by Mary Lyons
'That's just too bad!' she snapped.
Luke leaned against the desk, a cold smile touching his mouth as he surveyed her defiant expression. 'I wonder—does your Romeo know that you're still married to me?'
She flushed. 'Our so-called marriage is a mere technicality,' she said quickly. 'And before you start threatening me, or trying to interfere in my life, I suggest that you'd better concentrate on cleaning up your own act!' she added waspishly as she spun on her heel, and stalked past him towards the front door of the hotel.
It was a hot, sticky night, and for Samantha, tossing and turning as she stared wide-eyed up at the ceiling and desperately trying to seek oblivion in sleep, it appeared to be endless. The shrill, screeching sounds of the cicadas and the little tree frogs in the long grass outside the sugar mill, so much a normal part of the background noise of a Caribbean night, now seemed to be hammering through her skull like the high-pitched whine of a dentist's drill.
Eventually giving up the unequal fight, she threw back the thin sheet which was her only covering, and, slipping on a light cotton robe, she made her way down the staircase to the small kitchen off the main room to make herself a cup of tea.
A cup of tea: the automatic response of the English when faced with moments of stress and strain—that nation's panacea for all ills! Samantha smiled wryly to herself as she spooned the tea-leaves into the pot. She was only half-English, but maybe it was at times such as the last twenty-four hours that those particular genes came to the fore. Genes and possibly environment too, of course, although there had been nothing remotely American—or English for that matter—about the freezing cold, grim castle of Kildonan in the far north of Scotland.
She had been only five years old when her parents had divorced, and her beautiful English mother, Nina Ward, had left both her husband Maurice and the United States of America to marry Sir Ian Alexander, taking her small daughter with her. Goodness knew why her mother, a frivolous and empty-headed woman who required constant stimulation and amusement, should have married a man with such a dour, morose and sullen character. Maybe, being British herself, she had been attracted by the snobbery value of her new husband's ancient baronetcy? If so, the novelty of being able to call herself Lady Alexander had very quickly worn off. Even as a very young child, Samantha had known that her mother and stepfather were completely unsuited to each other, Nina quickly becoming bored, and then progressively sour and bitter at being trapped in the grey-stoned, gloomy castle miles from what she regarded as civilisation.
Samantha, too, was not happy. Looked after by a succession of nannies—the rapid turnover being due to the remote situation of the castle, and the increasing unpredictability of her mother who had discovered the anaestnetising effect of Scotch whisky—Samantha had hated the small local village school. Teased by the other children because of her American accent, and ostracised outside school hours because of the social gulf between the inhabitants of the castle and the village, she had lived for the summer holidays, when she was allowed to join her father at the large family house in Newport, Rhode Island.
Now, of course, she could see that Maurice Ward, though a charming, well-read and erudite man, had also been weak and idle. Happy to live off the wealth he had inherited from his parents—mainly investments in oil and heavy industry—Maurice had swanned carelessly through life in the company of his equally rich and idle friends. But for Samantha, those long, hot summers had seemed bathed in a rosy glow of perfection, sharply at variance with her lonely, unhappy life in the Highlands of Scotland, and the ever-increasingly bleak antipathy which had existed between herself and her stepfather.
The unhappy state of affairs at Kildonan Castle had come to an abrupt end when she was thirteen—just as abruptly as the car crash in which Nina had killed herself. The true facts had been played down at the inquest, but Samantha had quickly become aware, from the servants' hints and gossip in the village, that her mother had been drinking heavily before the accident, being almost paralytically drunk when she had driven her vehicle into the side of a mountain.
Nina's death had heralded the arrival into Samantha's life of her hitherto unknown great-aunt, Emily, who had swept like a whirlwind through Kildonan Castle, imperiously brushing aside the tentative arrangements being discussed between Maurice Ward and Sir Ian Alexander. To the dour Scotsman's undisguised relief, she had informed both him and her nephew, Maurice, that the young girl needed friends of her own age, and quickly packed Samantha off to an English boarding-school. Emily Ward had also insisted that her great-niece should join her for the Christmas and Easter holidays on the Caribbean island of St Pauls. The long summers, when she stayed with her father at the family estate in Newport, were still very precious to Samantha; but it was her aunt, a larger-than-life, often impatient and sometimes exasperating character, whom she had come to care for so deeply. In providing the first real home life, as well as a warmth and kindness the girl had never known before, Aunt Emily had quickly gained Samantha's undying love and gratitude.
