The Sleeping Sword (57 page)

But I had lain fallow for so long, involving myself in dramas which were not my own, that this personal flesh and blood confrontation was not to be missed. I might tell myself that I must settle this issue for St. Mark's Fold, but just then St. Mark's Fold seemed very far away. Something real—whether it might be good for me or not—was actually happening to
me
—not to Camille nor to Blanche nor to some battered hopeful girl from Silsbridge Street—but to me, and I could not resist it.

And so I went tamely to enquire what might be found in my kitchen for this fastidious man to eat, knowing that the oxtail soup, the cutlets in mushroom sauce, the treacle tart my cook eventually produced could not hope to gain his favour.

‘I gather you are less interested in
haute cuisine
than you used to be?' he said, examining the treacle tart with faint surprise before he covered its plebeian countenance with whipped cream.

‘We cannot all of us afford a French chef, you know, Gideon.'

‘Ah—you have uncovered the secrets of my kitchen arrangements, have you? No doubt your employer finds you a useful source of tittle-tattle.'

I ignored his rudeness, offered him port which he refused, although he would take brandy—assuming such a common-place was to be had—and would drink it, with coffee, in the drawing-room as he had always done in the past when we had dined alone together. But in those days, with the well-peopled splendours of Tarn Edge about us, we had not really been alone. We were alone now, my drawing-room appearing suddenly very small and rather frail as he took possession of it, helping himself to the brandy I kept mainly for Patrick Stone and Liam Adair.

‘You admit, then that although I am no philanthropist like Titus Salt, I am no ogre either.'

‘Yes—I admit you are neither?'

‘And that I am building good houses?'

‘You would hardly put your name to anything that was not of the highest quality, Gideon.'

‘Exactly. Then what are you complaining of?'

‘Gideon—please understand that Liam, whatever personal rancour he may have against you, really does care about those people. You cannot accommodate all of them. It was never your intention to do so. These houses are being constructed solely for your work-force, you will not deny that.'

‘Certainly they are for my workers. We have agreed that I am no philanthropist. I do not feel called upon to make myself responsible for the sleeping arrangements of the whole town.'

‘Of course you do not—I realize that. I suppose our grandfathers did not feel responsible for the hand-loom weavers when the power-looms came in—nor Mr. Nicholas Barforth, thirty years ago when his combing-machines made so many hundreds of hand-combers destitute. They were casualties of progress too, and of course we must progress.'

‘I am glad we agree on that.'

‘But those people in St. Mark's Fold are not your workers, Gideon—or very few of them. And even if you have any of your new houses to spare, they could not afford your rents. What is to become of them? I thought one could not sink much lower than St. Mark's Fold, but perhaps one can. There is the workhouse, of course—of which I know very little—but Liam seems to think death by starvation would be preferable to that. However rash he may be—however wrong-headed—he does care.'

‘Believe me,' he said, clenching a hand and leaning towards me, ‘I don't give a damn for Liam Adair and his opinions. I feel no need to explain myself to him. I want
you
to know what I'm doing—that's all.'

And leaning closer, he flexed his hand again and placed it deliberately on my knee, his presence completely filling the room, his touch penetrating the fabric of my dress, burning through to the skin and the bone and beyond it, to the pit of my stomach where I could feel a pulse-beat starting.

‘Gideon.'

‘Yes,' he said, ‘Why else am I here? And I should have come a long time ago. I've wanted you for years, Grace—years—and I see no reason now to deny myself what other men—'

‘There are no other men.'

‘I
saw
you—with Liam Adair—in this room. I saw you.'

‘You saw nothing.'

‘I saw him kiss you. I've never kissed you. Are you going to refuse me?'

‘Of course!'

