Sara Craven - Bride Of Desire

She’d been emotionally blackmailed into becoming his wife, standing beside his hospital bed as he begged her not to leave him. Told her that he needed her—depended on her.

Manoeuvred and manipulated by his mother, and hers, too, she hadn’t known which way to turn. Had been warned that she could be risking his chance of recovery if she walked away. Except there was no chance, and everyone knew it. Especially the medical staff.

So I let them convince me, she thought drearily. Told myself I was necessary to him, and, even if I didn’t love him, I told myself I could at least have compassion for all that strength and vigour, destroyed for ever by a stupid collision on a polo field. That I couldn’t—let him down.

At the time, she reflected bitterly, it had seemed—easier. But how wrong she’d been.

Shuddering violently, Allie swept the shells off the rock into oblivion, almost wishing that she could go with them. Because there was no pattern to her life, and no solution either. Just endurance. Because, however unhappy she might be, Hugo was in a wheelchair, requiring permanent nursing, and she still couldn’t abandon him. She’d have to go back.

But she would at least make the most of this all too brief release. She glanced at her watch, realising it was time she was getting back to the house. She was getting hungry, and besides, Tante would be wondering where she was.

She jumped down from her rock and turned, her hand going to her mouth, stifling a cry. While she’d been sitting there, daydreaming, the sea had been coming in—not gently, but in a strong, steady rush, as she knew it sometimes did along this coast. Tante had warned her about it in the past, insisting that anyone staying at the house must always check the tides before using the beach.

But I didn’t. I didn’t give it a moment’s thought. I assumed it was on the ebb …

She looked at the waves, already encroaching at each end of the cove, cutting off her retreat whichever way she turned, and felt sick with fear. There was seaweed on the boulders behind her too, indicating how far the sea could reach.

Oh, God, she thought, I must do something. I can’t just stand here, watching the water level rise.

She realised she might have to swim for it, although she knew she’d be struggling even if the sea was like a millpond. On the other hand, if she wasted any more time, she risked being washed against the jut of the overhanging cliff, she realised, swallowing a sob in her throat.

Then, suddenly, there was rescue.

The horse seemed to come from nowhere, eyes rolling, head tossing as it galloped through the waves, urged on by its rider. As they reached the strip of sand where Allie stood, transfixed, the man leaned down, hand extended, spitting an instruction at her in a voice molten with fury.

She set a foot in the stirrup that he had kicked free, and found herself dragged up in front of him, left hanging across the saddle, with her head dangling ignominiously, his hand holding her firmly in place by the waistband of her trousers.

She felt the horse bound forward, and then there was water all around them, the salt spray invading her eyes and mouth, soaking the drift of her hair, chilling the fingers that were gripping the girth until they were numb.

She could feel the fear in the chestnut’s bunched muscles—sense the anger in the air from its rider—although he was talking constantly to his mount, his voice quiet and reassuring.

She was scared and aching, every bone in her body shaken as the horse plunged on. She closed her eyes against the dizziness induced by this headlong dash, praying that he would not stumble. That the drag of the sea would not defeat him.

She never knew the exact moment when the almost violent splashing of the water stopped, but when she next dared to look down, she found herself staring at sand, and the beginnings of a rough track leading upwards.

Then the horse was being pulled up, and her rescuer’s hold on her was suddenly released. She raised a dazed head, realising that he was dismounting, and then she herself was summarily pulled down from the saddle, without gentleness, and dumped on the stones.

She sank to the ground, coughing and trying to catch her breath. She felt sick and giddy from that nightmare ride, aware too that her clothes were sodden, and her hair hanging in rats’ tails.

She looked up miserably, tried to speak and failed, silenced by the scorching fury in the blue eyes, and the battery of fast, enraged French that was being launched at her without mercy.

As he paused to draw breath at last, she said in her schoolgirl’s version of the same language. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’ Then she put her face in her hands and burst into tears.

He swore murderously. She could interpret that at least. Then there was a taut silence, and a clean, if damp, handkerchief was thrust between her fingers.

‘You are English?’ He spoke more quietly, using her language, his voice clipped, the accent good.

She nodded, still not trusting her voice.

‘ Mon Dieu .’ He shook his head. ‘Yet you come here to a dangerous shore—alone, and at such an hour, to stroll as if you were in a London park? Are you quite insane?’

She lifted her head. Looked up at him as he stood, soothing his horse with a paradoxically gentle hand.

He was slightly younger than she’d thought, probably in his early thirties, but no friendlier for that. She assimilated a beak of a nose, a formidable chin with a cleft, and a strong mouth with a sensual curve to its lower lip. And his eyes were truly amazing—a colour between azure and turquoise, fringed by long lashes. And brilliant now with the temper he was trying to control. But more, she thought, for the horse’s sake than hers.

She said huskily, ‘I should have been more careful, I know. But I was thinking about—something else.’

He gestured impatiently. ‘But I warned you to go back. Why did you ignore me?’

‘I—didn’t hear what you said—not properly.’

He muttered something else under his breath. ‘You are no doubt accustomed to people shouting at you,’ he added contemptuously. ‘And have learned to disregard it.’

Allie sank her teeth into her lower lip. Yes, she thought, but not in the way you imagine.

‘Again, I’m sorry.’ She wiped her face with the handkerchief, detecting a faint fragrance of some masculine cologne in its folds.

‘I did not believe it when I looked down from the top of the cliff and saw you there in the Cauldron,’ he said harshly. ‘We call it that because when the tide is full the water seems to boil over the rocks.’

Allie shuddered. ‘I didn’t know. I — I’ve never gone that way before .’ And I wouldn’t have done so this time if I hadn’t been trying to avoid you …

‘I was almost tempted to leave you,’ he went on. ‘Instead of risking my life, and my even more valuable horse, to come to the aid of a stranger and a fool.’

She lifted her chin. ‘Oh, don’t spare me. Please say exactly what you think,’ she invited, with a trace of her usual spirit.

‘I shall,’ he told her brusquely. He added, ‘Roland, you understand, does not care for the sea.’

Then perhaps you should have left me. It would have been one answer to my problems …

The thought ran like lightning through her head, but was instantly dismissed as she contemplated the shock and grief that Tante would have suffered if the sea had indeed taken her.

Besides, when faced with it, oblivion had not seemed nearly so desirable, and she knew she would have fought to survive.

She swallowed. ‘Then Roland’s a true hero.’ She got slowly to her feet. ‘And—thank you for having second thoughts,’ she added with difficulty. She smoothed her hands down her wet trousers, and stopped as a sudden realisation dawned. ‘Oh, God, I’ve lost my shoes. They were in my pockets.’