Ivory Innocence (13 page)

She sat up, rubbing her eyes like a child, wondering what game her husband was playing now. Why hadn't he come to bed? Had the wine put him to sleep at the kitchen table?

The cottage seemed so quiet that she leapt out of bed and threw back the curtains in alarm that Matthew might have abandoned her. But the silver gray Mercedes still stood in the yard.

When the door clicked, Ivory swung round, one hand holding tumbled hair from her face. Matthew came in, fully dressed, bringing her a cup of tea. He looked fit and full of energy, as if he had slept soundly.

While she stared at him speechlessly, he let his gaze run slowly over her with open appreciation, then lifted his eyes to her face again and said, "Are you aware that with the sun behind you that nightdress is practically transparent?"

Ivory swiftly stepped away from the window, causing Matthew to smile.

"I thought you were going to sleep all day," he added. "I've already been for a long walk. I'm going to make a start on breakfast now. What would you like?"

"I'll—" she began, and found a nervous catch in her throat. "I'll make it for you. Just let me get dressed."

"I'm quite capable of making breakfast," he replied, setting the cup down on a side table. "Are you hungry?"

"No, not really. Just some toast."

"If you're sure that's all you want. Personally, I'm ravenous. Must be this clean air. Come down when you're ready." And he left her.

Ivory stood quite still, unable to believe her senses. He had made no move to touch her. And apart from that comment about her nightdress, he had behaved as if she were a stranger. It was what she had wanted—so why did she feel so bitterly disappointed? At the sight of him, she had experienced a dreadful longing to be in his arms.

Then she recalled what he had said on the day she accepted his proposal of marriage: "We'll see how long you can stand being 'in name only.'" Now he was putting her to the test. And he was confident that he would win.

Furious, Ivory told herself that she would not give him the satisfaction of showing him how much she wished to be made his wife in every sense.

The silent battle went on. They walked together on the moor and went driving, visiting the town of Whitby with its cliffs and picturesque harbor; they took a trip on the North York Moors steam railway and generally behaved like tourists. But he never touched her, not even the lightest brush of hands. And as four days went by, the tension between them increased.

Matthew slept in the smaller bedroom. He had moved most of his clothes into there, without explanation. Neither of them had mentioned their unconsummated union.

On the fifth day of their honeymoon, Matthew left her alone in the cottage while he went down to the valley to see about hiring some horses for the following day. By mid-afternoon Ivory was unable to bear the solitude. She set out for a walk on the moor.

The wind swept the purple heights, tugging at her sweater and jeans, making her hair stream behind her in a pale gold banner. Tears stung her eyes as she thought of the nine more days she must endure of this farce. Matthew was inhuman, made of icy rock. If only he said he loved her, even if it was a lie. If only he would be warm and tender, she would give him anything.

Stumbling into a hollow, she lay down and wept bitterly, wishing she could find some way of escaping this marriage. But there was no escape, not without risking further emotional damage to little Janey.

A damp chill made her look up. She was enclosed in a bank of mist that had swept in from the coast to blanket the heights. Aching from the storm of tears, she got stiffly to her feet and stared with sore eyes at the opaque walls of fog that surrounded her, shifting and deceptive. Turning back in what she hoped was the right direction, she began to pick a way among the heather, looking for familiar landmarks. But each few square yards of the moor looked exactly like the rest. To her increasing horror, she couldn't be sure where the cottage lay.

Before long she realized that she had come the wrong way. By now she should have reached the valley. But as she stumbled on, there was nothing but hummocks and gullies covered by the purple carpet of heather and marked by odd outcrops of rock. It was bitterly cold. Moisture dampened her hair and face and began to penetrate her clothes. With rising panic, she realized she was lost.

Then she heard a voice calling her name. Matthew's voice!

"Matthew!" she got out through chattering teeth, caring about nothing but that he should come. "Matthew!"

She felt weak with relief when he appeared through the mist. His long legs rapidly closed the distance between them; his face was taut with anger—or it might have been concern.

"What did you come out in this weather for?" he demanded.

"It wasn't like this when I left the cottage," she said wearily. "I didn't realize…" As she took a step towards him her knees buckled and he stooped to catch her, holding her against his jacket. His brilliant blue eyes devoured the sight of her wan face as if he were a starving man and she a banquet. Then he dropped his mouth to hers and kissed her, with a desperate passion that made her senses swoop as she clung to him.

Without a word he lifted her into his arms and began to carry her back the way he had come, to where the mist thinned and drizzle seeped from the underside of the clouds. She clasped her arms round his neck, shivering, her cold lips resting on the place where a pulse beat in his throat. All she could think was that she was safe—safe because Matthew had come.

Orange flames from the log fire lit the gloom in the sitting room. He laid her on the settee and she heard him pound up the stairs. A few moments later he was back, bringing his own thick bathrobe.

