Dragon's Lair (26 page)

wanting him to return to London to check up on what she had said.

She sank her teeth into her lower lip. Was her mother really capable

of such deliberate malice? she wondered dazedly. She was a selfish

woman and a spoiled one, but no worse than that, surely? She could

be ruthless—with weak bridge opponents, with friends who proved

broken reeds. There was little compassion in her, as Davina had

always been aware. She was icy-brained over money too, and her

successful dealings on the stock market were a legend in her

intimate circle. And she hated Gethyn, and all he represented.

And people whom Vanessa Greer had reason to dislike were cut

out of her life without mercy, or the right to appeal. Davina had

seen it happen a dozen times and been appalled. One day, someone

might offend. The next, they seemed to have ceased to exist as far

as her mother was concerned.

She came back to the present with a start, aware that they were

turning off the road.

'Are we back so soon?'

'We're nowhere near back,' he returned. 'I think you've had as much

as you can take for one night, so we're going to stay the night here,

if they have a vacancy.'

She opened her mouth to protest, but the Landrover had stopped

and he was already climbing out, and walking up to the front door

of the house.

Davina closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat. Was she

to be spared nothing? she wondered wearily. She could only pray

that their potential landlady would not have a vacancy or that she

would not like the look of them and send them on their way. After a

brief conference at the door, Gethyn came round to the passenger

side and opened the door.

'Down you get,' he directed curtly. 'There is a room. I've told her

what's happened, and she's gone to heat up some milk and find you

some aspirin. I told her you were bushed.'

'Can't we go back to Plas Gwyn?' She looked at him pleadingly.

He'd said 'a room', not 'rooms'. Did he still intend, in spite of

everything, to carry out his threat? Her eyes searched his face, but'

there was no hint to be gained from his enigmatic look, as he stood

implacably waiting to help her out, not even bothering to answer

her question. He had made the decision. All that was left for her

was to obey it.

Her head bowed defeatedly, she let him help her down and walked

across the small gravelled space to the front door. There was a

small vestibule, crowded with folding chairs and a cheerful huddle

of buckets and spades, and a small square hall beyond.

As they waited, a door from the back of the house opened and their

hostess, a round dark-eyed robin of a woman, appeared carrying a

tray.

'There now.' Her gaze took in Davina's white face and shadowed

eyes and the plaster cast on her arm with an all-encompassing

thoroughness. 'You poor girl! A warm drink and bed, that's what

you need. This way.'

There was no choice perforce but to follow her. Davina was acutely

aware of Gethyn following behind her, his body almost brushing

hers as they ascended the narrow stairs. It was a large room at the

back, with large furniture to match, and the double bed with its blue

candlewick bedspread took pride of place.

'Shall I fetch you a hot water bottle?' Their hostess set the tray

down on the bedside table and smoothed the bedcovers with a

proprietorial hand. 'Then I'll bid you goodnight,' she added as

Davina refused the offer with an effort at a smile.

It seemed -very quiet in the room once the door had closed behind

her. Davina stared down at the flowered carpet.

'We could do with some air.' Gethyn walked over to the window

and gave the top sash an abrupt jerk. Then he drew the curtains.

Immediately the room seemed to close in on them, become more

intimate.

'Do you want to get into bed before you have your milk?' He

opened the bottle of aspirin, and shook a couple into his palm,

before turning to see why she had not replied. The expression on

her face must have been totally revealing, because he swore coldly

and comprehensively and then walked over to her.

'What are you imagining now?' His voice sounded icy with fury.

'That my foul lusts have to be satisfied before all other

considerations? Considerations like ordinary decency? Contrary to

your expectations,
cariad,
I have not brought you here to rape you.

You have my word on that— not that I expect it to count much with

you. You're here simply because I think you need a rest. If they'd

suggested keeping you overnight at Bronglais, I'd have welcomed it.

Understood?'

She nodded faintly, hot tears pricking at her eyelids. 'I'm sorry,' she

managed.

'So you keep saying.' He turned away with an impatient shrug. 'Let's

take all the apologies as read, shall we? It would be much less

complicated.'

'I suppose it would.' Her tone sounded ragged, and she hoped he

had not noticed. She walked over to the bed and sank down on the

edge, reaching for the beaker of milk. She took the aspirin he

passed her without argument, wishing only that they could numb the

ache in her heart as efficiently as they would disperse the throb in

her arm. She wanted oblivion, yet everywhere she looked, he

seemed to be. When she had drunk the milk, he took the beaker and

replaced it on the tray, then squatted down in front of her looking

up into her face.

'I suggest,' he said quietly, 'that you'll be more comfortable out of

your sweater and jeans. I also suggest that you'll find it well-nigh

impossible to get out of them unaided at first. If you want, I'll call

Mrs Evans back, or I could help you myself. Which is it to be?'

She hesitated painfully, aware of an odd wistfulness deep inside

her. Then she said almost inaudibly, 'Help me— please.'

He was very gentle as he eased the sleeve of her sweater over the

plaster. She could almost have said tender, but such a word had no

place in their relationship. His attitude was reassuringly

matter-of-fact as he tugged the garment over her head and tossed it

on to the bed. Then he undid the button on her jeans and lowered

the zip, guiding the fabric over her hips.

