Marriage Reclaimed. Sara Craven

at her. ‘You’ll catch cold.’

      ‘I don’t understand.’ She forced the words through a throat aching with tears. ‘What have I done wrong?’

      ‘Nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘The fault is all mine. I should have stopped this bloody marriage at the outset—never allowed it to happen.’ His sigh was harsh, almost anguished. ‘Dear God, what a mess. What a total—damnable shambles.’

      It was as if he’d turned and struck her. She went back into the bedroom, pulled the sheet over her head, and lay like a stone until the servants started moving about.

      And then she got up quietly, to pull the remnants of her pride around her and face the first day of the rest of her life.

CHAPTER TWO

      JOANNA stirred in the chair and shivered. The hopeful fire had burned down, and she replenished it with a couple of fast-burning beech logs.

      But the real cold was inside her, in her bones. In her heart.

      She shook her head in irritation. Why was she thinking these things—allowing herself to remember—probing into old wounds?

      Perhaps, she thought, grimacing, because they’d never properly healed the first time. Now there’s a dangerous admission.

      Wrapping her arms across herself, she began to walk slowly up and down the room, head bent. Her hair brushed her cheek and she combed it back with impatient fingers. She was still wearing it in the same sleek mid-length bob. A change, she decided abruptly, was well overdue.

      Something short, she thought, and businesslike, be-fitting her job-seeking status.

      She had filled in for the secretary more than once at the estate office, so she knew the rudiments of word-processing and the preparation of spreadsheets.

      What she should look for, she thought detachedly, was a position similar to the one she’d filled here, but minus the personal involvement. Housekeepers who could drive and had basic secretarial skills would surely be in demand. And didn’t the National Trust employ people to live in their properties and care for them?

      I would like to do that, she thought. I would like to care for the fabric of another old house, as I’ve looked after this. It’ll be handed back to Gabriel in good shape.

      She had marked time for the past two years, but if that led to a career then the time would have been well spent after all. It was only a pity she couldn’t find a suitable post before she was forced to confront Gabriel again.

      Gabriel. Every pathway in her mind seemed suddenly to lead back to him, she thought angrily. But that was understandable, in a way. After all, in another forty-eight hours he would be here, taking possession.

      Another uncontrollable shiver went through her as the words lodged in her brain. For a brief nightmare second she could almost feel his physical presence. She could feel his hands touching her, as if she were some rare and delicate object which had taken his fleeting interest but which he would decide, in the end, not to buy. Her head seemed to fill with the scent—the taste of him.

      And she remembered his face, stark, almost pagan in the golden Mauritian moonlight, as he’d lifted himself above her. The way he’d suddenly become some fierce, dominating stranger, obsessed with an emotion she did not share or even understand.

      But he had never treated her like that again.

      Nor had either of them referred to what had happened, or the bitter words which had followed. Instead, by some tacit agreement, they’d treated the honeymoon as if it was just another holiday. They’d swum, gone sightseeing, bargain-hunted in local markets and sampled the Mauritian specialities in the restaurants like all the other tourists.

      In the daytime, he’d seemed to revert to the Gabriel she’d always known, so that she’d been able to relax, even enjoy herself a little. Except that she’d known the night would always come and she would find herself lying alone in the enormous bed, listening to the gentle swish of the ceiling fan as it revolved above her and wondering if he was asleep.

      It was their last night on the island when he’d eventually turned to her again.

      This time he’d been gentle, almost objective as he’d touched her. There’d been no pain when he entered her, but she’d been rigid in his arms, wanting to respond—longing to share this ultimate secret with him—but not daring to. Because she’d known from his own words that it was a mistake—that he didn’t really want her. He needed sexual release and she was just an available female body. And that knowledge had imprisoned her in a constraint that this polite, controlled, dutiful coupling could not release.

      At one point, she’d heard him ask quietly, ‘Do you want me to stop?’

      And her own stilted reply. ‘No, it’s all right—really.’

      For a moment he’d been very still, staring down at her, then he’d closed his eyes and begun to drive towards his climax.

      In a way things had become easier when they returned home. For one thing they hadn’t been in each other’s undiluted company any more.

      But there had been inherent problems in the situation—Cynthia’s almost prurient interest in their relationship for one, and Lionel’s jovial hints about grandchildren for another.

      If they’d been in love, passionately and physically involved with each other, they could have laughed about it. As it was, Joanna had found it acutely embarrassing. What Gabriel thought he’d kept to himself.

      He had begun to stay overnight in London instead of driving down, and she’d had to find excuses not to join him.

      When he was there, in bed with her in the room they’d shared for form’s sake, she’d lie awake half the night, dreading he was going to touch her, then fretting because he’d simply wished her goodnight, turned on his side and instantly fallen asleep.

      When he wasn’t there, the darkness she’d stared into had been filled with images of him, the challenging grace of his naked body arched above some other woman.

      And there had to be someone. Painful common sense had told her that. Gabriel was not a natural celibate, and the spaces between their lovemaking—if it could be called that—were becoming longer.

      She remembered the very last time with painful vividness. They’d been to a party—someone’s twenty-first birthday—and she’d drunk too much champagne. For once Joanna had felt her inhibitions slipping away. She’d laughed, flirted, and danced with everyone, suddenly aware as she did so that Gabriel was watching her, leaning against a wall, drink in hand. For a moment, she’d faltered, bracing herself for his disapproval, then realised that he was smiling faintly, his eyes hooded, speculative. She’d laughed back at him, and, obeying an impulse, spun around on the ball of her foot so that the skirt of her indigo crêpe dress billowed round her slim legs, blowing him a kiss as she faced him again. And she’d seen him, in return, lift his glass in a silent toast.

      In the car going home, she’d kicked off her high-heeled shoes and slid down in her seat, allowing her head to droop towards his shoulder.

      She’d half expected him to move away, but he’d stayed where he was and so had she, watching the passing hedgerows through half-closed eyes, moving her cheek gently against the smooth silky texture of his jacket, and humming snatches of the music she’d been dancing to.

      They hadn’t talked, but that in itself had imposed a kind of intimacy, as if there was no need for words.

      Or, she’d thought afterwards, as if they had been in a dream.

      When they’d got back to the Manor, Gabriel had parked by the front entrance and come round to open Joanna’s door. She’d been scrabbling around on the floor.

      ‘I’ve lost my shoe.’

      ‘Look for it tomorrow.’