To Tame a Proud Heart

by Cathy Williams

  ‘Because nothing you say is meant at face value,’ he told her, idly massaging her shoulders with his hands. ‘Nothing on a personal level at any rate. You can chat happily enough about books and music and the scenery, but the minute we get onto anything remotely personal your thought processes seem to take a nosedive.’

  ‘I am not an irrational child, Oliver. I’m a woman carrying a baby!’

  ‘Only here.’ He touched her stomach with the flat palm of his hand and she felt herself shudder convulsively. He felt the quiver of her body and laughed under his breath. ‘And here,’ he murmured, dropping his hand further to feel the outline of her womanhood through her thin, floaty skirt.

  She pulled away from him and snapped, ‘This isn’t a game, you know.’

  ‘I know that.’ His mouth tightened and he watched as she walked towards the window and began drawing the curtains together. She felt as though she had to do something—anything—to break the crackle of electricity that had sprung up between them. She wrapped her arms around herself and turned to face him, with her back pressed against the window-ledge.

  ‘I can’t sleep with you. I just can’t,’ she said, in a voice that wanted to be strong and firm, but had enough of a plea in it to make his brows snap together in a frown.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘I wouldn’t be able to face myself if I did; I’d hate myself,’ Francesca answered quietly. ‘I know you probably can’t understand this. I know what I’m saying doesn’t make a scrap of sense to you because we’ve already slept together, and it’s a bit late in the day to start having scruples, especially since I’m carrying your baby, but—’

  ‘But you slept with me once,’ he grated harshly, ‘and thought that everything would be wonderful afterwards and it wasn’t. Is that it?’

  ‘Something like that,’ she admitted nervously. ‘We both did things for the wrong reasons, maybe,’ she floundered on, ‘but that doesn’t mean that we have to keep on committing the same mistake.’

  ‘So, in other words, I’m to expect that our marriage won’t be consummated?’

  Put like that, she could see why he was beginning to show the stirrings of anger, but she maintained a long silence and refused to be browbeaten by that sharp mind of his, which could outmatch anything she could hope to come up with.

  ‘You don’t want me anyway, Oliver, not really. The woman you want is Imogen. You just happen to have landed yourself with me.’

  ‘Leave Imogen out of this!’ he roared, and she glanced quickly and apprehensively towards the door.

  ‘Look at me,’ he commanded, walking towards her, his body swift and graceful. ‘Look at me, in the face, and tell me that you’re not attracted to me.’

  He touched her face, and although there was anger in his voice his fingers were strangely tender, caressing. Her breathing quickened, and she looked down, concentrating her attention on the gleaming floorboards.

  ‘That’s hardly the point,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Sleeping with someone just because you happen to be attracted to them is an animal instinct.’

  ‘You make desire sound like a sin, Francesca. And we’re not talking about sleeping with just anyone, are we? We’re married now.’

  ‘Unfortunately.’

  He swore under his breath and said evenly, keeping his temper in check, ‘I’m going to have a shower. I won’t force you into anything, rest assured. You may be a desirable woman, Francesca, but your desirability has its limits.’

  ‘Yes, I know that.’ She could have told him that desire always had its limits. It burnt like a fire and then died out, because without love there was never enough to sustain it indefinitely.

  She didn’t look at him as he walked away towards the bathroom and shut the door quietly between them.

  But as soon as the room was empty she quickly undressed and slipped on her nightgown—a Victorian affair of white lace which made her feel like a prim little virgin, but which she had had for years and was comfortable.

  She was half-asleep when she felt him slip into the bed next to her, and she tensed immediately, wide awake now, wondering whether he would try and force his point home, try and make her admit to him just how much she wanted him, but he didn’t. He turned away from her, and she waited for what seemed like ages, her eyes getting heavier and heavier until she was too tired to be tense, too tired to care whether his even breathing meant that he was asleep…

  It was a little after three in the morning when she woke up. She knew that because the first thing she saw was the illuminated digital face of the travel clock on the little cabinet next to her bed.