Dear Aunt Em, Samantha thought fondly as she poured herself another cup of tea. The indomitable old woman was undoubtedly disrupting the hospital, and driving her doctors to distraction! How could they know about the other side of her character, the tender care and concern she had shown for a girl so many years younger than herself? Samantha had soon come to realise, for instance, that the gruff harshness her aunt had displayed before putting her on the aeroplane to New York at the beginning of each summer holidays—'Hurry up—I haven't the time to stand here all day, you know'.'—had merely been a front to disguise her feelings at the prospect of not seeing her niece for the next three months.
Unfortunately, there was no way that either of them could possibly have guessed, as they bade each other farewell at Antigua airport, the summer of Samantha's eighteenth birthday, just how long it would be before they saw each other again.
On joining her father at his home on Newport, Rhode Island, she had been shocked and horrified to find Maurice looking so drawn and ill. Resolutely denying that there was anything wrong with his health, he had insisted that now she was grown up, she must participate in all the local social events. And thus it was that Samantha found herself entering a life that was fraught with hitherto unknown difficulties. Late to mature, she was at last emerging from her chrysalis, changing from a gawky teenager to find herself standing on the threshold of full-blown womanhood. But her relatively monastic state at a boarding-school for girls, and her brief holidays on a small Caribbean island with her maiden aunt, hadn't prepared Samantha in any way for the adult society in such a sophisticated resort. Confused and bewildered by the admiration and often unwelcome attentions of strange men—not to mention the boys whom she'd known all her life, and who were now acting towards her in a most peculiar and thoroughly sloppy manner—Samantha was delighted to meet a girl of her own age living next door.
The estate adjoining her father's had recently been bought by a millionaire business tycoon, principally for the use of his widowed mother and much younger sister. It was some time before Samantha had met the owner, but she and Barbara Brandon had quickly become good friends. They would spend hours trying on each other's clothes, experimenting with make-up, and discussing the totally absorbing topic of their future relationships with the male sex. Barbara too, it seemed, had been brought up under strict supervision.
'Luke used to be such fun, but he's a real pain these days,' Barbara had complained about her elder brother. 'I mean, he's so old—at least thirty and really ancient!— and he's obviously forgotten what it's like to be young. Every time he comes down here, he puts me through the third degree,' she added with a scowl. 'He wants to know where I've been and who I've met—it's a real drag!'
'How awful,' Samantha had murmured sympathetically as she tried one of the other girl's new lipsticks.
'Mom says that he acts the heavy brother because, since Dad died, Luke feels he has to keep a fatherly eye on me,' Barbara e
xplained, busily padding out her bra with tissues. 'Still, at least he's agreed to let me go off next week, with my old schoolfriend Jennifer, to stay with her grandparents in London.' She turned around. 'OK. How do I look?'
'Well. . .' Samantha gazed at her friend doubtfully.
'You're right—I never really thought it would work, anyway,' Barbara muttered, gloomily regarding her lack of curves in the mirror..'I'm sick to death of being so flat-chested! You just don't know how lucky you are to have such a tiny waist and large boobs—and you're a lot prettier than some of those New York girls that Luke brings down here. Hey—I've just had a fantastic idea!' she added enthusiastically. 'Luke's coming to stay with mother in a few days' time. Wouldn't it be neat if he decided to take a shine to you?'
'Oh, no, I don't really think. . .' Samantha had blushed, and changed the subject. She hadn't wanted to upset her new friend, but the idea of getting involved with a man who must be at least twelve years older than she was definitely sounded a fate worse than death!
However, fate, in the guise of an over-frisky horse, had intervened only a week later. Lying stunned on the ground as her mount cantered off back home to his stable, she had been rescued by a stranger who had also decided to go riding before breakfast.
