by Flora Kidd
Tory stared at him and wondered if it were at all possible to get beneath his tough hide, jolt him into showing his real feelings.
'Denzil, what would you do if I told you I don't want- to marry you?' she countered with a question, and watched him carefully for his reaction, but apart from a fractional narrowing of his eyes he showed nothing.
'I'd turn on the ignition, engage first gear and drive away without you, and you'd have to find your own way to Port Anne,' he replied coolly. 'Is that what you're going to tell me?'
'No, it isn't. Oh, don't you ever show how you feel?' she demanded crossly.
'Sometimes,' he admitted laconically, 'but not here, not now. I gather the answer is yes.'
'Yes!' Tory hissed the word at him through clenched teeth and he grinned aggravatingly at her.
`So once again the professor failed to come up to scratch,' he scoffed. 'Too bad, Victoria. Get in and I'll take you to a hotel, and book a room for you until we can sign that contract.'
`What contract?' she asked as she settled herself in the seat beside him.
'The marriage contract, lover, the one which gives me rights. Remember?'
'I remember,' she answered tautly, 'but there's just one thing I want you to know before I sign it.'
`And that is?'
`I'm marrying you because I want to stay on Airouna and finish the work I came to do, because I don't want my contract to work broken, and for no other reason. Is that clear?'
`Perfectly clear, Victoria,' he replied, his hands on the ignition key. 'It's what I thought you'd say.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
A WEEK later Tory opened the screen door of Denzil's bungalow and entered the living room. It was half-past five and she had just returned from the botanical gardens where she had worked with Magnus all afternoon.
It had been an afternoon like any other afternoon on the island. It had sparkled blue and yellow, warm but not too hot because of the steady trade wind that blew. But there had been one difference: although she had started the day as Victoria Latham she had spent the afternoon as Victoria Hallam.
She glanced into the living room. It was as usual shady, its combination of sea and citrus colours giving an impression of coolness. No one was there. She peeped into the kitchen; it was empty. Josh, who had come in the jeep to pick her up from the lab building, had told her that Denzil had gone out to sea to test the engines of a new motor cruiser and would be back soon.
Quickly she went to the bedroom. Her cases were there. She would unpack, hang her clothing in the closet, take a shower and dress in something cool and flowing, her new caftan, perhaps. By then he should be back.
It had really been easier to get married than Tory had thought. Denzil had agreed that they should do it as soon as possible and had set about acquiring a licence. Even so, she had been surprised when he had arrived at the lab that morning and said that they were to attend at the registrar's office within the hour. She had gone with him and had found the brief civil ceremony simple and undemanding. Afterwards he had taken her back to work, telling her he would settle her account at the hotel where she had stayed for the past few days and would take her cases to the bungalow. On her return to work Tory had told Magnus that the fact had been accomplished, shown him her wedding ring, had received his rather diffident congratulations, and plunged almost immediately into the classification of the next most common Caribbean family of plants known as the four o'clock, which included the old-fashioned verbena and the splashy-coloured purple, crimson, orange and white bougainvillaea vines.
Fait accompli. The phrase rolled round Tory's mind as she shook out her clothes and hung them in the long built-in closet next to the few suits of Denzil's that hung there. She was married, her contract was safe and only at the risk of creating a scandal. could Rita Jarrold do anything about it. What now?
She would have to write and tell her parents. She could see no way of avoiding that because she would have to tell them of her change of address. And then there was the possibility that they might take a winter holiday and fly out to the island to see her. In fact, once they knew of her marriage they would probably insist on coming out in order to meet Denzil.
What would they think when they learned she had married a man she had mentioned only once in her letters to them, briefly, in that last letter she had written the night Rita Jarrold had made her leave the Director's house? Tory could almost hear the words her mother would use to describe her action—headstrong, stubborn, wilful. And what would they think of Denzil?