  Then she realised drowsily that the reason she had awakened was because Oliver’s arm was slung over her body—a warm weight which she tried to wriggle free of. But wriggling only brought her closer to him. He was pressed against her with her back curved against his chest. She moved again and his arm tightened around her, but it was a reflex reaction, she knew, because his breathing was still deep and regular, and very gradually she turned around to face him so that she could free herself of the inviting pressure of his body.

  It was only when she looked up that she saw that his eyes were open and he was looking at her, his face almost invisible in the darkness in the bedroom.

  She gasped in shock and said unsteadily, ‘You’re awake.’ Brilliant observation, she thought crossly to herself.

  ‘So I am,’ he said, moving his arm and preparing to turn away from her.

  ‘It’s cold in here,’ she said, and immediately wondered why she was prolonging a conversation at three in the morning.

  ‘Would you like me to switch the air-conditioning off?’ Oliver asked, inclining his body slightly so that he was facing her once again, his voice polite.

  ‘No. It’ll get too hot, and I don’t want to have the windows open. The mosquitoes can be vicious over here.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Did you bring any insect repellent?’

  ‘No. Why are we having this conversation at this ridiculous hour of the morning?’

  She didn’t know. She just knew that she had liked the feel of his body next to hers and that she wanted to have the weight of it against her again. It was comforting.

  ‘It wasn’t a conversation, it was a simple question.’

  ‘Well, this is an extremely odd time to start a question-and-answer game,’ he replied. ‘So goodnight. If I get too close to you again just shove me off.’ His voice was cool but held no anger.

  ‘Oliver…’

  ‘What is it now?’

  I wish I knew, she thought. I want you, she thought. I don’t care about tomorrow, she thought; I just know that I can’t spend my nights with you without touching that magnificent body of yours, without feeding my addiction.

  She reached out and ran her hand along his side, realising with heightened excitement that he wasn’t wearing anything, and she felt him stiffen under the slight caress.

  He caught her hand in his and said coldly, ‘Now is not the time for games like this.’

  ‘I’m not playing a game,’ she said huskily.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re doing. One minute you’re fighting me tooth and nail, and the next minute you want me to make love to you. It won’t do, Francesca. I’m not some damned boy who’s going to patiently indulge your whims.’

  ‘No, you’re not a boy,’ she whispered unsteadily. She wriggled a bit closer and placed her mouth over his, running her tongue along his lips, darting it inside his mouth, but he didn’t respond. He tightened his grip on her and she drew back.

  ‘What’s happened to all this self-hatred you claimed you would feel if you laid a hand on me?’ he asked icily, and she didn’t answer. He let her go. ‘Have you decided in the warmth of a bed, with darkness all around, that you can live with yourself after all?’ There was enough of a sneer in his voice to bring the tears glistening to her eyes.

  ‘I didn’t think about it at all,’ she said.

  ‘That’s
your problem, though, isn’t it?’

  She turned away from him in blind anger and slipped off the bed.

  She really hadn’t thought anything except that she wanted him quite desperately, that she needed to reach out and touch him, and his rejection was like a slap in the face. It hurt.

  ‘Where are you going, dammit?’ He sat up, expecting her to vanish into the bathroom, no doubt, she thought, but she suddenly needed time to get her thoughts in order.

  She felt utterly confused, like someone who had been whirling around on a roller coaster and now felt the need to step off so that her mind could catch up with her body.

  She knew what she had told him, but logic and reason had played no part in the shared intimacy of a darkened bedroom. She wanted to protect herself, but was there any point in the end? Was there any point in playing the martyr, in waiting for the inevitable axe to fall on their relationship? Was the dubious benefit of knowing that he had no idea of how she really felt really worth the misery of denying herself the one thing that could bring her happiness, even if it was only temporary happiness?