With dazed eyes she had blinked up at the tall figure outlined against the hazy mist of the early morning sun, and to her bewildered mind it appeared as though the man astride the huge black stallion was the reincarnation of some romantic, medieval knight. Time seemed to be suspended as they stared silently at one another, the stranger's brilliant blue eyes absorbing the sight of the girl's slim body lying on the grass, her pale face framed by the fiery tresses of her long, curly hair. And then the enchanted spell was broken as his dark horse restlessly pawed the ground. Quickly leaping down from the saddle, he had moved swiftly to where she lay, placing his arms about her as he helped her to sit up. Once he had established the fact that she hadn't broken her leg, as she had at first thought, but had only twisted her ankle, he had asked for her name and address.
'There's really no need for you to bother. . .' she had murmured breathlessly as he swept her up in his strong arms, taking no notice of her mild protest as he lifted her gently on to his horse.
'It's no bother. After all—it isn't every day that I get the opportunity to rescue a fair damsel in distress!' he'd drawled, the amusement in his voice sharply at variance with the hard, determined glint in the eyes regarding her so fixedly.
The sound of his rich, dark voice and the strength of the bare, tanned forearms as he gathered up the reins before swinging himself up on the saddle behind her, had seemed to be having the most peculiar effect on both her breathing and her pulse-rate. Still shocked and disorientated from her fall, she had been unable to completely cast aside her original vision: it's just like. . . like Guinevere being rescued by Lancelot, she had thought, her senses bemused by the warmth of the body pressed so close to her own as they rode slowly and silently back to her home.
'Ah, there you are—I was getting anxious,' her father had exclaimed as they reached Maurice Ward's mansion, and it was only when the tall stranger had lifted her down and then introduced himself that she discovered her rescuer to be none other than Luke Brandon. Astonished and confused, it was some moments before she had managed to fully comprehend that—far from being a wrinkled, ancient geriatric—Barbara's brother was a quite extraordinarily good-looking, and rivetingly attractive man!
Her father had warmly welcomed Luke into the house, and during the weeks that followed the two men had become very friendly, with the younger man coming over to spend long hours with Maurice and his daughter. As for Samantha, she was dazed and fascinated by their handsome neighbour, and as the days passed she had known that she was, for the first time in her life, deeply in love. Other than a brief, mad infatuation for one of the guests at her great-aunt's hotel, she had never been in love before; but she had absolutely no doubt that what she felt for this tall, dark and overwhelmingly sophisticated man was absolutely the real thing.
It was the sort of love about which she had always dreamed, the highly charged, emotional intensity which pervaded her favourite book, Wuthering Heights: wild, exhilarating and completely intoxicating. Not that she had ever intended to do anything about her feelings for Luke. He was so much older, and with his obviously vast experience of life—and women—she had known that she must appear to be no more than a child in his eyes. In fact, she was so totally consumed by her secret, hopeless passion that apart from daydreaming for hours about how she would rescue her beloved from various dire accidents—which he would reward with a chaste kiss on her brow—she was content to worship from afar. Of course, if Barbara hadn't been away in England, or if she had been able to talk about her feelings with her father, possibly a breath of fresh air might have dissolved some of her more overheated, romantic fantasies. But Maurice was by now clearly a very sick man, and when he died in his sleep the night before he was due to go into hospital for an operation, Samantha was completely devastated.
'What's going to happen to me? What am I going to do. . .?' she had cried helplessly after the funeral, when she discovered that not only had she lost her beloved father, but that he had died leaving a mountainous pile of debts. Suddenly, from having been the pampered only child of a wealthy, charming and indulgent man, she had found herself virtually penniless, with the estate, house and furniture having to be quickly sold to pay Maurice's many creditors. Samantha wasn't interested in money for its own sake but, still reeling from the shocking loss of her father, she was dazed and frightened at the prospect of her uncertain future in an alien, cruel world about which she knew less than nothing.
Luke, who had been a tower of strength throughout, making all the arrangements necessary at such a difficult and desperately unhappy time, had provided the answer: 'You're going to marry me and live happily ever after.' And Samantha, stunned by the speed of events, and thrilled by Luke's assurance that he had fallen madly in love with her, from the very first moment they had met, had been blithely content to place her future in his hands.