She imagined her father would like him and accept him without question just because he sailed boats, but her mother would want to know all about him; where
he'd been born, which school he had attended, whether his parents were alive, whether he had any brothers or sisters, why he had left England, did he intend to return? Oh, the questions would go on and on, and Denzil would be rude.
What was the use of thinking about it? Tory pushed the niggling thoughts to the back of her mind. She was married, and why she had married and whom she had married were no business of anyone else.
Grabbing a towel and her toilet bag and flinging her caftan-like housecoat over her arm, she left the room to go to the bathroom. In the passageway she paused, hearing voices coming from the living room. Quietly she walked towards the room and peeped round the corner to see who was with Denzil. She couldn't see anyone because they were either in the kitchen or in the dining recess, but she could hear the clink of ice against glass and the bubbly sound of liquor being poured into a glass.
`Yes, sir,' boomed a deep voice which she recognised only too well as belonging to Peter de Preitas. 'It really took the wind out of our sails when Mandy and I came up here to look for you this morning and Josh told us you were in town getting hitched. Who's the lucky bride? Not that blonde girl you brought to Tequila a couple of weeks ago?'
Tory couldn't hear Denzil's answer and she assumed he had turned away from the counter, possibly to return the ice tray to the fridge. Knowing she was doing the unforgivable—eavesdropping—she stepped a little further into the living room to hear better.
`Well, Mandy's going to be pleased when she knows,' Pete growled. 'She likes that kid. But I never thought I'd see the day when you'd throw in the towel and get married. I always had the impression you weren't, entirely hooked on the idea of being tied to one woman.
And knowing what a tricky guy you are, I wouldn't be surprised if you'd married her to suit some deep and devious plan. Cheers.'
'Cheers,' said Denzil coolly. There was a small silence while they drank, then he said slowly, 'Actually I married her because she was in one hell of a spot and needed help.'
'Ha?' Pete's laugh boomed through the house. 'No, Denzil, that's doing it too brown. You're not the chivalrous type. I refuse to believe you married that lovely girl to help her out of a spot. Don't forget I saw the way you kissed her on your boat at Tequila.'
'Well, I admit that my motives in marrying her are not entirely quixdtic,' replied Denzil mockingly. 'I expect to be rewarded for the service I've rendered.'
'You expect to be re ...' The rest of the word was lost in a guffaw of laughter, and with cheeks suddenly flaming Tory turned on her heel, ran into the bathroom and closed the door with a slam which shook the wall and was probably noticed in the dining recess.
Hands to her ears, which were burning, she watched the water run into the bath. No wonder they were burning, she thought. She had eavesdropped on a conversation between two men who were friends and had heard something she would have preferred not to have heard.
But what would she have preferred to have heard? Would she have liked Denzil to be less honest and tell Pete that he had married her because he was in love with her? Oh no, that would be too silly, because she knew he wasn't in love with her. But she would like him to be.
The thought came crashing crazily into her mind as she stepped into the bath, pulled the shower curtain across and pressed the button which diverted the water f
rom the taps to the shower outlet.
Why was she thinking that way? She had gone into this marriage with her eyes wide open, knowing why Denzil wanted to marry her, so why was she wishing now it had been for another reason—for love?
Love, love, love, all you need is love, the song which Tory had heard so often sung by the Beatles jangled round her mind as the water sluiced down over her head and body and she searched for a reason why she wished Denzil had married her for love. She found it as she turned off the shower. If he told her he loved her, it would be so much easier for her to reward him in the way he expected.
The doorknob rattled as someone turned it and tried to push the door open, but failed because she had locked it.
'Tory? Are you in there?' Denzil asked.
'Yes. I'll be out in a minute.'
'No rush. Pete's here and has invited us out to dinner with him and Mandy as a sort of celebration. Is that okay with you?'
'Yes, yes, of course. I'd like that.'
In the bedroom she took her time to rub her hair dry and change into the blue evening dress. When she went into the living room the two men, having consumed several drinks, were in a frivolous mood and after he had persuaded her to have a drink, Denzil went off to shower and change, leaving her to deal with Pete's teasing and sometimes risque remarks.
