The Right Bride?: Bride of Desire / The English Aristocrat's Bride / Vacancy: Wife of Convenience. Sara Craven
knelt on the bed, resting her arms on the window ledge, staring down at the bay where it had all begun.
Not very wise…
That was what Madelon had told her in warning, she thought, and it was probably the understatement of the decade. But how could I know where it would lead? After all, I only wanted some time to myself—to think, and make some decisions. And I didn’t wish to be cross-examined, however kindly, over where my husband was, or why he wasn’t with me.
I just—needed some peace.
I never meant there to be more to it than that. And I certainly never intended to deceive anyone, or cause any hurt.
Plus, I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
But then no one actually asked me to do so—or not until it was so much too late.
She stopped herself right there. She could play with words and motives for ever, but nothing could actually justify what she’d done. She’d desperately needed to be honest, and instead she’d crashed in flames. And she could blame nothing and no one but herself.
Yet here she was, two years on, knowing that she could not afford to be completely frank. That there were still things that could not be said.
A widow with a child, she thought. That was all anyone needed to know.
And although Remy might be back in Ignac, that did not necessarily imply they would meet.
On the contrary, she told herself with resolution, she would go out of her way to ensure they didn’t.
I dare not risk it, she thought. For all kinds of reasons…
Sighing, she swung herself off the bed, pulling on shorts, a vest top and sandals, then went over to the cot. Tom was still fast asleep, chubby arms tossed wide, and her heart lurched as she looked down at him.
When Tante was gone, he would be all she had left to love. But he made all the agony of the past seem somehow worthwhile. She smoothed the damp, dark curls with a gentle finger, but he did not stir, so she tiptoed from the room and went slowly downstairs. The living room was empty, so presumably Madame Drouac had returned to her own abode for the afternoon, and the sun was streaming in through the open door at the rear.
Allie, drawing a deep, unsteady breath, walked out into the walled garden beyond.
The wind had dropped, and there were just a few faint streaks of high cloud, motionless against the baking blue of the sky.
She sat down on the grass, her back against the solitary ancient apple tree, and stared upwards, shading her eyes with her hand. So many days like this, she thought, breathing in the scent of earth and sun-warmed grass. So many memories jarring her mind again. Splintering her inner calm. Waiting inexorably to be dealt with.
Closing her eyes, Allie, slowly and reluctantly, allowed herself to surrender to the pull of the past.
In the days following her ruthless and spectacular rescue by Remy de Brizat, she’d made a conscious decision to keep well away from the beach, even though Tante had supplied her with a tide table and told her to learn it by heart.
But, in her heart, Allie knew that the rise and fall of the sea wasn’t the principal danger to be encountered.
The weather had turned intensely hot, giving her a good excuse to remain quietly in the seclusion of the garden, sunbathing and reading, as she felt her inner tensions begin to slip gently away. Or most of them, anyway.
One morning, over breakfast, Tante had mentioned that she was driving to Quimper later, to visit her accountant. ‘Some papers to do with tax, chérie, and so boring. But you are welcome to come with me, if you wish.’
Allie had decided she did not wish. She’d waved goodbye to Madelon, then taken her rug and cushion into the garden and stretched out face downward, unclipping her bikini top with a languid hand as she did so. But the hum of insects, the whisper of the leaves, and the distant murmur of the sea had failed for once to have their usual soporific effect. She’d felt oddly restless, and even the thriller she’d been reading had palled, its plot descending, she had decided, into sheer absurdity.
She’d tossed it aside, pillowed her head on her arms, and closed her eyes, making a deliberate effort to relax her whole body, commencing with her toes, then working slowly upward. Any moment now, she’d promised herself, she would feel completely calm.
‘Bonjour, Alys.’
For a shocked second, she thought she’d dozed off and was actually dreaming, but one startled sideways glance revealed battered espadrilles and, rising out of them, a pair of long, tanned and totally masculine legs.
‘You?’ She almost sat up, remembering just in time her loosened top. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I wished to make sure that the events of the other morning had left no lasting trauma.’ He grinned down at her, totally at his ease, casual in shorts and a cotton shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist.
‘And is this how you normally make house calls?’ It was difficult, she found, to glare at someone effectively when you were forced to lie prone, and all they could see was your profile. ‘Just—march in without knocking or asking permission?’ And half-dressed?
‘No,’ he said. ‘But this is not a professional visit, you understand. Also, I met with Madame Colville on the road, and she gave me leave to visit you.’
He looked her over with undisguised appreciation, his eyes lingering, she realised furiously, on the narrow band of jade fabric that scarcely masked the swell of her buttocks.
‘The sun is fierce today,’ he said softly. ‘And you should not risk burning such lovely skin.’ He knelt down beside her, reaching for the bottle of sun lotion. He tipped some into the palm of his hand and began to apply it to her shoulders, in smooth, delicate strokes.
For a moment she was rendered mute with shock, then hurriedly pulled herself together.
‘Thank you,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘But I’m quite capable of doing that for myself.’
‘Vraiment?’ His brows lifted in polite enquiry, but he made no attempt to bring his unwanted ministrations to an end. ‘You are, perhaps, a contorsionniste? No? Then be still, and allow me to do this for you.’
His light, assured touch on her skin sent alarm signals quivering along her nerve-endings.
I don’t want this, she thought almost frantically. I—really do not…
She would have given anything to be able to sit up and snatch the damned bottle from his hand, but she was anchored to the rug. If only—only—she hadn’t unfastened her top. And the fact that he must have seen hundreds of women with bare breasts in his career made not an atom of difference.
Because Remy de Brizat was not her doctor, and, for all his comments about trauma, she was not his patient and never would be.
He took all the time in the world, his hands lingering, while Allie, raging with the knowledge of her own temporary helplessness, lay with her eyes shut and her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she fought a losing battle over the slow, inevitable awakening of her senses.
This can’t be happening to me, she thought. It just can’t.
One of the reasons I ran away was because I didn’t want to be touched—because I couldn’t bear it any longer.
And this man—this stranger—has no right to make me feel like this—as if my skin was made of silk, and my bones were dissolving. He has no right at all.
At last he paused, running a light finger along the rim of her bikini briefs but venturing no further, and she released her held breath, thinking that her ordeal was over.
Only to find herself stifling a startled whimper when he began to anoint the backs of her thighs, moving gently down to