Sara Craven - Dragons Lair

‘Nothing,’ she lied. ‘It’s all been a bit of a strain, that’s all. And Mummy was being—difficult this morning.’

Gethyn murmured something under his breath that she prudently failed to hear. Then his grip had tightened, compelling her towards him.

‘Hello, wife,’ he said quietly, and bent and kissed her on the mouth. She made herself remain passive under his touch, waiting for that familiar warm tide of feeling to engulf her, but there was nothing. It was as if her warm flesh and blood had been transformed to marble. She was incapable of even the slightest response, and presently he released her. She had closed her eyes involuntarily as he had bent towards her, and she kept them closed, afraid to encounter his anger, until she knew that he had moved away.

When she ventured to open them, she found he had returned to the bedroom and was focussing all his attention on fastening the straps round his case. She bit her lip.

‘Shall I make some coffee?’ She strove for normality.

‘If you want some,’ he said, his voice expressionless. ‘Can you find everything?’

‘Well, I shall have to learn some time,’ she returned without thinking, and blushed stormily as his sardonic gaze met hers.

‘That’s true,’ he observed smoothly, and swung the case from the bed to the floor. She turned away hastily and went to the kitchenette. She filled the kettle and plugged it in, and found the remains of a pint of milk in the refrigerator.

She was searching through the cupboards for the jar of coffee when Gethyn came in. Immediately the admittedly cramped area of the kitchen seemed to shrink to the proportions of a postage stamp.

‘Look,’ she pointed to the milk. ‘That wants using up.’

‘Perhaps.’ He came to the cupboard and leaned down, his arm brushing hers. It was as much as she could do not to flinch. He produced the coffee jar and set it down on the narrow worktop. ‘Unless we decide to stay.’

‘To stay?’ She could hear the nervousness in her own voice, and knew it would not be lost on him either. ‘But we’re going to the hotel.’

‘I’m not so sure that’s such a good idea.’ His face was enigmatic as he spooned coffee into the waiting beakers. ‘This is going to be our home, at least on a temporary basis. I don’t see why we shouldn’t move straight in, and forgo your uncle’s offer, kind though it was.’

‘Oh, but we couldn’t!’ The kettle was boiling and she moved hurriedly to swith it off.

‘Why not?’ He leaned one elbow on the worktop, watching her levelly. ‘Careful of that kettle. You’re going to scald yourself.’

She set it down, her heart thumping. ‘Because—because it would hurt Uncle Phil’s feelings. It’s his wedding present to us and …’

‘I could phone him and explain the situation. I’m sure he would understand.’

‘Well, that’s more than I do.’ She lifted the kettle and filled the beakers.

‘I simply get the feeling that the implications of the bridal suite are proving a little too much for you at the moment,’ he said unemotionally. ‘I’ll ask him just to postpone it for a few months, if you like, until you’re in a mood to appreciate it more.’

She was panic-stricken. The flat was so small. What possibility of privacy did it afford? She added a splash of milk to her coffee and sipped at it almost distractedly. She preferred it with sugar, but she did not wish Gethyn to join her on another search for the commodity. She thought fast.

‘I think it’s too late to change our minds now,’ she said rapidly. ‘The hotel will be expecting us. Besides, I didn’t really expect to have to do housework on my honeymoon.’

It should have sounded coquettish, but it came out as petulance, and she wished it unsaid. Gethyn’s dark face was still and enigmatic.

He said coolly, ‘As you wish, then,’ and drank his coffee with a slight grimace.

While he phoned for a taxi to take them to the hotel, Davina rinsed the beakers under the tap. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the kitchen window, her eyes much wider and brighter than usual, but that could be the champagne, and a tiny flush of colour high on her cheekbones. She looked as if she was running a temperature, yet inside she felt deathly cold.

She was still cold when the hotel porter ushered them into the suite. Everything was there waiting for them— more champagne on ice, red roses—lovers’ flowers, filling the air with their scent, baskets of fruit. She glanced round and saw through the half-open door the gleam of a gold satin bedspread, and hurriedly averted her gaze. Gethyn was tipping the man, who was asking, after an appreciative word of thanks, if they wished to have dinner in the suite rather than downstairs in the restaurant.

‘We’ll dine up here,’ Gethyn said. ‘We can order later, I suppose.’

‘Of course, sir.’ The man’s voice was deferential, eager to please.

‘Oh no,’ Davina broke in, aghast. ‘I—I mean—wouldn’t it be more fun to have dinner downstairs …’ Her voice tailed away uncomfortably. She knew that they were both looking at her, the porter with a kind of sly amusement under his deferential manner, and Gethyn with an anger that held no deference at all. He turned to the porter.

‘My wife prefers the restaurant. Perhaps you would make the necessary arrangements.’

When the door closed behind the man, he said softly and chillingly, ‘Do you think you could manage to conceal this aversion you have for being alone with me in front of the hotel staff?’

He strode across the sitting room to a door on the opposite side and opened it, glancing in. He was smiling when he turned, but his eyes were like green ice.

‘The instinct that brought you here was quite right, lovely. Every modern convenience at your disposal—even a second bedroom for the bestowal of an importunate bridegroom.’ He stared round the luxurious sitting room. ‘And what shall we call this, eh? No Man’s Land, perhaps? Shall I wait for you here when it gets to dinner time, or would you prefer to eat separately too?’

She said, and there was a sob under her breath, ‘Gethyn?’ She was asking for his tenderness, his understanding, but he had gone and the door was shut behind him. She was alone and afraid.

With a long shuddering sigh, Davina sat up at her desk and pushed her hair back wearily from her pale face. She was still alone, she thought. But at least she was no longer afraid, and to prove it she would go to this place in Wales and meet Gethyn face to face once again.

THE signpost for Moel y Ddraig had said four miles, but Davina seemed to have been driving for hours and there was still no sign of any habitation. The narrow road wound determinedly on ahead of her, leading her deeper and deeper into the very heart of the valley.

She had encountered little other traffic, so she had been able to pay some heed to the beauty around her. It was wild and rugged when compared to some of the rounded green hills she had seen that day, with harsh, rocky outcrops thrusting through the short green turf and clumps of purple heather. There seemed to be sheep grazing everywhere, like tiny tufts of cotton wool against the vivid landscape. The sky was a deep tranquil blue with only the faintest tracery of high white cloud.

If only this had been the start of a holiday, Davina thought ruefully, she might have imagined herself in heaven. As it was, not even the wild charm of the valley could rid her of the insidious feeling of dread that was beginning to pervade her consciousness. She was already regretting quite bitterly that she had ever set out on this strange journey.

But she wouldn’t turn round and go back. Now she was here, she would go through with it. In her briefcase was a letter from Uncle Philip, setting out details of the proposed American tour—her credentials for being here. Not that she expected Gethyn to be taken in by that for one minute. It was merely a face-saver and she knew it, but at least her presence here in Wales would mean that she could test his feelings about divorce.