  The questions soared through her mind, like a jigsaw puzzle that had been splintered into a thousand pieces. She felt that if only she could put the pieces together she could arrive at a solution.

  ‘I need to think,’ she said in a high voice, and he only began to get out of bed when he realised that she was leaving the room.

  She ran, imagining him as he sprinted towards the light switch and began chaotically throwing on some clothes, and her imagination made her run faster, through the reception area, which was quiet and empty, out into the gardens and down towards the beach.

  Outside it was warm, the air heavy, and around her she picked up all the small sounds of the night life—crickets, frogs, insects which she could not put a name to but which called to each other in the night from bush to bush.

  She looked around and saw nothing, and ran faster, her legs flying over the grass and her white nightgown billowing around her. The long nightdress which had seemed protective in the dangerous confines of the bedroom now seemed positively useless, and she gathered up the bottom, bunching the cloth in her fist.

  In the pitch-blackness of the night she saw the strip of sea and headed towards it, knowing that the beach would give her the silence she needed to think things through.

  She took one last look behind her, and saw Oliver racing towards her—a silent, swift-moving figure, covering the distance between them like an arrow. She knew that he would have seen her as well, but he didn’t call out. It seemed somehow inappropriate to shout into the stillness of the night.

  Francesca turned round, stepped forward, and felt herself falling down the stone steps in what appeared to be an agony of slow motion.

  In daylight the steps had been uneven and steep. At night they were treacherous.

  She lay at the bottom in a heap, unable to move, and closed her eyes, waiting for Oliver to arrive. It didn’t take him long. When she opened her eyes she looked up to see him towering at the top of the steps, then he sprinted down to her.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, his voice urgent. He tried to help her up and she gave a little moan of pain.

  ‘I can’t move,’ she whispered.

  ‘You little fool. What did you think you were doing, running off like that? Where do you hurt? Is it your leg? Have you twisted your ankle?’ He didn’t wait for her to answer. He scooped her up very gently, like a child, and slowly carried her up the steps back towards the hotel.

  She closed her eyes and clung to him, hearing voices in a blur. He was talking to someone, his voice quick and commanding.

  ‘We’re going to get you to a doctor,’ he said to her. ‘Don’t worry, you’re going to be all right.’

  ‘I didn’t see the steps,’ Francesca whimpered. ‘I knew they were there, but I lost my footing on the top one and there was nothing to hold onto.’

  He carried her across to a sofa in the reception area and sat down, still cradling her.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ she told him in a weak voice. ‘There’s no need to get a doctor out. It can wait until the morning.’ She felt dreadful, bruised all over, but, more than that, there was a wrenching ache in her stomach, and her mind veered away from what that might mean.

  ‘Listen to me, Francesca,’ he said, gently and firmly. ‘You’re bleeding very slightly, and it won’t wait until the morning. I’ve sent the receptionist off to get the hotel doctor. He only lives about fifteen minutes away from here. He’ll be here shortly.’

  ‘What do you mean, I’m bleeding?’ She felt tears welling up into her eyes and she tried to sit up, but he held her against him.

  ‘Francesca,’ he said after a while, with a rough edge to his voice, ‘I…I’m sorry. Dammit, this is all my fault.’

  She opened her eyes to look at him. ‘I shouldn’t have run off like that,’ she mumbled, and he put his finger over her lips, but although his face was as controlled as ever his finger trembled slightly.

  The doctor arrived, took one look at her and told Oliver to follow him. He had a small but comprehensive office on the ground floor and they walked there in silence.

  Through Oliver’s shirt she could hear the beating of his heart—a rapid thud against her ears—and she had an overpowering desire to stay where she was, held close against him, because there was something so strong and reassuring about him. She felt safe. Ironic, she thought. It was thanks to him that her life was in the mess that it was, but right now she knew that no one could give her the comfort that he did.

