Sara Craven - Marriage Reclaimed

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.’ Her voice barely rose above a whisper, and she saw his back stiffen in awareness.

‘Go back to bed.’ He didn’t look round 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.

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.