Devil and the Deep Sea (11 page)

It was clear that Solange was carefully on her best behaviour. In

fact, Samma thought ruefully, they were all trying rather too hard.

And Elvire's presence, supervising the meal, didn't help.

If I wasn't here, Samma thought, she would probably be sitting in

my place, smiling at Roche across the table, letting him refill her

glass with wine.

Whereas, because of me, she's now some kind of second-class

citizen. I bet she hates my guts. Because she must have hoped that

Roche would marry her one day.

But there was no clue to any inner emotional turmoil in the

beautiful, serene face as Elvire moved about the table.

Coffee was served in the
salon.
Samma had been too fraught earlier

to fully appreciate her surroundings, but now she felt free to wander

round the large room, examining the pictures—none of
Le Diable

as far as she could see—as well as the cabinets with their

collections of porcelain, antique fans and
etuis.

It was all very gracious and elegant—and founded on blood and

plunder, she thought with a faint sigh as she sank down on one of

the soft and massive leather sofas which flanked the hearth.

'May I have some coffee, Papa? May I?' Solange appealed, as

Elvire brought in the tray, and Roche smiled faintly.

'Well, perhaps, as this is a special occasion.' His eyes met Samma's

almost caressingly, and she looked away, blushing.

Life would be easier to cope with when these first, loaded days

were over, and they were no longer forced to behave like

conventional newly-weds, she thought uncomfortably. At the

reception that morning, she'd had to stand in the circle of his arm,

smiling radiantly, even lifting her face for his kiss when the toast to

their happiness was drunk, and she'd felt a total hypocrite.

Roche brought her some cognac in a balloon glass. 'For enjoyment

rather than medicine this time,' he told her in an undertone.

'Have you seen my doll, Papa?' Solange broke in impatiently. 'See, I

can brush its hair, and it has petticoats with real lace.'

'Tres belle,'
Roche agreed gravely, sitting down beside her to

admire the toy's manifold perfections.

Watching them covertly, Samma saw Solange glow perceptibly as

he talked to her. He was kind, she thought, but aloof. He showed

the child little open affection, and Solange seemed to accept this,

not climbing on his knee, or throwing her arms around him, as

anyone might have expected.

There was a soft cough, and Samma saw that Elvire had rejoined

them.

'It is time Solange was in bed.' She held out a hand. 'Come,
p'tite.
I

have run your bath.'

'Must I go, Papa?' Solange looked prepared to pout, then thought

better of it, putting her hand into Elvire's, her doll securely tucked

under her other arm.

Elvire paused. 'Will there be anything else this evening, Roche? If

not, I will bid you goodnight.'

Samma stared rigidly at the floor. Who was supposed to be kidding

whom? she wondered angrily.

'Thank you, Elvire. There is nothing more we require.' Roche

sounded casual. '
Bonne nuit.'

'Bonne nuit,
Papa. Sleep well,' Solange piped, and Samma heard

Elvire giggle softly as they left the room.

'Another cognac?' Roche asked.

She shook her head. She said, 'Roche—would you mind if I had

Solange's hair cut?'

He burst out laughing. 'Hardly a romantic topic for our wedding

night,
mignonne,
but, of course, you must do as you think best.

Solange is your responsibility now.'

She said stiltedly, 'I suppose so.' She glanced at her watch. 'I—I

think I might have an early night.'

'An excellent idea,
ma belle.'
There was a note of amusement in his

smooth voice, and something else—not so easily deciphered and far

more disturbing. 'I was about to suggest it myself.'

Her heart began to thud, painfully and unevenly. She stole a

nervous glance at him. 'Yes—well . . .' She rose, putting down her

empty glass. 'If you'll—excuse me . .

Roche said softly, 'Not so fast.' He walked over to her, resting his

hands lightly on her shoulders. The dark eyes glinted down at her.

'Are you so eager to run away from me? What refuge are you

seeking, I wonder? This is, after all, my house. And you are my

wife.'

She tried to pull away, but his grasp tightened. 'But I'm not your

wife—not really. This isn't a proper marriage. You—you said that

yourself—just an arrangement—you know you did.' She was

gabbling, and she knew it.

He said, 'Ah, but that was before I was sure of you.' He lifted the

hand which wore his ring. 'Now, you belong to me,
ma belle.'

She snatched her hand away. She said breathlessly, 'You bought a

year—not my whole life. Now, let me go.'

For a moment, she felt as if she was balanced on some kind of a

knife-edge, then Roche released her, stepping backwards with a

small, ironic bow.

She knew he was watching her as she walked to the door, and she

was terrified of making a fool of herself—stumbling over her feet,

perhaps, or betraying her inner strain in some other blatant way.

She didn't relax until she was in her bedroom, with the door closed

behind her.

She said, aloud, 'I'm safe now.' Then repeated, 'Safe,' and wished,

almost desperately, that she could believe it.

ALL desire for sleep seemed to have left Samma, although the bed

had been turned down invitingly, she saw, and one of her new

broderie anglaise nightgowns fanned out on the coverlet. And

before dinner she'd found all her new clothes unpacked and neatly

put away in the closets.

Elvire might only be playing at being Roche's housekeeper, as she

herself was pretending to be his wife, but it was impossible to fault

the way the other girl carried out her duties, Samma thought

grudgingly.

She took a leisurely shower, put on her nightdress, and sat down at

the dressing-table to give her hair its nightly brushing, tensing as

she wondered if she could hear the sound of movement from the

adjoining room.