  ‘So what happened here, young lady?’ the doctor asked, indicating to Oliver where to put her down.

  Francesca looked at the small, wiry man, with his dark, intelligent face and said, ‘I’m very sorry to have got you out of bed at this hour in the morning.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have become a doctor if I wasn’t prepared for these sorts of things,’ he said, his eyes busily registering her bruises while his fingers gently pressed her body.

  ‘I understand you’re pregnant,’ he said, and she nodded. ‘I’ll want to examine you to make sure that everything is OK.’ He looked at Oliver. ‘You’ll stay?’ he asked, in a voice that implied that his presence in the room was taken for granted, and Oliver nodded quietly, holding her hand, brushing her hair away from her face.

  She clung to his hand. Things seemed to have happened so quickly. One minute they were in the bedroom, and she was feeling that urgent, restless need to silence the thoughts in her head which were clamouring and driving her mad, and the next minute she was falling down those steps, feeling every little bump along the way, powerless to do anything to protect herself.

  It hadn’t been at all like tripping down a staircase. She had fallen down stairs once before, when she was fifteen. She had been at school, looking back over her shoulder, laughing, saying something to the girl behind her, and she had missed her footing and fallen, but it hadn’t been serious because she had been able to hang onto the banister as soon as her legs gave way.

  As soon as she had felt herself falling down the steps to the beach she had known that she had no option but to continue falling until she reached the bottom.

  The doctor was asking her questions and she answered them, but listlessly. She felt as though she had exhausted her reserves of energy. Eventually, he straightened up and his face was serious.

  ‘You’ve had an awkward fall, young lady. No broken bones, which is good, but you’re bleeding and there’s some possibility that you might miscarry this baby.’

  It was what she had been dreading. Hearing your suspicions put into words was always awful because it made them real—it took away the little seed of hope that perhaps you were wrong, that perhaps you were imagining it all. She groaned and squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

  She heard Oliver ask sharply, ‘What do you mean a possibility? Can’t you be more certain than that?’

  Francesca wished that she could close her ears to what they were saying. She
didn’t want to hear. She wanted to be an ostrich and stick her head in the sand, but she couldn’t. All she could hear was their voices, obliterating everything else.

  ‘Normally a fall in pregnancy is nothing to worry about,’ the doctor was saying in a detached but sympathetic voice. ‘The baby is well cushioned inside the amniotic sac, but sometimes, if the fall is awkward, it can precipitate a miscarriage. Your wife is bleeding, but we won’t know anything for sure until she’s had a scan.’

  ‘Now,’ Oliver said harshly. ‘We want a scan now, this instant.’

  The doctor said gently, ‘It’s impossible. I will arrange for you to take her to the hospital first thing in the morning.’ He began packing his little black bag. Doctors always carried little black bags, she thought inconsequentially. Why not red, or green? Or purple?

  He wrote on a piece of paper and handed it to Oliver.

  ‘You’ll see a Dr Girot,’ he said. ‘I’ll call him so that he knows to expect you. In the meantime—’ he looked at Francesca and gave her arm a small, reassuring squeeze ‘—no more night-time saunters to the beach, young lady. You go up to your bedroom and stay put. I’ve left my number with your good husband here; he can call me any time if you’re worried, it’s in the good Lord’s hands now.’

  It was nearly five by the time they got back up to the bedroom. Dawn was beginning to glimmer over the horizon. In three hours’ time the hotel would be bustling once again with tourists going in and out, preparing themselves for another hard day of doing absolutely nothing under the baking hot sun.

  Oliver placed her on the bed and she watched him, not quite knowing what to say. He stripped off his shirt, which had been haphazardly buttoned, and tossed it onto the chair by the dressing-table, then he sat on the bed next to her with an unreadable expression on his face.

  ‘You’ve got to try and get some sleep, Francesca,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t. How can I sleep?’

  The doctor had given her two mild painkillers for her bruises, which felt sore and throbbing.