I fought him. I had to fight him. I struck out with hard fists at his head and shoulders, pounded them into his back as he caught me and dragged me forward against his chest; did everything, in fact but the one thing that
would
have stopped him, the simple calling out to my maid for help. His mouth hurt mine, his tongue parting my lips was an invasion, his teeth sinking into my tongue seemed to draw blood, his hands, taking in possession whatever they could, maddened me. I fought him and the plain truth is—oh yes, and I was well aware of it—that I was fighting not to make him stop but because the battle itself was exciting, splendid, a rich and rare feast in itself for my starved senses. And so I fought on until his hands and his mouth had already possessed so much of me that to deny him the rest seemed pointless—or so I convinced myself—my resistance petering out to a feeble, vanquished plea that the maid might come in.

He got up, leaving me winded in my chair, and I heard his voice saying calmly into the corridor, ‘Your mistress will not be needing you again tonight. You may retire', and then the sound of the key turning in the lock as he came back into the room.

He walked towards me, shrugging off his jacket, loosening his neck-tie, and then, kneeling down on the hearthrug, he carefully made up the fire and stirred it into a blaze.

‘Dear Grace, I can't tell you how often lately, usually at this time of day, I've thought of you. Yes, when I've eaten my gourmet dinner, I've sat many a time with my brandy and wondered how you'd look naked, in the firelight. Come here to me now, Grace. I'll fetch you if necessary—but come to me.'

I got up—entranced as I had seen Camille entranced—and sank to my knees on the rug beside him, wanting him so badly that it
was
unavoidable, my body telling me that he was air and water to me, my powers of logic—which knew better than that—being laughed to scorn by the unashamed urgency of my desire. I wanted him. Everything else was unimportant, unreal. No matter what he did to me, no matter what violence or shame he offered me, while that fire remained inside me—like the women of Silsbridge Street—I should want him still.

‘Yes, you looked like this, Grace—a hundred times. You trembled too, and moaned how much you wanted me. Do it, Grace.'

But for answer I kicked away the few garments which remained and fell against him, his chest as hard, his skin as supple and fragrant as
I
had imagined it, the clamouring inside me so urgent now that he felt it, laughed in triumphant excitement at it and then, without more ado, descended full upon me and inside me with great purpose.

‘That's the first time—for possession,' he said, but our excitement had not abated and we remained pressed close together in the firelight, a time of exploration, of long sweeping caresses that set me purring and glowing, offering my body to his eyes and to his hands, stretching myself against him, my own hands delighting in the firm, flat muscle of him and the hard angles, my nostrils luxuriating in his odours, my mouth tasting his skin until desire came again and, in this new frenzy, I wanted not merely to be possessed but to be swallowed whole and alive, unable to give enough to take enough until fulfilment thudded through me, retreated and came again as intense as before, causing me to bite my lips and cry aloud.

We slept then, my head on his shoulder, waking, when the fire burned low, to the chill of the March night. And when I shivered he got up, pulled me to my feet, and smiled.

‘I want you again,' he said, ‘but in your bed this time'; and so we went upstairs to my virginal bedchamber which, once again, he filled and transformed so that it was his room, his bed, as I was his woman.

The excitement was less this time, the possession deeper. There was more leisure, more caressing, an arousal not only of the senses, his mouth brushing with closed lips over my face, my fingertips tracing the heavy arch of his eyebrows, the high-bridged line of his nose, the length of his firm, full lips which kissed my exploring hand playfully, gently, then my wrist and the inside of my arm, the sensitive angles of neck and shoulder and thigh. There was no haste, no urge to devour this time, a joining together that seemed to happen of itself, quite naturally, my body flowing into his happily; opening itself readily and with a simple, wholehearted joy, to pleasure.

He lay for a moment on his back staring at the wall and then, decisively, he said, ‘I'll marry you if I can. It may not be legal because your marriage and mine made us close kin. But if it
is
legal I'll marry you. And if not then, I'll take you back to Tarn Edge and be damned! You don't mind if I smoke, do you?'

And having made his decision—having decided when and where to ‘take' me—he smoked his cigar and fell asleep abruptly, both of us having good reasons for exhaustion, although I lay beside him very far from rest, watching the sky lighten to a cool dawn behind my curtains, passing from a state of bitter conflict—not with him but with myself—to an attitude of stubborn but grievous resolve.