They went by taxi to the home of Mandy's sister in the Portuguese quarter of the town where Mandy and Peter were staying the night, and were invited into the pleasant old wooden house with its high sloping tiled roof and tiny wrought-iron balconies.
There more drinks were offered and consumed and it was decided that Mandy's sister and her husband should also come out to dinner, and soon they were all jammed into a taxi and on their way to the fisherman's wharf. Tory found herself sitting on Denzil's lap because there was no room for them to sit side by side, and the touch of his hands, one at her waist and the other on her bare arm, made her suddenly aware of the change in their relationship which had come about that day. She sat stiffly, her face averted from him, her heart beating wildly as she wondered why she had allowed herself to be trapped into marriage with him.
In the restaurant they ate delicious seafood and drank champagne, and danced to the beat of bongo drums. Tory ate, drank, danced and laughed with the rest of them, trying to ignore the remark of Denzil's which she had overheard earlier: I expect to be rewarded for the service I've rendered. Was he really so cold and calculating?
She turned to look at him and found he was in conversation with a thin young woman who had a cloud of fluffy brown hair. He was smiling rather mockingly at the girl, who seemed to be pleading with him, and when he suddenly realised that Tory was watching him he leaned forward and said loudly, to make himself heard above the noise of the drums and guitars:
'Tory, this is Moira Townsend. She works in the British Trade Commissioner's office. Moira, I'd like you to meet Tory, my wife.'
The young woman, who was, Tory judged, about two or three years older than herself, turned quickly, eyed Tory assessingly then turned back to Denzil.
'It's true, then?' she said.
'Some of it is true,' he replied, and rose to his feet. 'I'll be back in a minute.'
He walked off in the direction of the washrooms and Tory was left alone with Moira. Mandy, Peter and the other couple were all dancing energetically.
Moira turned back to Tory. She had big brown eyes,
a turned-up nose and a wide mouth that looked as if it did a lot of smiling.
'I'm pleased to meet you, Tory,' she said. 'Denzil and I ... well, I used to think we were good friends.' Her thin shoulders shrugged. 'I couldn't believe it when I heard today that he was married. You see, he's always made it very clear to any woman he's dated here that he's just not the marrying kind. Of course, once I heard all the story 'I realised he had no option but to help you out of a hole.'
'What story have you heard?' said Tory, finding that her lips were suddenly dry.
'That the Director's wife turned you out on the night' of the storm last week and you had to spend the night at Denzil's place. A bit like jumping out of the frying pan into the fire, if you ask me,' said Moira with a giggle.
'Where did you hear the story?'
'Oh, in a roundabout way really. The sister of one of the girls in the office goes about with Dr Jarrold's daughter. It seems she was full of the story and was telling everyone. Something of a narrow squeak for you! You could have found yourself out of a job. The government departments are very sticky here about the behaviour of their female employees. Lucky you to have Denzil come to your aid. How long do you think you'll be able to make it last?'
'Make what last?'
'Why, your marriage to him, love, your marriage!' Moira's eyes were as sharp as a bird's as she tipped her head sideways so that she could see Tory's face better, and Tory felt an instinctive urge to run and hide from that enquiring gaze. 'I mean, it isn't off to a very good start, is it? Anyway, let me know when you're thinking of packing it in. I wouldn't mind having the opportunity of comforting Denzil when you've gone.'
She went off with a wave of her hand, and feeling a little sick Tory leant an elbow on the table and her head on her hand. Everyone knew why Denzil had married her. Their marriage was probably the subject of gossip in every government office, and all because of Carla's far-reaching malice. She couldn't bear the thought of everyone gossiping and sniggering. She couldn't bear the thought, either, of going back to the bungalow with Denzil, knowing that he had the right to make love to her; knowing that he would now expect her, to submit to him as his reward for having helped her.
