A hand beneath her elbow, he urged her to her feet. She glanced around, as though to seek help. But there was no help, and she knew it.
She could cause a scene, refuse to go with him. But then what? She was indisputably his wife, and no one would want to get mixed up in something they’d undoubtedly regard as merely a domestic squabble.
With hopelessness came a kind of dull acceptance, and she allowed herself to be hurried through the wind and rain to the Cherokee, which was hidden between a battered pick-up truck and a silver bullet-shaped sports car.
Perhaps due to the appalling conditions, there were remarkably few vehicles on the road as they regained the interstate and headed north.
It was quite dark now, and as soon as they’d left the lights of the mall behind them the car took on all the aspects of a moving prison.
In the glow from the dashboard Nick’s profile looked as hard and unyielding as any gaoler’s, and once again Raine was filled with dread. If only she hadn’t agreed to Nick’s abominable bargain...
Even if it had meant leaving the home he loved, her father, had he known the true situation, would never have allowed her to go through with it... But the marriage still hadn’t been consummated, so it wasn’t too late to call the whole thing off and have it annulled...
Taking a deep breath, she began, ‘I know we made a bargain, but—’
‘But you’ve been trying to wriggle out of your side since the moment I put the ring on your finger...’
Unable to deny the charge, she sat silent, feeling the telltale warmth creeping into her face.
‘Haven’t you, my darling wife?’ His contempt unmistakable, he didn’t even glance at her.
‘It was a terrible mistake,’ she faltered. ’I should never have agreed.’
‘Well, you did, and now you’re stuck with it,’ he informed her coldly.
Made reckless by the knowledge that she’d blown her last chance, she struck savagely at his ego. ‘So even though the very thought of having you paw me makes me feel sick, you’re going to force me to go through with it?’
He appeared unmoved. ‘At this stage in the game I have no intention of allowing you to renege.’ Softly, menacingly, he added, ‘And I intend to do rather more than just “paw” you. Apart from anything else, we’ve some scores to settle.’
Shuddering inwardly, she relapsed into silence.
The shush of tyres on wet tarmac and the metronome click of the wiper-blades kept her uneasy thoughts company while the road unwound before them like an endless roll of shiny black plastic.
Her heart felt like lead as through the pouring rain their headlights picked up the signs for Bangor, only to swish past, leaving them in their wake.
On the 195 there had been comparatively little traffic. Now, as they left the interstate and headed north-east towards the Canadian border, there was virtually none.
Any faint hope that he might relent gone, Raine faced the fact that before long they would be at Owl Creek. Then, a virtual prisoner, she would have only two options. She could give in without a struggle, or fight him. But either way the end result would be the same. She would be shamed and humiliated...
Uneasy thoughts fretted her until, lulled by the combination of movement, semi-darkness and comforting warmth, her brain grew muzzy and her eyelids drooped.
Shaken into wakefulness, she opened her eyes to find they were bumping along an ungraded road, little more than a track through the forest. Their lights showed that the rutted surface was a sea of wet mud, and on either side dark dripping pine trees pressed close.
Jolting and slithering, they continued down it for what seemed miles, until the trees opened up and through the rain the Cherokee’s headlights picked out the plank bridge that crossed Owl Creek.
The slippery span, just wide enough to accommodate a car, had no guard-rails, and, catching a glimpse of the swollen water swirling and eddying past huge boulders, Raine held her breath. But Nick took them across without hesitation, showing no more concern than if he were driving over Lopsley’s Sley Bridge.
He stopped the dirt-spattered four-wheel-drive a short distance from the cabin, and, jumping down, bare-headed in the pouring rain, came round to help her out.
Glancing from the quagmire underfoot to her court shoes, he remarked, ‘You’ll never make it in those. I’d better carry you.’
Stiffening, she objected sharply, ‘I don’t want you to carry me. I can manage perfectly well.’
In the light from the dashboard she saw him raise satirical brows, but all he said was, ‘As you like.’ Holding the door open, he stood back.