Following their quiet, simple wedding, Luke had taken her to Boston where he had some business to conduct, before leaving for a honeymoon in Europe. Immersed in a haze of euphoric happiness, it wasn't until Samantha found herself standing in her nightdress in the vast, palatial bedroom of a huge suite at the Ritz-Carlton hotel that various doubts and uncertainties began to cloud her mind. Luke's maturity and sophistication, which she had found so attractive and reassuring, was now a cause of considerable anxiety. If only she knew what she was supposed to do now. What was her new husband going to think of someone who had never had any real, firsthand experience of an intimate, sexual relationship. . .?
Entering the room, clothed in a towelling robe with his hair damp from the shower, Luke had correctly interpreted the reason behind her nervous glance and rigidly taut figure. 'There's no need to be frightened of me, sweetheart,' he murmured, drawing her gently into his arms. 'I love you, and I'd never do anything to hurt you,' he added softly, slowly lowering his head until his mouth touched hers. As his embrace tightened about her slim figure, the exquisite warmth of his lips moving over hers, lingering and exploring, sent delicious thrills of desire coursing through her veins.
Dizzy with pleasure, she wound her arms about his neck and pressed her body closer to him as his kiss deepened; responding instinctively to the skilled seduction of his mouth and tongue, to the featherlight touch of his hands as they softly caressed her trembling body.
In a daze of ever-increasing passion, she barely noticed as he picked her up and carried her over to the bed. Her entire being seemed to be firmly in the grip of a feverish, shuddering excitement. She was aware of him gently removing her silk nightgown, and was suddenly glad to be free of it, astonished to find herself revelling in his softly whispered murmurs of delight, the fierce glitter in his eyes as he gazed at her body, before first his fingers and then his lips began
tracing patterns of fire on her quivering flesh.
Why hadn't she known it would be like this? she wondered hazily, and then his hands cupped the aching fullness of her breasts, his mouth capturing first one hardened peak and then the other, producing a deep throbbing ache which obliterated everything except the compulsive, driving need for his total possession. It wasn't until she was almost delirious, sobbing with pleasure and groaning his name as she writhed helplessly beneath his intimate touch, that he moved to cover her body with his own. There was a sudden, brief, shocking moment of pain as her flesh yielded to his maleness, and then she was caught up in a vortex of spiralling excitement produced by the hard, pulsing rhythm, until the world seemed to explode into an amazing fireburst of sensations, her body racked by shuddering convulsions of a pleasure so intense that it was almost too much to bear.
Later, as she lay sleepily enfolded in his arms, she felt him stir. 'I hope I didn't hurt you too much, sweetheart?' he whispered, gently brushing the damp curls from her brow.
'No. . .not really. She felt a hot flush creep over her face. 'I didn't realise. . . I mean. . .' She took a deep breath. 'Oh, Luke—it was so fantastic, so wonderful! Is it always like this, for everyone?'
'No, unfortunately it isn't,' he murmured huskily, gently stroking her soft, yielding flesh. 'But for you and I.. .yes, I think it always will be like this.'
And he was right. Their honeymoon had been a halcyon period of emotional bliss and euphoric happiness. Luke had been infinitely patient and gentle, skilfully leading her to further erotic, rapturous delights of sexual fulfilment. Beneath his skilful tuition, she had learned to discard all virginal inhibitions, to wantonly respond and delight in their mutual passion.
Now, with the benefit of five years' hindsight, Samantha nearly groaned aloud as she looked back at the innocent naiveté of her younger self. How could she have thought that a good sexual relationship with her husband was all that was required for a successful marriage? In taking the easy way out of her difficulties, by choosing the soft option of marriage to Luke, she had thrown away the opportunity to grow up and learn to stand on her own two feet. It wasn't until she had left her husband, and could bring some measure of calm objectivity to their troubled relationship, that she realised that in marrying Luke she had made the classic, fatal error of exchanging one authoritative father-figure for another.