Gathering up her evening bag, Tory stood and walked out of the noisy room. She went through the small foyer and out on to the wharf. In the water of the harbour, reflected lights shivered as the wash made by a fishing boat, leaving to go to sea for the night, made ripples fan out on the surface, and the ropes holding other boats against the stone wall squeaked as their captives bobbed up and down as if eager to leave too.
Tory walked blindly, not really sure of direction until she found herself on a narrow lane that curved beside a silvery moonlit beach overhung with coconut palms. Turning off the lane, she slipped off her high-heeled sandals, and carrying them in her hand plunged her feet into the warm silky sand. Right to the edge of the water she walked, where it fell in sighing little waves against the shore. She paused for a moment, then stepped into the water. It slopped over her feet, bringing them a tingling ease and wetting the hem of her gown.
'Tory.' Denzil's voice spoke just behind her, imperatively. 'What the hell are you doing?'
His hand on her bare arm was rough, and, he jerked her round to face him. He was a square dark shape
against the glimmering moonlit sand that stretched behind him.
'Why did you leave the restaurant?' he demanded.
'I felt a little sick—the champagne, I think, and it was too hot in there,' she explained woodenly. His fingers gripped hard. She raised a hand and pushed back the hair from her face. 'I didn't know anyone had seen me leave,' she whispered.
'You mean you hoped I didn't see you leave,' he corrected grimly. 'You were running out on me, weren't you, on our wedding night?'
'Oh, there wasn't a wedding in the proper sense. bur marriage isn't real,' she cried out.
'It's real to me,' he growled roughly, 'and I'm taking you back to the bungalow now to show you just how real it is.'
'No, Denzil, I can't. I won't!' she twisted desperately, trying to break his hold on her arm. He grabbed her other arm and jerked her forward so that her head fell back, then his mouth came down on hers in a bruising, forceful kiss.
'Yes, you will,' he murmured against her lips. 'And stop fighting me, Tory. You'll only get hurt if you don't.'
Turning, Denzil pulled her along behind him over the soft sand. She resisted as best she could all the way to the lane, but she was no match for his strength. At the edge of the sand he kept hold of her while she slipped on her sandals, then he
took a tighter hold of her arm so that she was forced to walk beside him. Suddenly limp and without energy, Tory felt like a puppet being supported like a puppeteer.
At the wharf, as always, there were a few taxi-cabs lingering hopefully to look for tourists coming out of the restaurant. A whistle from Denzil brought one to his side. He opened the rear door, pushed Tory inside
and gave instructions to the driver. In the smoky darkness of the cab he didn't touch her, nor did he say anything. The silence seemed to throb with their unexpressed hostility. What a way to begin a marriage! Not oft to a very good start, is it? Moira Townsend's words seemed to mock Tory.
Lights glared at the marina and as they walked up the path to the bungalow she heard music blaring from someone's radio. An outboard motor started up, and its put-put sound was thrown back in echoes from the other side of the bay.
Up the steps, through the door Denzil marched her, never letting go of her arm once. In the living room she tried to pull away, but his grip didn't slacken. Down the passage to the bedroom they went. He pushed open the bedroom door, flicked on the light and propelled her into the room and let go of her at last. He took the key out of the lock.
'Get undressed and into bed,' he ordered crisply. 'I'll be back.'
The door closed after him and she heard the key turn in the lock. Hands to her face, her breast rising and falling with the tumult of outrage, Tory stared at the door. Ever since she had collided with Denzil on the ferry boat she had been trying to avoid this moment. At that first meeting she had thrown up defensive blocks to protect herself against their attraction to each other. Since then every meeting with him had turned into a confrontation as she had struggled to prevent his complete domination of her mind and body. Now she was at the last ditch and she could see no way out.
Slowly she began to undress. She had just taken out her nightdress, long and peach-coloured, made from sheer chiffon nylon, when the key turned in the lock and the door opened. Clutching the nightgown against her bareness, she backed away. Denzil closed the