Though Raine descended carefully, as soon as she touched the ground her high heels sank deep into the mud. Gritting her teeth, she managed two or three squelching steps before losing first one shoe then the other.
Her stockinged feet failing to get a grip on the surface as slippery as it was uneven, she floundered helplessly and, unable to keep her balance, went sprawling full-length.
Through the noise of the rain she heard Nick’s laugh, then he was bending over her, asking with mock solicitude, ‘Sure you don’t need any help?’
‘Quite sure!’ she spat at him, struggling to her knees. ‘I’ll manage if I have to crawl there.’
‘Then I’ll leave you to it.’
She had barely regained her feet when she measured her length again in the soft mud. Soft mud be blowed! This time there were rocks and roots embedded in it, and she lay for a moment or two partially winded, a pain in her ribs and her right cheek stinging.
As good as his word, however, Nick ignored her while he took her case and his grip from the boot and opened the cabin door.
Furiously, and perhaps unfairly, she mentally consigned him to hell while she collected both herself and her shoulder-bag and made another attempt to rise.
A few seconds later yellow light was shining from the windows, and he returned to douse the headlights and close the car.
By the time Raine had battled her way to the veranda steps, she was covered with mud and soaked through to the skin.
Inside the shelter of the porch the cabin door had been left open for her, and the place looked just as she remembered.
Recalling the pure joy and bliss she’d found there last time, she had to bite her lip against the pain and remind herself sharply that her happiness had been based on lies and deception. All the time he’d been making love to her, he’d been planning to marry another woman.
Forcing her reluctant legs to carry her across the threshold, she closed the heavy door behind her and hung the strap of her handbag over one of the coat-hooks.
Nick, a matchbox in his hand, was crouching in front of the hearth. As she stood by the door shivering he glanced up.
She was filthy and dishevelled. One cheek was grazed and bleeding, her hair had come loose and was hanging in black rats’ tails around her shoulders, her feet and ankles were thickly caked in mud and her right knee was cut where she’d caught the edge of an old tree stump.
Nick’s searching gaze travelled slowly over her, before returning to her bloody, mud-streaked face. It was difficult to read his expression.
Waiting for him to gloat, she lifted her chin and braced herself. But, rising to his feet, his voice cool and impersonal, he merely observed, ‘It’s a pity foolish pride forced you to make such a mess of yourself.’
Trying to ignore the shivers running through her, she shrugged. ‘I’ve always understood that mud’s good for the complexion.’
With a gleam of something that could have been reluctant admiration in his eyes, he advised evenly, ‘You’d better get out of those wet things.’ And added, ‘I’ve lit the heater so there’ll be hot water.’
Thick curtains had been drawn across the window, and as well as the water-heater, Nick had lit a radiant heater which was already taking the worst of the chill from the air.
Having stripped off her saturated clothing and bundled it into a dirty-linen basket, Raine hurriedly removed the last few pins from her ha
ir and stepped under the shower. Though it stung her cheek and knee, the flow of hot water was like a benediction.
A shelf held a wide selection of toilet requisites, including toothpaste, a plastic-wrapped toothbrush and a couple of spare combs.
Needing to wash her hair, she reached for the shampoo. It had a clean, tangy scent, the subtle fragrance of spruce that always hung around Nick.
Things were bad enough without her having to smell like him, she thought vexedly. But, even if she’d been in a state to search through her case, her own toilet bag was almost certainly still in the bathroom at Mecklenburg Place.
In a cupboard above the heater were facecloths, piles of towels and a couple of white bathrobes. Clean once more, her hair rubbed almost dry and a comb pulled through it, she donned one of the towelling robes and, having belted it tightly and turned the sleeves up several times, ventured forth.
The stove was blazing merrily now, and the air felt appreciably warmer. The closed curtains shut out the inclement night and helped to make the place cosy.
