Marriage Reclaimed. Sara Craven

had set the seal on the whole disaster.

      She had been eighteen. He was ten years older. And from the day, four years earlier, when she’d gone to live at Westroe Manor, he’d been her god—a magical being who would suddenly arrive and turn her life to radiance.

      He’d taught her to ride, played tennis with her, forcing her to improve her game, drunk her first champagne with her, swept her off to London to have her soft, straight brown hair properly cut, bolstered her uncertain dress sense and nursed her, straight-faced, through her first hangover.

      He had also shielded her from Cynthia’s occasional ill-tempered or patronising jibes, turning them aside with some cool, cutting rejoinder.

      Looking back, Joanna thought that had probably had more to do with his dislike of Cynthia than any feeling of protectiveness towards herself. Yet at the time she’d seen him as her own white knight, riding to the rescue.

      And she’d been too dazzled to realise that he was treating her just like the younger sister he’d never had.

      Instead I thought I was Cinderella, she mocked herself, and that Gabriel was Prince Charming. And that Lionel, my fairy godfather, would somehow turn this cold-blooded business arrangement into a love-match, and we’d live happily ever after.

      But her honeymoon in the Mauritian villa hired for them, had sent all her illusions crashing round her ears.

      Beginning, she thought, hugging her arms defensively round her body, with her wedding night that wasn’t.

      At the time she’d thought he was just being considerate. That he’d realised the demands of the wedding and the subsequent long flight had exhausted her when he’d told her quietly to go to bed and get some sleep, while he used an adjoining room. She’d even been grateful.

      They’d spent the following day quietly at the villa, relaxing at the side of the pool under sunshades. But when evening came, Joanna had been able to feel tension beginning to build inside her.

      She’d mentally told herself off for being an idiot. She knew what the mechanics of sex entailed, of course, but nothing of the sweeping emotions that transformed it into love.

      They’d had a late and lingering dinner on the verandah overlooking the garden. Joanna had refused the brandy Gabriel offered her with their coffee, and instantly regretted it. Maybe it would have dispelled the colony of butterflies which had taken up residence inside her.

      Gabriel, too, had been quiet over their meal, and was sitting, staring into the velvety darkness, cradling his glass in one hand.

      For a moment she’d wondered if he was nervous too, then dismissed the idea. Gabriel, after all, was hardly a novice in these matters, she’d told herself, swallowing.

      At last, she’d pushed back her chair. ‘I—I think I’ll go to bed,’ she said.

      ‘Fine.’ His smile was abstracted, as if his thoughts were far away.

      ‘Are you going to stay here?’ Her voice quivered a little.

      He turned his head slowly and looked at her. He was frowning slightly, and there was a faint hardness about the lines of his mouth.

      He said quietly, ‘For a while—yes.’

      Her throat seemed to have closed up, making speech impossible, so she made herself smile and nod, then escaped to her room.

      She showered, and put on the nightgown bought specially for this momentous occasion—crisp and delicate in white broderie anglaise—then slid under the sheet which was the bed’s only covering to wait for Gabriel.

      The minutes ticked by—became half an hour—and then an hour. In spite of herself, Joanna could feel her eyelids becoming heavy, her body sinking down into the mattress.

      No, she thought, sitting up. I’m not going to sleep.

      She allowed another fifteen minutes to pass, then left the bed and padded barefoot to the door. The passage outside was in darkness, but she could see a glimmer of light shining under the door of the next room.

      Swallowing, she turned the handle and walked in.

      Gabriel was in bed, reading, propped up by a mountain of pillows, the sheet pulled to cover his hips, his olive skin in dark contrast to the whiteness of the linen.

      Something clenched inside her at the sight of him. Something alien—dangerous—exciting.

      There was a ring on her hand telling her that she was his wife. But he seemed in no hurry to be her husband.

      His smile was edged, almost wary as he looked at her. ‘What is it, Jo?’

      ‘I—I wondered where you were.’

      ‘Not very far away, as you see.’

      ‘Yes.’ The drum of her heartbeat was almost painful. ‘But why here?’

      He said gently, ‘It’s late. Let’s talk tomorrow.’

      She walked forward and stood beside the bed, her eyes fixed on him as if she was seeing him for the first time, observing the strength of bone and muscle beneath the smooth skin. The way the shadowing of body hair on his chest narrowed to a vee over his abdomen. And, she realised, how he’d positioned the book he was holding to conceal the fact that he was physically aroused.

      ‘Go to bed, Jo.’ There was a snap in his voice.

      She reached out and touched his bare shoulder, feeling the muscles bunch under her fingers.

      She said softly, ‘Won’t you kiss me goodnight first?’

      And she leaned forward and put her mouth on his, softly, almost experimentally.

      For a moment he was completely still, then, with a sound like a groan, his arms went round her, pulling her roughly down to him so that she was cradled across his body.

      His lips were parting hers without any of the usual gentleness he showed her. She felt the graze of his teeth against her bottom lip, the heated thrust of his tongue.

      Excitement warred with apprehension inside her.

      Gabriel tossed the covering sheet away and lowered her to the mattress, kneeling over her. He took the hem of her nightdress, tugging the garment upwards and over her head, then throwing it aside.

      She wasn’t used to being naked in front of anyone, and she was paralysed with shyness. She wanted Gabriel to hold her. To kiss her and reassure her. She wanted him to tell her he loved her.

      But he did none of these things. Instead, he began to touch her, his hands shaking as they cupped her breasts, traced the curve of her stomach and swept downwards to her thighs.

      Joanna felt a faint stir of wondering response deep within her. She looked up at him and suddenly saw the face of a stranger, harsh and strangely remote, with eyes feral as a jungle cat’s. As he entered her, her body resisted momentarily the breach of its innocence, and she gave a sob of mingled pain and fright.

      He checked suddenly, looking down at her with something like horror. He whispered harshly, ‘Oh, dear God…’

      Then he began to move inside her, to some stark, driven rhythm of his own, until, at last, his release was torn from him.

      He rolled away from her and lay with his back turned to her while his ragged breathing steadied. Then he got up and went into the bathroom, and she heard the shower running.

      A ritual cleansing, Joanna thought, to wash away all contact with her. And she turned her face into the pillow and wept.

      She supposed she must have cried herself to sleep, because the next time she opened her eyes it was sunrise. She was alone in the bedroom, but she could see Gabriel sitting on the balcony, in his robe, watching the sun come up, a dark silhouette against the passionate sky.

      She slipped out of bed, put on the crumpled nightgown rescued from the floor and went to him.

      ‘Gabriel.’