I wanted him. The fire in my limbs had subsided now and still I wanted him. I had wanted him long before I had wanted Gervase, had been so overwhelmed by him that even complex, unstable Gervase had seemed safe by comparison. And so it had proved, for although Gervase's light-weight, auburn body had delighted me, it had never possessed me as Gideon's had just done; had given me pleasure which had rippled over me and left me free, not the pleasure I had just known, which could weld me irrevocably and quite slavishly to the man who had created it.

I had wanted Gideon and feared him. I wanted him now and I still feared him. I could go to Tarn Edge and be the woman he wanted, the woman I had been before. But did that woman still exist? And if she did not, then could I recreate her? Did I even
like
that obsessive housekeeper, that efficient hostess, with all her brilliant, irrelevant skills? But she was the woman Gideon wanted and yes—if I desired it—I could bring her to life again, could place myself entirely under his protection—sacrificing my independence as Camille had done—and, little by little, could be completely possessed by him, for I knew he was the stronger and had always known it. I knew he would expect me to want only what he wanted, act only as he acted, think only as he thought, not from any conscious need to dominate me but because, like his mother, he sincerely believed only his own way to be right. He would possess me, absorb me, that was why I feared him, but what frightened me most was the part of myself that even now, in this cool dawn of logic and common sense—of survival—would have submitted joyfully to that possession, asking nothing in return for the whole of my ingenuity, my will, by brain, every drop of my energy and my time but the pleasure of moaning and sighing in his arms every night.

I wanted him and feared him. For an hour, while he slept, I hovered precariously balanced between the two, wanting him so keenly at one moment that the submerging of my identity in his seemed a small price to pay, terrified the next moment and furious with myself when I remembered the implications of that price, the captivity I had struggled so hard to escape and to which now I was so mindlessly eager to return. And unlike Gervase, Gideon would hold me fast whether he continued to desire me or not. Once I was his, once I had committed myself, then his I would remain.

I wanted him. It was all that mattered and if the time ever came when I found myself neglected—as Gervase had neglected me—then at least I would have lived through who knew how many years of bliss. I wanted him as Venetia had wanted Robin Ashby and, like her, was prepared to offer myself, if necessary, as a sacrifice. But, as dawn came slanting through the window, my fear was greater, the risk too terrible and the price too high. We were too alike. I would resist too bitterly and, in the end, I would not be possessed, I would be broken. Fear prevailed—that, and the acute, heart-rending memory of Venetia. I could not do it.

He woke and, finding me sitting on the edge of the bed, leaned over and kissed the base of my spine, his hands very warm and very sure as they travelled the length of my back and reached my shoulders.

‘
My
bed next time, Grace, on my satin sheets,' he whispered against my skin which responded exactly as it should have done, and as he had intended, with the frisson that anticipates pleasure.

‘Ah—you have satin sheets now, do you?'

‘I do. I have every conceivable luxury that money can buy. I indulge every whim, give way to every extravagance—you should know that, my darling.'

‘I am not a luxurious woman, Gideon.'

‘But you are—you are. You are a rare woman—altogether unique—and what has more value than rarity? What would the
Mona Lisa
be worth if there were a dozen? I find everything I want in you, which makes you very luxurious indeed.'

‘And the things I want?'

‘You shall have them, better and more of each one than you imagined. You'll want me gone, I suppose, before the maid comes in?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then I'll go. I'll obey the conventions for now, at any rate. Remember—I'll marry you, Grace, if I can.'

‘That's very good of you, Gideon.'

But my tone did nothing to dispel his easy, tolerant humour, the content of a man who is well satisfied both with himself and with his woman, and pulling me against him he began to kiss the nape of my neck and my ear.

‘Don't play the independent female with me, Grace Barforth. We know better than that now, don't we?'

So we did. I leaned back against him, surrendering to his hands, the warmth and strength of his body and his will, letting his odours wash over me, indulging myself just once again, just once—But he was not inclined to be amorous, for morning was fast approaching, he had many things to attend to and must go home, change his clothes and shave before showing his face at the mill.