Nick was just coming in with an armful of wood from the covered store on the veranda. Judging by how wet his hair was, and the pile of logs stacked alongside the stove, he’d made the same journey several times before. He’d also rescued her abandoned shoes. They stood in the hearth, mud-covered and forlorn.
Shrugging out of his leather jacket, he hung it next to her handbag and queried, ‘Feeling OK now?’
She nodded.
Suddenly he was much too close, only inches away, looking down into her beautiful face. Brushing aside a strand of black silky hair, he clicked his tongue over the graze on her cheek. Then tenderly, as though she were a child, he bent to kiss it better.
When she flinched away from him, his mouth tightened ominously, but all he said was, ‘I take it you’ve finished in the bathroom?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’m going to have a shower. You can begin your wifely duties by getting a meal ready.’
Infuriated by his mocking command, she stared at him in sullen silence.
He sighed. ‘Surely you can open a can?’
‘Quite certain you don’t want me to go out and shoot something fresh?’
He laughed as if genuinely amused, his face devilishly attractive above the black polo-necked sweater, and, looking from the spotless robe to her bare feet, he shook his head. ‘Not dressed like that. As you may have noticed, it’s a little muddy.’
When she bit her lip, he gave her a taunting smile, and turning towards the bathroom said derisively, ‘If you can’t manage anything better, I’ll settle for baked beans.’
If she couldn’t manage anything better than baked beans, indeed! Fuming, she opened her case and put on fresh undies, a pair of trousers, an aubergine-coloured boat-necked jumper that fastened down the front with small pearl studs and, blessing Martha’s foresight, a pair of furry slippers.
The larder was as well stocked as it had been on her previous visit and, still muttering imprecations, she began to collect together the ingredients for a slap-up meal. She’d show the clever devil just what she could manage.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN, some ten minutes later, Nick emerged from the bathroom fully dressed but still towelling his thick wheat-coloured hair, she was so engrossed in her task that she barely glanced in his direction.
As soon as the main course was ready, and the apple pie’s pastry turning crisp and golden, she set the table and dished up while Nick opened a bottle of Californian Chenin Blanc and filled two glasses.
The outer ring of rice was light and fluffy, cooked to perfection, the tinned chicken and vegetables with little curls of smoked ham and artichoke hearts fresh-looking and colourful, the herbs and spices mouth-wateringly aromatic.
As he regarded the offering appreciatively she reached for a jug keeping warm on the stove and told him, ‘All it needs now is the finishing touch.’
‘It looks and smells delicious,’ he commented.
‘I’m so glad you approve.’
Alerted by the dulcet tones, he shot her a wary glance.
In return she gave him an innocent smile and, tilting the jug, covered rice and chicken alike with a rich, creamy sauce, saying, ‘You’ll find this is special.’
The cheese sauce was a fairly ordinary one out of a jar. What made it special was the liberal amount of strong yellow washing-up liquid she’d added.
Her face guileless, Raine picked up a serving spoon and helped Nick, then herself. She was sipping her wine when he took his first mouthful.
The fork clattered onto the plate and, lips clamped together, he headed for the bathroom while she continued to sit and sip from her glass.
It was several minutes later before he emerged looking dangerously calm. Coming to stand over her, he said softly, almost admiringly, ‘You little cat.’
As though they were carrying on a quite normal conversation, she said, ‘There’s a pie in the oven.’
‘What’s that got in it?’ he enquired interestedly.
‘Nothing. It’s a perfectly good apple pie.’
‘Well, strange as it may appear, I don’t seem to fancy food any longer. In fact—’ his voice became a purr ‘—I think I’ll indulge a different kind of appetite.’
‘No!’ she exclaimed sharply. ‘I won’t let you just use me.’
‘How do you plan to stop me?’
Biting her lip, she remained silent while thoughts ricocheted in her mind. She couldn’t stop him... He was so much stronger than she was... But he wasn’t the kind of man who would enjoy making love to a reluctant woman, so her one hope might be to freeze him off...
