CHAPTER THREE

      IN the end she was not left alone with the torment of her thoughts for long. A warm bath had done little to soothe her jangling nerves, her various plans for escape all dismissed as wildly impossible as she went through them; there wasn’t even a telephone anywhere in sight she could use to contact her father. If she was the heroine of a novel no doubt she would have a knife or a gun to hand with which to defend herself, she thought painfully as she pulled on the old enveloping cotton nightdress she had brought with her from the convent. Not for the world would she wear the fine, silk garments she had bought in Seville. She was glad that the room was in darkness—she didn’t think she could bear to look at the Comte, it would be bad enough to have to endure his touch.

      Her fingernails were digging into her palms when she heard the door open. The light was clicked on and the Comte surveyed her, a small smile touching the corner of his mouth as he studied her nightdress, but he made no comment, simply locking the door and pocketing the key, before walking past her into the dressing room.

      When he was gone Hope found that she was trembling. She heard the sound of running water, muted by the closed doors, and tried to stop her fevered imagination relaying pictures to her as she visualised the Comte’s body, his undeniable strength and her own weakness. A thousand primitive, feminine terrors tormented her, until she had virtually forgotten what little knowledge she had, her fear reducing her body to a trembling mass of nerves and muscles.

      When the Comte came back he was wearing a dark towelling robe, his hair damp and curling slightly into his neck, the sight of the dark hair on his chest and legs making Hope’s stomach clench protestingly in shock at the intimacy he was forcing on her. She had seen photographs of men on the beach, pictures in magazines, of course, but they had not prepared her for the actual physical reality, the raw maleness that emanated from masculine muscle and bone.

      ‘Monsieur,’ her intention to plead with him, to change his mind, was silenced when he laughed, his teeth gleaming whitely against the tan of his skin. It was the first time she had heard him laugh and Hope coloured angrily, wondering what she had done to make herself the object of his mirth.

      ‘The good Sisters have certainly taught you to be polite, mon petit,’ he told her, ‘but in view of our … proposed intimacy, I suggest that you use my name instead of calling me Monsieur. Say it, Hope,’ he demanded softly, watching her with eyes that now held no trace of humour. ‘Say it …’

      She pressed her lips together firmly, fingers curled into small fists, mutely defying him. If he wanted to hear his name on her lips he would have to beat her first. She couldn’t deny him her body, but this small defiance she could and would make.

      ‘No matter. You will say it, either tonight or some other night.’ He shrugged off his robe, not heeding her shocked gasp, and Hope comprehended that this might be a subtle form of punishment for her defiance. The sight of his body awed and terrified her, but she couldn’t drag her gaze from the silken ripples of muscles under his skin as he bent to throw back the covers on the bed.

      Her immediate urge was to run, but there was nowhere to run to, and she wasn’t going to humiliate herself further. No doubt her panic would only amuse him.

      ‘So …we are ready.’ He turned to face her, his eyes narrowed as he added, ‘Apart from this.’ His fingers flicked disdainfully at the shabby nightdress. ‘You chose to wear it as a tactical move to deflect me from my purpose, I imagine?’ His eyebrows rose queryingly, but Hope gave no confirmation. ‘Umm …’ He studied her for a moment, his fingers curling smoothly round the neck fastening. ‘I regret the necessity for this, little one, but I do not propose to lose my dignity and possibly my temper in trying to extricate you from it.’

      His fingers tightened and Hope tensed, her eyes rounding in stunned horror as he ripped the thin fabric from neck to hem, the violence of his action catching her off balance and propelling her against him, her hands immediately raised to fend him off, her palms resting against his chest for the briefest moment before she withdrew them as quickly as though she had been scorched, barely able to comprehend what had happened until she saw the remnants of her clothing lying on the floor. The knowledge of her nakedness brought her arms to her body in an age-old gesture of protection, and her agonised, ‘the light!’ brought a glimmer of understanding to the green eyes and a hesitation which made her suspect that he meant to torment her still further by leaving them on. He had said he didn’t want to hurt her, but Hope wondered wildly if that was true—he certainly hadn’t shown her any compassion up until now.

      He didn’t turn the lights off, but he did dim them. ‘It will be less frightening than the dark,’ he told her, coming back to the bed, adding emotionlessly, ‘there is really nothing to fear, Hope. A moment’s pain, which you will have to endure only once. The nuns did tell you …’

      ‘Yes, yes,’ she agreed in an agonised whisper, longing now only for all of it to be over and done with. There was no escape and therefore she must bear the inevitable with what fortitude she could. That was what the nuns had taught her.

      ‘You are cold.’ He was standing in front of her, his hands on her shoulders, sliding them downwards over her skin until they reached her waist—it was a slow, gradual exploration during which Hope hadn’t breathed at all. When he lifted her on to the bed she held herself as immobile as a statue, refusing to look at him as he pushed back the covers and joined her, his hands gliding slowly over her skin, exploring every shivering inch.

      She made no attempt to repulse him, forcing her mind into numb acceptance, expending all her energy in trying to keep still, trying not to cry out a protest or give in to the instincts urging her to move away. The shock of his mouth against her skin, exploring the curve of her throat and shoulder, was like fire against ice. She shuddered deeply, tensing as his hand moved from her arm to her breast, her mind cringing away from the implications of his assured touch. She began to shiver uncontrollably, tremors of fear and shock gripping her body, the Comte’s voice reaching her from a distance, the tone low and soothing, although she couldn’t understand what he said, only she wasn’t to call him ‘Comte’ or ‘Monsieur’, but ‘Alexei’.

      The touch of his hands on her body wasn’t painful or unkind in any physical way, but her mental anguish blocked out the knowledge that he wasn’t hurting her. He had no right to be touching her like this, to be looking at her and watching her, and she told herself that the strange feelings she could sense stirring within her body came from fear, unable to comprehend why her breasts should swell and harden when they touched his chest, or why she should experience a strange melting sensation in the pit of her stomach when he touched her, as though her bones and muscles had turned