She picked up her brush, grimacing. She would have to get used to

this unaccustomed proximity, or she would end up a nervous wreck.

It was his room, after all, and he was entitled to use it—or find

more congenial surroundings as the mood took him, she told

herself, as she began to tug the brush through her hair.

And stopped, her attention totally arrested by the noiseless opening

of the communicating door.

Roche walked into the room. His hair was damp, as if he too had

been in the shower, and he was wearing a dark blue silk robe, and

nothing else, as far as she could gather.

She dropped her brush with a clatter. 'What are you doing here?

What do you want?'

He said quite gently, 'You are not a child or a fool,
ma belle.
I made

my intentions clear downstairs.'

'But you promised you'd leave me alone—you said . . .'

'We seem to have said a great deal in our short acquaintance, and

little of it makes any sense at all.' He came to her side, and lifted

her bodily off the stool and into his arms in one smooth,

co-ordinated movement. His voice was almost rough. 'I spent my

first wedding night alone, Samantha. That is not going to happen a

second time, whether you wish it or not.'

He carried her into his room without haste, and put her down beside

the enormous bed. He looked at her for a long, measuring moment,

then slid a finger under the narrow ribbon strap of her demure

nightdress. 'Did you buy this today?'

Mutely, she nodded.

He said with a ghost of laughter in his voice, 'Then it would be a

pity to tear it. Take it off,
cherie.'

'No.' Her voice was scarcely more than a breath. 'I—I

couldn't—please . . .'

'So modest?' he asked softly. 'Is it only beside swimming pools in

the moonlight that you discard your inhibitions along with your

clothes, my little nymph?'

'What—what do you mean?' Samma faltered, her heart doing a

frantic somersault.

'I think you know.' Roche's eyes never left hers, and his thumb drew

small circles on the bare flesh of her shoulder. 'Did you really think

you were alone that night on Cristoforo?'

Samma gasped, colour flooding her face, as she remembered that

sudden, unnerving conviction that she was being watched as she

swam. 'You mean you were—spying on me?' she choked. 'Oh,

you're vile . . .'

'You'd have preferred me to declare my presence—join you,

perhaps?' His white teeth flashed in a wicked grin. 'I don't think so.

I thought it showed considerable delicacy to remain in the

background,
ma belle,
and make sure there were no other intruders.'

'You think that justifies you being a—a voyeur?' Samma pushed his

caressing hand away. 'You're despicable!'

'But seeing you naked in the moonlight persuaded me to overlook

your temper, my little shrew, and take you with me when I left

Cristoforo.' He was openly laughing at her, she realised furiously. 'I

restrained myself that night—and since—with true chivalry. But

now, I want to touch—and kiss, as well as look.' His voice dropped

sensuously.

'And what I want, of course, is immaterial,' Samma flung at him

bitterly.

'Au contraire,'
he said ironically. 'But I think you have needs you

are not yet even aware of, my innocent wife.' His eyes moved to the

hurried rise and fall of her breasts beneath their fragile cotton

veiling. 'And it would be cruelty to us both to leave you in

ignorance any longer,' he murmured, and held out his arms to her.

'Don't fight me any more,
mignonne.'

His smile beckoned her, the dark gaze warm and infinitely

seductive. Samma was trembling suddenly, but not only from fright.

She was being besieged, she realised, by a welter of very different

emotions.

She was remembering—unwillingly, vividly—the way he'd kissed

her that first time on
Allegra—
wondering how it would be if he

kissed her like that again . . .

With something like panic, she pulled herself together. 'You seem

to be forgetting something.' Her voice sounded high, and very

young. 'Your—your mistress. Won't she be expecting you? She

can't feel very happy about the situation as it is . . .'

For a moment he looked almost startled, then his expression

relaxed. 'Oh, she will adapt to the change in circumstances,' he

drawled. 'In fact, she has no choice.'

Samma felt almost sorry for Elvire, dismissed so casually. But

Roche's words reminded her just in time that her own fate would be

no different when her year in Grand Cay was over. He would let her

go as easily, with as few regrets, she realised, wincing. But, if she

was completely his, could she just walk away when he'd finished

with her?

She said shakily, 'Well, I do have a choice, and I still say—no. I'm

not just a convenient female body for you to—use when it suits

you, then discard. I belong to myself. And if you—if you persist in

this—I shall fight you—every step of the way,' she ended with a

little rush.

'Will you,
cherie?'
His mouth twisted. 'Eh
bien
, we shall see . . .'

His hands reached for her. But before her lips had even parted, she

heard the scream in her head—high, shrill, utterly terrified—going

on and on endlessly.

Yet she wasn't making a sound, she realised, and at the same time

she saw Roche's face change from half-amused, half-sensual

anticipation to shocked concern.

'Mon Dieu,'
he whispered. 'Solange!'

Samma was right behind him as he threw open the child's door, and

raced in.

Solange was sitting up in bed, her eyes staring, the screams dying to

small, sobbing moans when she saw her father.

'Papa, oh, Papa! I saw-
Le Diable.
He was here in this room.'

'P'tite.'
Roche's voice was gentle, as he sat down on the bed beside

her. 'That is impossible. You had a dream, that's all. A bad dream.

Now, lie down . . .'

'Don't leave me.' The small hands clutched at the lapels of his robe.

'Oh, Papa, please . . .'

Samma saw him hesitate, and intervened. 'I'll stay with her—if she'll

let me. After all, I'm responsible for her now.'

'No.' There was a grim weariness in Roche's voice. 'I will remain.'