As though she’d spoken her thoughts aloud, he said evenly, ‘If you were intending to try giving me a cool reception, I’m warning you it won’t work.’
‘Then I’ll struggle!’
He laughed, his white teeth gleaming. ‘How melodramatic.’
‘I mean it. You’ll have to use force.’
‘We’ll see, shall we?’
His hand beneath her elbow, he urged her to her feet and away from the kitchen. Hanging back, wishing, now it was too late, that she hadn’t precipitated matters, she stammered, ‘I—I was going to make a pot of coffee.’
‘Stalling?’
‘No,’ she lied hastily, ‘I’d really like some.’
He looked impatient. About to refuse.
‘Surely you could do with a cup? And I’m thirsty... Please...’ Hating herself for begging, and him for making her, still she sought to put off the evil moment.
‘Very well,’ he said evenly. ‘But this is the last delaying tactic I shall tolerate.’ Steering her towards the comfortable circle of glowing warmth cast by the stove, he pushed her into one of the low armchairs. ‘And as for the coffee, I’ll make it.’ His smile lopsided, he added, ‘You might know where the rat poison’s kept.’
‘If I did I’d have used it earlier,’ she retorted.
While he boiled the water and filled the cafetière Raine stared into the leaping flames and faced the fact that all she’d succeeded in buying was a little time, not a reprieve.
He fully intended to make love to her, and while her body would delight in it, her heated flesh come alive at his touch, because he felt nothing for her but desire, her heart would grow cold and die.
With a kind of numb detachment she watched the wood in the stove settle and send up a shower of bright crackling sparks. The scent of burning fir logs was sharp and resinous, mingling with the fragrant smell of coffee. Rain beat against the windows and gusts of wind buffeted the cabin and soughed through the pines while, chills running through her, all thought suspended now, she waited like a victim on the steps of the guillotine.
The coffee, when it came, was accompanied by a bottle of cognac and two glasses. Putting the tray on a small table, Nick pressed the cafetière plunger and poured the steaming brew before dropping into the chair opposite.
Firelight gleamed in his dark eyes and shone on his face, pic
king out the strong planes and angles and making his bronze skin look ruddy. ‘Brandy?’ he queried.
Sipping her coffee, she hesitated.
‘A little might help to relax you,’ he suggested blandly.
About to refuse, she changed her mind and nodded. If she drank enough it might provide some Dutch courage... Or serve as a kind of anaesthetic for what was to come...
This time there was no possibility of escape, and she knew it.
She recalled her own defiant, You’ll have to use force, and his dry, ‘We’ll see, shall we?’ He hadn’t said he wasn’t prepared to, and her earlier conviction that he wouldn’t want to make love to a reluctant woman had evaporated.
He poured a minimal amount of cognac, rather than the generous measure she’d been expecting, and passed it to her.
When she lifted the glass to her lips her hand was shaking so much that it chinked against her teeth. She swallowed the amber liquid down as though it were medicine, and held out the glass for more.
He refused to give her any more. ‘I think not. Since breakfast you’ve had scarcely anything to eat, so it will go straight to your head.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Well, I do,’ he said evenly, taking the glass from her hand. ‘I don’t intend to have you flaking out on me. We’ve all the night before us—’ his smile was full of meaning, filled with lazy anticipation ‘—and I promised you a long, slow seduction.’
Panic brought her to her feet.
Before she could make any move to escape, he was looming over her. Running his fingers into her silky black hair, he held her face between his palms, his thumbs stroking erotically over her high cheekbones.
When she stood quite still, gazing up at him with wide green eyes, he bent his head and began to cover her face with thistledown kisses. Kisses sweeter than wine.
His lips, teasing and tantalising, closed her eyelids, brushed her brows, touched the tip of her nose and then lingered briefly at the corner of her mouth before moving away to follow the clean line of chin and jaw.
‘I’ve waited a long time for this,’ he whispered huskily, ‘and I want you to be aware and responsive while I’m making love to you.’
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