The Bartered Bride

by Anne Weale

  ‘That was enterprising.’

  ‘Not really. I’m a shopping expert. It’s the nearest I come to having a profession,’ she told him, smiling.

  ‘I was reading a piece about women and shopping in the paper the other day. It said compulsive shopping is a substitute for sex...or, more precisely, satisfying sex.’

  ‘Papers are always running those sorts of pieces. They all do it. I wouldn’t be surprised if the journalist made it up, or found some obscure psychiatrist who wanted to get his name in lights.’

  As she was speaking, Fran was uncomfortably conscious that, although what she was saying was true of a great many articles seen in the newspapers, there might be some truth in the theme of this article in relation to her own life. How much of her enjoyment of shopping had been because she had no outlet for other more seminal urges?

  To change the subject, she said, ‘Tell me more about your mother’s collection of silver objects...and about her.’

  Although Reid’s expression didn’t change, she knew intuitively that she had touched on an area of his life which was off limits or had been until now. But surely there should be no Keep Out areas between husband and wife?

  ‘Granny H asked me what flowers I was giving you. When I said violets, she reminded me about the silver collection. It’s been in a safe deposit box since my parents separated and my mother left it behind.’

  Although she was getting strong vibes that it wasn’t a subject he wanted to discuss, Fran said, ‘Why did they part?’

  He shrugged. ‘They didn’t get on. They were incompatible.’

  ‘How old were you when it happened?’

  ‘I was at school. It didn’t have much impact. Children are very resilient.’

  The wine came. Not a carafe of house plonk but a bottle in an ice bucket. The waiter showed Reid the label. He nodded. The waiter poured a little into his glass. Reid put the glass to his nose and nodded again. The waiter filled both their glasses with the golden liquid, replaced the bottle on the ice and went off to attend to other people.

  Reid picked up his glass and smiled at her. ‘To us.’

  ‘To us,’ she echoed. The wine was chilled to perfection, refreshingly cool on the tongue but not refrigerated to the point where its sweet fragrance was lost.

  ‘This has to be one of life’s best experiences...sitting in a French pavement café on a warm evening, drinking a decent Bordeaux and watching the world and his wife...with your own far more beautiful wife,’ Reid added gallantly.

  If he had been in love with her, Fran could have believed he meant it. But he wasn’t and she wasn’t. She was content with her looks and knew she was attractive. Beautiful, no. Except to a man who adored her, and it didn’t seem likely Reid would ever do that. He wasn’t the adoring type.

  ‘The last time I was here I was entertained by one of the “royals” of the wine trade in this region,’ said Reid. ‘It was like going back to the beginning of the century. There were twenty people—family and overseas guests—sitting round a huge table, being waited on by men in tailcoats and gloves. The wines were the finest I’m ever likely to drink. At first it was all rather formal... but by the end of the evening considerably less so.’ He laughed, showing a flash of white teeth.

  ‘How come you were there?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh...bank connections,’ he said vaguely. ‘By the way, I have a couple of things to attend to tomorrow morning that would be boring for you. I hope you won’t mind amusing yourself. There’s plenty to see in Bordeaux...including some excellent shops.’ He leaned forward to take a leather billfold from the back pocket of his trousers. Handing her a credit card, he said, ‘Use that for the time being. As soon as we get home, I’ll set up an account for you.’

  Although, in a way, it was considerate of him to provide her with the means to shop without touching her own by now much depleted funds, it was also a discomfiting reminder that, like the girl in the opera he had talked about, she was a bartered bride. He had already fulfilled his side of the trade-off. Very soon, perhaps in a couple of hours, it would be her turn.

  While they were eating dinner at a corner table inside the bistro, Fran said, ‘That French château in the folder you showed me...does it belong to you now?’

  ‘I went to have a look at it, but it needed a lot of renovations and I wasn’t sure I wanted to take it on. It’s about an hour’s drive from here. Would you like to look round the place? It’s still for sale, I believe. Do you have a yen for a château?’

  Fran shook her head. ‘I’ve never thought seriously about living anywhere. I always assumed that when I married I’d live wherever my husband needed to be.’

  Reid gave her a thoughtful glance. By now it was dark outside. The tables were lit by candles inside glass storm shades. The soft upward light from the still flame emphasised his strong features and the brilliance of his eyes.

  Although the bistro was popular and all the other tables were full, there was a sense of intimacy about being the only two foreigners in a room full of French people, in a city far away from where they had started the day.

  ‘That’s an old-fashioned attitude,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think there were any women left who went along with that idea.’

  ‘I don’t have my own career to worry about. If I did, I expect I’d feel differently. Men have had it all their way for a long time. You can’t blame women with interesting jobs for wanting to hang onto them.’

  ‘I don’t. I come into contact with a lot of career women. Some of them I admire. But I wouldn’t agree that men have had it all their own way. Women have had a struggle to make themselves heard in the working world, but at home they’ve always had a lot of authority... if they chose to use it. They’re the ones who have the most influence on the next generation. They also have pillow power...again if they choose to use it. A woman who makes a man happy in bed has a huge influence on him. How many of them actually run the world from behind the scenes we have no way of knowing.’

