Diana Hamilton - The Faithful Wife

She was distressed because he’d seen through the charade, because he’d realised she had to be the instigator, he reminded himself cynically. Had she really imagined he wouldn’t. The whole thing smacked of complicity.

Pouring tea, he recalled how she’d drawn his attention to the distant sound of an engine. He hadn’t caught it himself, but she’d obviously been waiting, ears straining, for the sound that would tell her the job had been done, and that Evie was triumphantly driving out of this winter wilderness with the rotor arm in her pocket.

She hadn’t been able to hide her pleasure so she’d dressed it up as relief at the return of her so-called missing sister. And then, and only then, had she thrown herself into the anxiety act, begging him to contact the police, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t be going anywhere.

Not tonight, at least. Tomorrow he’d be out of here, even if he walked the soles clean off his shoes! Although she’d said she’d go with him, he recognised that as sheer bravado. She could stay here and play the reconciliation scene to an empty house!

He turned, put two cups of tea on the central table. She was standing where he’d left her. Not weeping now, not doing anything. Her ashen face and the anguished twist of her mouth wrenched at his guts.

His mouth went dry, his throat muscles clenching. Had she wanted a reconciliation that badly? Badly enough to make her dream up this last-ditch farce?

Not allowing himself to even think of that, he said tersely, ‘Drink this; you look as if you need it.’ He went to the work surface where the bottles were lined up like an invitation to a week-long bacchanalia. He selected a brandy, noting the expense she had been prepared to go to, and poured two generous measures into glasses that he unearthed from one of the cupboards.

Bella watched him from heavy eyes. The hard, lean body was full of grace, despite all that sharply honed power. She knew that body as well as she knew her own. Better. She had never tired of watching him, of drowning in the effect he had on her—an effect that was threatening to swamp her all over again with its full and shattering force.

Her stomach twisted with unwanted excitement, her pulses going into overdrive, blood throbbing thickly through her veins. She whimpered, angry with herself, with the wretched body that couldn’t accept that their marriage, their love—everything—was over.

She wanted to walk out of this room but couldn’t move. There was potent chemistry here, keeping her immobile, a subtle kind of magic holding her against her will. She watched him turn. He was holding what looked like two huge doses of brandy in his elegant, capable hands.

‘Sit,’ he commanded tersely. ‘Tea and then a shot of brandy could help.’

‘I don’t want it.’ She dragged her eyes from the heart-stopping wonder of him, fixing them on the floor, not caring if she looked and sounded like a sulky child.

She was no longer his wife, not in any real sense, so she didn’t have to let him pull her strings, tell her what to do and when to do it. Not any more.

Besottedly in love with him, she’d never made a fuss when things hadn’t worked out the way she wanted them to. She’d taken it for granted that, because he loved her, the decisions he made regarding the present and the future were the best for them. She’d believed he had some grand plan, the details of which had been a mystery to her.

Love had made her turn herself into a doormat She now knew he had never loved her—couldn’t have done—so was it any wonder he’d thought nothing at all of walking all over her?

Thrusting the disturbing revelation aside, she lifted her head and gave him a defiant look. ‘I’m going to bed. I’ve had as much of today as I can stomach.’ She was doing the dictating now, and in some perverse way was almost enjoying it. ‘You said you’d be making tracks in the morning. Don’t go without me.’ She stared at him from glass-clear, challenging eyes. ‘My sense of direction is nil, as you might remember. So take it as self-preservation on my part, not a warped desire for your company.’

Let him chew that over! Engineered this unlikely set-up, had she? Conceited brute!

She was at the foot of the wooden staircase when his terse voice stopped her in her tracks.

‘Have you eaten today? You won’t get far on what will probably turn out to be a ten-mile hike to get to anything remotely approaching civilisation on a diet of vinegary spleen.’ His tone wasn’t remotely humorous, nor even a touch compassionate. It was totally judgemental. ‘Was losing weight part of your job requirements? Stick insects still high fashion, are they?’

She ignored the lash of anger in his voice. What did he care, anyway? She could get thin enough to disappear with the bathwater and he wouldn’t blink an eye. It would save him the trouble of divorcing her.

But he was right about one thing—she should at least try to eat something. The walk out of here tomorrow would be exhausting, and the single slice of toast she’d had at breakfast was nothing more than a distant memory.

Much as she now hated to do anything he suggested—a backlash from the days when she’d practically turned herself inside out to please him—she turned back, and would have rooted around for the bread and some cheese and taken it through to eat by the probably dying fire, but he got in before her.

‘I’ll fix something. There appears to be enough food laid on to provision a garrison so it shouldn’t be difficult. Why don’t you drink that tea?’

No anger now, merely a smooth, impersonal politeness. It reminded her of her former attempts to be adult about the situation. So she’d play it his way—forget being bolshie, drink her tea like the man said.

It was tepid, but she got through half of it and ignored the brandy. He was sipping his as he moved around. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him. He was good in a kitchen, and she’d never known it.

She’d always been there, waiting for him to fit in a visit home between his tight work schedules. So pleased to see him, so eager for the time he could spare her—had condescended to spare her!—that she’d practically fallen over herself to make their time together as smoothly memorable as possible. After all, she’d had little else to do until she’d taken the initiative and gone back to work. He’d hated that!

The helping of grilled Cumberland sausages and tomato halves he quickly and efficiently produced was enormous enough to make her groan inwardly, and the mug of milky cocoa made her eyes go wide.

Had he secretly yearned for nursery food while she’d dished up sophisticated delicacies—potted shrimps, navarin of lamb, home-made sorbets so delicious they brought tears to the eye? All exquisitely served on the finest bone china—accompanied by superb wines, of course.

All the effort and dedicated planning that had gone into every meal she had ever produced for him, when all the time he might well have preferred a plate of sausages and a mug of cocoa!

Now she would never know. She most certainly wouldn’t ask.

The forced intimacy of the situation frayed her nerve-endings, while the heart-clenching nearness of him on the opposite side of the small table brought the sensations she’d been battling to forget for a whole year burgeoning back to life. Which didn’t help her appetite.

And she couldn’t make an attempt at light, relaxing conversation. Relaxation didn’t get a look in while he was around. And they didn’t have a single thing to say to each other that didn’t reek of contention.

Even the small sound of cutlery on earthenware platters became too much to bear. She stood up, pushing back her chair more sharply and clumsily than she’d intended.