"You must get out of these wet things," he said hurriedly, pulling her sweater up. She obediently lifted her arms, too cold and weary to protest, and he pulled the sweater off. He undressed her briskly, as if she were a shop-window dummy, stripping her of the jeans he so hated and then of her underwear before wrapping her in his warm robe. He brought a towel and rubbed her hair vigorously, then made her lie down on the cushions while he knelt beside her, drying his own hair. It was left in damp, spiky ends that made him look endearingly youthful.

Numbly, Ivory watched his dark face, her own face deathly pale with shadows under her gray eyes. Then Matthew's fingers stroked her cheek, feeling warm and curiously tender against her skin; his thumb brushed her lips, his gaze following the movement with aching hunger. A tremor seemed to run through him, and then he bent over her and warmed her mouth with the heat of his own. She threw her arms around his neck, burying her fingers in his damp hair, holding him as she kissed him without reserve.

Her name was an agonized whisper on his lips as he laid a hand against her throat and pushed aside the bathrobe, leaning to kiss her bare shoulder. Lightly as a butterfly his fingers moved over her, making her tremble with longing, her body beginning to cry out for him. He unerringly answered her needs, stroking her breasts until they tingled, gently opening the bathrobe, until she lay naked under his gaze, his hands and mouth working the powerful spells that she no longer wished to deny.

She moaned when he drew away and stood up. But his burning blue eyes held hers as he threw off his own clothes and returned to lie beside her, the naked length of his body warm and hard against hers as he kissed her with more urgency and she wrapped her arms about him, stroking the ridged muscles of his shoulders and back. She could feel the desire in him mounting, days of self-denial suddenly rushing them both to a peak of shared pleasure and delight. Ivory heard herself cry out. But after brief pain there was glory, and her inner volcano erupted with shattering force.

Afterwards they lay together quietly on the big settee, his head on her breast while her fingers played with strands of his thick hair and the world settled back into place. He sat up and began to pull on his clothes, while Ivory watched him, feeling very tender towards him. Strange, complex man that he was, he had been gentle with her, and for that she was grateful.

He stood up and looked down at her, his gaze caressing every inch of her white body. But when his eyes met hers again, they were as cold as winter lakes.

"So you won," he said in an odd, hoarse voice.

"Matthew!" Drawing the bathrobe round her, Ivory sat up, a hand stretched out to him. "There wasn't any fight."

"Wasn't there? We've been engaged in war ever since we've been here, Ivory. But you've got your victory. I gave in first."

"We both gave in," she amended worriedly.

He swung round and knelt by the fire to add another log, then watched the sparks rise up the huge chimney.

"Matthew." She reached out to touch his shoulder, fresh tears stinging her sore eyes. "I love you."

"There's no need to lie," he said harshly.

"I'm not!"

Suddenly he was on his feet, towering over her with a face as grim as Nemesis, and now the demon in his eyes threw scorn at her. "I told you once before: love has nothing to do with us. Love only blinds you and makes you vulnerable. So don't kid yourself. You don't love me. You merely enjoyed my lovemaking. That's fine; that's all I ask of you. There's nothing wrong with enjoying each other physically. But for God's sake don't burden me with protestations of love. I don't want them or need them."

Ivory hugged herself, suddenly feeling like something used and tossed aside as she stared at the fire through a glaze of tears. "What did she do to you, the woman who made you feel this way?"

He made no attempt to argue with her accurate guess, but said roughly, "She made me a laughingstock."

"And you think I'll do the same?"

"I don't intend to give you a chance. You may as well go to bed and rest. You look like a drowned rat."

Her eyes were wide with pain as she looked at him, appalled that he could say such a thing. Only a few minutes before he had gazed at her as if she were the most beautiful creature in the world, and now… How could he be so cruel?

"Oh, go upstairs!" he grated, turning his shoulder to her as he leaned on the mantelpiece.

Not daring to speak for fear her tears would betray her unhappiness, she hid her face from him, got up from the settee and walked to the door. But something made her pause, controlling herself with an effort as she turned to ask, "Who was she, Matthew? I think I have a right to know."

"She was the woman I was stupid enough to marry nine years ago," he replied, watching the fire.

"Janey's mother?" she breathed.

"Just so. Janey's mother." When he swung round his face was almost ugly with contempt. "And I don't intend to discuss it—not with you, not with anybody."

She held onto the door, looking like a big-eyed child lost in the roomy folds of his bathrobe, her feet bare and her hair tangled. She didn't care if he saw her tears now. "I'm sorry, Matthew."

"For God's sake!" he roared at her. "Don't give me your pity."

She fled to her bedroom and lay shuddering on her bed, tormented by memories of tenderness that had been destroyed by deliberate cruelty. She had offered him her heart and he had rejected it. It was not a thing she would offer twice.