  Fran couldn’t think of any appropriate comment. With her mind focused on their return to the hotel, she found it hard to make table-talk. Even though she had chosen the lightest dishes on the menu, and the food here was very good, her appetite was at zero.

  If only it had been Julian on the other side of the table, the initiation ahead of her would have been a long-awaited joy. Also she was fairly certain that, like her, Julian had abstained from casual couplings.

  Reid, even if he had been discriminating in his choice of previous bed-partners, was undoubtedly far more experienced. He would be expecting her to be an exciting mate, not an unpractised virgin. In theory she knew all about what he called pillow power. But knowing those things and putting them into practice with a man she had known such a short time...

  What am I doing here? she thought wildly. I must have been mad to think I could go through with this.

  At the same time a part of her mind was asking, What are you panicking about? There must be literally millions of women who would jump at the chance to go to bed with this man. He’s everything most women dream about.

  But he’s not the one I’ve spent half my life dreaming about.

  That one’s off limits, so what are you going to do about it? Spend the rest of your life mooning over someone you can’t have? Get real. You’re a married woman. It’s too late for second thoughts... and you’re not facing some kind of torture. This is a rite of passage all women have to go through. He’s not going to make a hash of it. Chances are you’ll enjoy it.

  ‘Coffee?’

  Reid’s question closed down the link with her other self, the one who only came through in times of stress or indecision.

  ‘Er...yes, please.’

  As she had noticed before, he had the innate ability to attract a waiter’s attention merely by glancing towards one. Having ordered coffee for them both, he said, ‘What’s on your mind, Francesca? You were looking worried just now.’

  ‘Was I? I can’t imagine why.’

&
nbsp; ‘I can,’ Reid said dryly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  As casually as if he were discussing the weather, he said, ‘Going to bed with someone new is always stressful for people who don’t do it on a regular basis.’

  Unnerved by his insight into her thought processes, she found herself saying, ‘You don’t look at all stressed. Do you do it on a regular basis?’

  ‘Not in the sense you’re talking about. I’ve had relationships. At my age it would be strange if I hadn’t. If they’d been important, I wouldn’t be here. Nor would you. Let’s forget our separate pasts and concentrate on sharing the future.’

  With the coffee came dark and caramelly Remy Martin cognac.

  ‘To help you sleep,’ said Reid, with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

  It troubled her that he assumed she was equally free of emotional baggage. But there was no point in explaining. As he said, the past was the past. All that mattered was how to get along together from now on.

  The walk back to the hotel took about fifteen minutes, including one or two pauses to look in the windows of shops.

  ‘Should be a fine day tomorrow,’ said Reid, looking up at the clear starlight sky.

  To Fran, tomorrow seemed like the other side of one of those apparently bottomless chasms she had seen mountaineers crossing on rickety-looking ladders. But they knew what they were doing. She didn’t. She was like a novice climber on an expedition with someone far more experienced who had no idea he had a tyro in tow.

  There wasn’t much traffic about now in the exclusive district where the hotel was located, but Reid still took her hand before they crossed the road. She hoped he wouldn’t feel her having a bad case of the shakes. They were internal at the moment and she prayed that she could control them and not let him guess that she would have given her soul to be anywhere else but here.

  In the lobby, Reid released her hand. He collected their key at the desk and they walked to the open lift and stepped inside.

  Take a few deep breaths, said the voice of her alter ego. Remember the last time he kissed you. You were turned on then... it will be the same this time. Relax!

  But the calm voice of reason lived in an ivory tower at the back of her mind, removed from her heart and her senses which were causing her present panic.

  The lift reached their floor. They stepped out and walked along the deserted corridor in silence, passing elegant console tables supporting lavish displays of flowers. One or two doors had expensive shoes outside them. This was not the sort of hotel where guests cleaned their own shoes, using a revolving brush machine at the end of the corridor. Fran wished it was less opulent. The de luxe ambience didn’t intimidate her, but she might have felt more relaxed in a cosy rural auberge.

  Reid fitted the key in the lock, opened the door of their suite and waited for her to precede him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FRAN crossed the sitting room to look out through the tall French windows opening onto a balcony. Unbuttoning her jacket, she gazed at the view for a minute, then turned to see what Reid was doing.

  He had also taken off his coat and dropped it onto a chair. Now he was coming towards her, moving at an unhurried but purposeful pace which told her, before he reached her, what he intended to do.

  She inhaled a steadying breath, but this time the trick didn’t work. As he reached her and put his arms round her, pent-up emotions welled up, finding relief in tears.

  It was the most shaming moment of her life. She couldn’t believe she was going to pieces like this, but her feelings were out of control. There was nothing she could do to stop the tears or the shuddering sobs that overwhelmed her.

  Through it all Reid kept his arms lightly round her, gently stroking her back as if she were a distressed child. Presently he pushed a large linen handkerchief into her shaking hands.

  His voice quiet and calm, he said, ‘It’s all right, Franny. Don’t worry: it’s just reaction to strain. What you need is some rest.’