'Step out,' he ordered briefly, and her jeans went to join the sweater.

He reached behind her and turned back the bedcovers. 'We'll leave

it at that, I think. From what I remember, you're not in the habit of

sleeping nude.'

'No,' she said, cursing inwardly at the faint colour that rose in her

face.

He rearranged the pillows slightly. 'That's better. The doctor said

you ought to keep your arm raised slightly for tonight at least. Get

in.'

Davina compiled, wriggling until she could find a position in which

she might be able to get some rest. The cast on her arm wasn't

particularly heavy, but it felt incredibly bulky and obtrusive as she

tried to get comfortable. She did not look at him, but she could hear

the rustle of his clothes as he removed them, and then the bed

beside her creaked under his weight.

'Gethyn,' she said, her throat suddenly tight.

'I'm sorry, Davina.' His own tone was flat. 'But not even for you am

I prepared to spend a cold night in that travesty of a fireside chair. I

won't touch you, I give you my word, no matter what I may have

implied earlier today. Now, go to sleep.' He switched off the

bedside light, plunging the room into darkness.

She lay very still. It was better this way, she told herself blankly.

Far better that he should think that she had been registering an

instinctive protest about his unwanted presence in her bed than that

he should guess the shameful truth. For the fact was that she had

welcomed his unfamiliar weight and warmth beside her. And more

than welcomed. Wanted to feel him not just beside her but against

her, pressing her down into 'the softness of the mattress—his

mouth, his hands exploring, uncovering ...

She turned away almost convulsively towards the edge of the bed.

'Davina.' His voice came softly through the darkness, and she

tensed. 'I just wanted you to know if it's any comfort to you that I

agree to the divorce. When we get back to Plas Gwyn, I'll sign

anything you want. You don't have to worry any more.'

She felt him turn away from her, towards his edge of the bed. She

didn't move, but her brain was teeming. It was totally ludicrous, she

thought. For him to say that, at this of all moments! As she lay here

barely two feet away from him, longing for him, hungering for him

as if the past had been wiped out. But why was that so impossible

anyway? she asked herself. If you loved someone, surely the love

went on no matter how deep the hurt, or how long the parting. And

she did love him. There was no more room for doubt. Loved him

and wanted him too, until her teeth ached with it.

But he didn't want her. Oh, he might have taken her in a spirit of

revenge, but it would have been on a strictly temporary basis. His

anger against her had died now, stifled by pity for her weakness

maybe, and all that remained in its ashes was indifference. That was

why he had vetoed apologies and explanations. Because he had

been looking ahead to their ultimate parting, and wanted to make it

as simple as possible. A clean break.

She caught the edging on the pillowslip between her teeth and

gripped it tightly to prevent herself from moaning. How hard she

had fought all this time to conceal the truth, most of all from herself.

And how hard she was going to have to fight still if she was to get

out of this situation with even the remnants of her pride left intact.

She shut her eyes so tightly that brightly coloured specks danced

and jigged behind her eyelids, imagining what it would have been

like, what she would have felt if she had offered herself to him, and

he had refused.

Somehow she would have to get back to London and proceed with

the divorce, and hope that eventually she would be able to exorcise

him from her mind, her heart, the innermost recesses of her soul.

Perhaps, she thought, that was all she had ever been afraid of—the

knowledge of the depth of her commitment to him. It was true that

she had been spoiled all her life in material things, but real love,

real caring had for the most part been strangers to her. Mrs Greer's

main concern was that Davina should be a credit to her. When she

was being a submissive daughter, then she was treated amiably.

Uncle Philip, she knew, had genuine affection for her, but his prime

concern was with his own family and she would not have had it

otherwise. No wonder she had been overwhelmed by what Gethyn

could so effortlessly make her feel! But once again she had been

cheated. He had only the hollowness of passion to offer her, not the

warm reassurance of loving that she needed.

Forgetting that she was not alone, she gave a long deep sigh, and

started as he spoke.

'Can't you sleep? Is your arm paining you?'

'A little.' It was only half a lie, she placated her conscience. She had

to stifle a little cry as his hand touched her bare arm.

'No wonder you can't sleep,' he said roughly. 'You're half frozen.

Why didn't you take that hot water bottle she offered you?'

'I think I must still be suffering from shock.' Her voice shook a little.

'I—I can't seem to get warm.'

She heard him give a muffled groan, then the bedsprings creaked as

he moved. His arm went round her and she was drawn back against

him, folded tightly into the curve of his body, absorbing his warmth.

'Better?' he asked drily.

'Yes.' She could barely manage the whispered monosyllable. His

closeness, the knowledge that unlike herself he had no hang-ups

about sleeping nude, were playing havoc with her senses.

Gethyn sighed and muttered something she could not catch, but she

did not dare ask him to repeat it. She made herself lie like a stone,

forced her breathing to become deep and regular, wanting to

deceive him that she had fallen asleep. And gradually, in spite of

herself, fiction became fact, and she slipped almost without

realising it over the edge of drowsiness into slumber.

She woke with a start. It was still early, but daylight was edging

into the room through the curtains. She found they had changed

their positions in the night. Gethyn now was lying on his back, and