  And how eagerly she’d offered that. Responding with a passionate sensuality she hadn’t realised she was capable of. She’d acted like a wanton.

  And what if she was pregnant? Pregnant by a man who had only wanted an easy exchange of pleasure with no commitments. A sophisticated man who had no doubt presumed that she had taken precautions.

  Horror filled her, causing her entire body to flush with heat. She felt her face and throat burn and a trickle of perspiration run down between her breasts.

  A feverish calculation reassured her that her stupidity was unlikely to have dire results.

  Aware of just how much the knowledge of her behaviour would upset her father, she felt sick with relief. Now he would never need to know.

  Though that was pure luck. She flayed herself with the thought. Nothing could alter the fact that she had behaved like the worst kind of fool. A fool who had given in to passion, presuming that because she loved Nick he must love her, and that marriage and a home and family would automatically follow.

  But she’d learnt a painful, mortifying lesson and learnt it well. Never, never again would she allow passion to rule her.

  She had scarcely arrived home when a phone call from her father, enquiring how Martha was, threw her into a panic. Unused to lying, she found herself stammering, ‘Sh-she doesn’t seem too bad...’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m not sure... Some kind of flu...’

  ‘Then you can cope? You don’t need me back?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘How did you manage at such short notice?’

  Doing her best to sound her normal self, Raine endeavoured to answer her father’s questions and allay his. concern.

  ‘Well, don’t try to go into work as well as taking care of Martha,’ he said eventually.

  ‘I’ll see how things are,’ she hedged.

  ‘And let me know if you need me.’

  ‘I’m sure I won’t. I’d much rather you stayed with Uncle Harry... Give him my love.’

  ‘Don’t go,’ Ralph said. ‘Nick’s waiting to speak to you...’

  ‘Raine...’

  She heard the urgency in the deep voice as, trembling in every limb, she put the phone down.

  Common sense told her it would have been better to speak to him, to pretend, for her pride’s sake, that the little incident had meant nothing to her. But she knew only too well that she would have been unable to hide her pain and misery, her humiliation and shame.

  The next weeks were the worst of her life. Feeling as though she was slowly bleeding to death, Raine somehow struggled through the long days and even longer nights.

  Martha, having been told only that Raine had needed an excuse to come home, looked at her with anxious eyes, but, never one to pry, said nothing.

  Nick tried several times to ring her, but Raine refused to speak to him, and, recognising his bold scrawl, destroyed the letters he sent unopened.

  She went back to the office and tried to lose herself in her work, but the thought of Nick was always at the back of her mind, and a black weight of emptiness lay on her spirit.

  She missed him and longed for him constantly, even while she reminded herself that he was hard and callous and uncaring—that he’d not only used her but betrayed his fiancée.

  Ralph was reluctant to leave his brother, and it was a month before he came home. Though Raine was still fighting a desolation of spirit so intense that she felt she would never recover, she was able to hide it better by then, and met her father’s shrewd eyes with relative composure.

  When, apart from asking how Harry was, she avoided mentioning Boston, Ralph took the bull by the horns. ‘What did you and Nick quarrel about?’

  ‘What makes you think we quarrelled?’

  ‘Don’t take me for a fool, girl. I know you’ve been refusing to speak to him, and, though Martha did her best, she’s no better at lying than you are.’

  When Raine said nothing, her father went on, ‘It must have been something pretty serious to send you running home like a scalded cat, but I’m sure—’

  ‘Please, Dad,’ she broke in desperately. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  Seeing her set face, the stubborn line of her mouth, he sighed. ‘Perhaps you’ll change your mind when Nick comes over.’

  Feeling as though she’d been punched in the solar plexus, she croaked, ‘Over here? When is he coming?’

  ‘He said as soon as he can get away. Probably this weekend.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  AFTER a night spent tossing and turning, and with her mind finally made up, Raine rose early and pushed a few necessities into a case. That done, she wrote a note to her father saying that she was going up to London for a few days, then, while the household still slept, she quietly let herself out.

  No doubt it was cowar
dly, but she couldn’t bear to stay and face Nick. Whatever it was that was bringing him here—a pricking conscience? Belated guilt at not having told her he had a fiancée?—she didn’t want to know.

  Nothing he could say or do would wipe out the past or mitigate her shame. Seeing him again, hearing him apologise, would only add unbearably to her humiliation, strip away any remaining shreds of self-respect.

  It was a dark, chilly November morning, with mist lying over the herbaceous borders and shrouding the trees, and, feeling like a fugitive, she hurried down to the old stable block that many years previously had been converted into garages.

  The engine of her small car sprang into life immediately, and, its lights feeling the mist like the antennae of some insect, she drove down the drive and turned left towards the station.

  Leaving the car in the station car park, she caught the early train into town. By breakfast-time she was booked into a quiet hotel near Green Park, confident that she could safely lose herself in London until Nick had given up and gone back to the States.

  Over the next few days she did her level best not to think about him, but the memories refused to be banished completely.

  Whenever she relaxed her guard she recalled the smile in his voice when he spoke to her, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at her, the swift mental affinity which had made them enjoy each other’s company so much... And a great deal more she would rather have forgotten.

  And would forget, she vowed. She wouldn’t let herself keep on recalling the past, thinking of a man who belonged to another woman. A man who had only wanted to use her.

  Knowing it would drive her mad to sit in her room, she forced herself to go out each day—walking, window-shopping, visiting museums and art galleries, passing the time somehow, anyhow, until she could go home.

  On the fifth day of her self-imposed exile her phone call to White Ladies shook her, making her drop the receiver as though it were red-hot when Nick’s deep voice answered.

  Though she had no appetite, she made herself eat, and at night, refusing to let herself brood, she went to concerts, to the opera and to a couple of the long-running shows.