  His use of the pet name used by her family was unexpected. Mopping her eyes, she said in a choked voice, ‘I’m sorry...I don’t make a habit of this.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t. These are exceptional circumstances. Look, I’m going to watch the news on CNN or NBC...whichever they’re hooked up to. You go and brush your teeth and hop into bed. After eight hours’ sleep, you’ll feel a different person.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts...just do as I say, there’s a good girl.’ He might have been addressing someone ten years her junior. He gave her a kindly push in the direction of the bedroom. ‘Goodnight. Sleep well.’

  Exhausted, grateful for his forbearance, she did as he told her.

  When she woke up, the curtains were open. Last night they had been closed by the maid who had turned down both sides of the king-size bed.

  For a moment or two Fran lay still, re-orienting herself after hours of dreamless oblivion. She was lying on her side, facing a pair of French windows which shared the balcony with those in the sitting room. Outside the sun was rising on the fine day Reid had forecast.

  Reid! The thought of him was like an alarm bell going off in her mind. Where was he?

  Cautiously, slowly, she edged onto her back, turning her head even further. Reid was asleep on the other side of the wide bed. He appeared to be naked. The bedclothes were covering his lower back, but the upper part was exposed. As she had noticed yesterday, his skin had the sheen of brown silk. This morning his thick dark hair, usually brushed back from his forehead and as smooth as a blackbird’s plumage, had been ruffled by his movements during the night. Behind his visible ear and along his neck it was forming little duck’s tails.

  Fran had always been a tactile person, attracted by textures ranging from bark to velvet. Now she was aware of an impulse to reach out and run her hand over the broad back, to touch the hair at his nape.

  Instead she lay still, thinking about last night and how kind he had been, showing no hint of anger or frustration when, instead of fulfilling her side of their bargain, she had behaved like a hysterical idiot.

  The memory of her breakdown made her bite her lip with annoyance. It was so unlike her to cry. She had never been a hysterical kind of person. She had always been strong...in control...

  But Reid had been right: a long sleep had restored her. If not precisely eager, she felt equal to facing the day. What time was it? When would he wake up?

  The answer to the first question was on her wrist. Usually she took her watch off before removing her make-up. Last night she had left it on, too zonked by emotion to bother with the normal bedtime routines. She had brushed her teeth, undressed, put on a nightdress and fallen into bed.

  It was now a quarter to seven, the time she usually woke up. She would have expected Reid also to be an early riser. But what time had he come to bed? Maybe not until late, or rather early this morning.

  As she was wondering whether it would be a good idea to make up for her behaviour last night by waking him with a kiss, there were signs that he was waking up anyway. The long body stirred and stretched. Then he rolled onto his back and started to open his eyes.

  Just as she was expecting him to notice her and say hello or good morning, he shut his eyes tight and groaned.

  For a moment she thought he must be ill. Could there have been something wrong with one of the oysters he’d had as a starter?

  ‘Are you feeling sick?’ she asked anxiously, hoping the hotel had a doctor on call. Food poisoning from shellfish could be serious.

  It seemed he had forgotten she was there. Peering at her through half-closed eyes, he said, ‘Not sick...just a bloody awful headache. My own fault. Too much brandy last night.’ Wincing, he heaved himself up on his elbows, his eyes open now and not friendly.

  ‘There’s nothing like half a bottle of the hard stuff for sedating an over-active libido,’ he told her sarcastically, before throwing back the bedclothes and swinging himself off the bed, smothering a curse as the movement a
ggravated his hangover.

  It was Fran’s first sight in real life of a totally naked male body and she only had a brief glimpse before he disappeared into the bathroom. What struck her was that even if the brandy had effectively doused his mating urges last night, the effect had worn off this morning. Walking from the bed to the bathroom, he had looked the personification of virility, at least from the neck down.

  She wondered whether to get up, put on a robe and step out on the balcony for some fresh air. She hadn’t noticed it earlier, but there was a strong smell of brandy hanging in the air and, with two people sleeping here and the window closed, the atmosphere must be stuffy.

  She hopped out of bed, opened both the French windows and, in the act of picking up the slightly more opaque robe that went with the filmy nightgown, paused.

  After a shower, he might feel sufficiently restored to want to consummate their union. If she was out of bed he might see it as another rebuff.

  She climbed back into bed and lay listening to the muted sound of the shower. How much was it going to hurt? Hopefully not very much, if he was an experienced and considerate lover. Sleep had restored her resilience. This morning she was back to normal. Equal to anything. Perhaps even slightly looking forward to ceasing to be a virgin and becoming, at long last, a fully fledged woman.

  It was almost half an hour before Reid reappeared, the dark stubble gone from his jaw, a towel wrapped round his lean hips and his masculinity no longer noticeable, except in the sense that every line of his body from his shoulders to his strong but shapely ankles was indisputably male.

  ‘All yours,’ he said, barely glancing at her as he made for the chest of drawers where he had stowed his things.

  Fran slipped out of bed, conscious that her Italian nightdress was designed to entice not conceal. But Reid didn’t turn his head as she circled the bed.