Reclaiming His Wife. Susan Fox P.
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in the country ambience of the sitting room with its comfortable sagging sofa and its rug-strewn, flagstone floor.
There were the pen and ink drawings she had sketched of the fells, on their first visit, and for which Jared had made rustic frames during their stay using his late-grandfather’s tools, then hung them in the recesses either side of the huge stone fireplace. They belonged in this house. How could she take them down? Then there was the vast collection of books—mainly Jared’s—on various shelves around the room—bursting with so many diverse subjects. Like travel and history, the Lakeland poets, psychology. Books on different cultures, religions and philosophies, all which reminded her of how well-read and well- travelled Jared was, of his staunch opinion that everyone had a voice, and deserved to be heard.
It was one of the reasons she had fallen in love with him, she remembered painfully, that depth of understanding and fairness he had always seemed to display towards most things, if not, in the end, towards her. And she had been overawed by his experience and his wealth of knowledge.
Having led what she considered to be a rather mundane existence herself, his hard sophistication garnered from a shrewd determined brain and his twelve years seniority had excited her. How often had she lain on that old battered sofa with her head in his lap while he had talked about so many things and she had listened, rapt? And how willingly and wildly had she, on so many occasions afterwards, succumbed to that other kind of experience, the skilled mastery of his lovemaking?
How could things have gone so badly wrong? she wondered desolately, sliding her finger down the spine of a particularly large tome on world affairs. Because they had always made love. Even when they were breaking up they had still craved each other with a hunger that had bordered on desperation, the heat and bitterness of their rows somehow only seeming to kindle desire.
Perhaps if…
Her thoughts were brought up sharply by a sound outside in the hall. No, not in the hall, she thought. Outside the front door!
The wind was increasing in strength, playing with the metal disc over the keyhole. At least she tried reassuring herself that was all it was, until she realised the front door was being thrust forcibly open.
One of Jared’s tenants!
Remembering he had said he sometimes let the place to friends, for a moment Taylor wondered if, as he hadn’t heard from her, he had gone ahead and let someone else have the house this week. But no, he wouldn’t do that, she thought, certain of it. Not when there was the slimmest chance of her coming here!
The door banged rather loudly, as though someone had kicked it closed, and quickly, snatching up the brass poker from the hearth, Taylor raced out into the hall.
‘Are you going to hit me with that?’ Stopping dead, Jared was grimacing down at the potential weapon Taylor was holding. ‘Or is this some new type of fell-walking aid?’ He was carrying two bags of groceries, balancing one on each arm, and sleet was glistening on his jet-black hair.
‘It’s you.’ Heart still thumping, Taylor’s shoulders sagged with relief.
‘I’m sorry.’ Casually dressed in dark trousers and a black anorak, he was shouldering his way past her. ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you.’
Didn’t mean…? Flabbergasted, Taylor demanded, ‘What are you doing here?’
Ignoring her question, he carried the bags into the square, old-fashioned kitchen, dumped them down on the table and started to unpack them.
‘What are you doing?’ Taylor breathed, following, not frightened or shocked any more, just angry. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I spent an awful lot of my childhood in this house,’ he told her. ‘I also happen to own it.’ His long hands were dealing with tins and cartons and packages. ‘I think that gives me the right to come here whenever I get the chance.’
‘Not while I’m here,’ she returned uncompromisingly. Standing in her thin socks, she could feel the cold striking up from the hard stone floor.
‘Really?’ For a moment he stopped what he was doing, while his gaze moved over her jean and sweater-clad slenderness with disconcerting intensity. ‘I can’t think of a better reason to come.’
‘Jared!’ How could he do this to her? A justifiable hurt anger lined her fine features and with it increasing puzzlement. ‘You said you’d be away…’ She remembered him saying that in the car when he had dropped her outside the dental surgery.
‘I am away,’ he said calmly. ‘And put down that poker. You’re making me feel at a distinct disadvantage.’
Him—at a disadvantage! ‘You lied to me,’ she accused, ignoring him.
‘No I didn’t.’
‘Tricked me then.’ Tensely her fingers tightened on the cold brass rod. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because, one,’ he said, as though he needed to emphasise his point, ‘I wasn’t sure whether I’d be able to get here or not. And two, if I had said I was coming, you wouldn’t have.’
Resentfully she watched him moving around the kitchen, unable to drag her reluctant gaze from his long lean frame as he reached up to open a wall cupboard. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘And put on some shoes or slippers before you catch your death of cold,’ he advised without looking at her, taking no heed of her little burst of sarcasm.
She stayed right where she was, however, even though her feet were freezing, simply because he had instructed otherwise. ‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘All right. I wanted to be with you. Is that direct enough for you?’
He turned to face her, his eyes glittering with a cold and feral anger.
For a moment his declaration seemed to tear the breath out of her lungs, as powerfully as the wind was tearing at the eaves and chimneys of the old house.
‘Why?’ she said at length, struggling for composure under the influence of his formidable masculinity. ‘So you can take advantage of my weakness and failure ever to resist you?’
The carrier bags rustled as he screwed them up, opened a drawer and stuffed them inside. He sent a wry, sidelong glance down over his shoulder. ‘Not while you’re holding that poker.’
She slung it down, making a point, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘I’m not afraid of you.’
‘Good!’ He thrust the drawer closed, swung away from it. ‘Because I’m sure as hell afraid of you!’
Taylor eyed him with some surprise, a pained query darkening her eyes. ‘Am I so much of a harridan?’
‘A harridan?’ Coming back across the kitchen, he laughed rather harshly. ‘God! I wish you were. At least I’d know how to deal with that. It wouldn’t be any hardship to me to tame a shrew.’
She shuddered, thinking how lethal his brand of taming might be. What woman would stand a chance against his dark and dangerous sensuality? She might feign to put up a fight against it for a while but, in the end, all but the most indifferent would succumb.
‘Oh, no.’ His breath seemed to shiver through him as he stood there now, contemplating, regarding her. ‘You’re quite the opposite, Taylor. Reticent. Uncommunicative. Almost frighteningly aloof. Like a deep, mysterious lake. I used to think it was an admirable quality. In fact, my dear, I must confess, it turned me on—like hell! But there’s a limit to how much unmelted butter a man can get through, even if it’s the loveliest mouth he’s being tempted by. Tell me, Taylor, are you really as cold as you seem? Or is there a real warm woman in there somewhere trying desperately hard to get out? Begging to be rescued from her own worst enemy—herself!’
Is that how he saw her? As a cold, unfeeling human being? With a heart of ice, as other men had accused her of having? Was that why he had been so ready to believe she could hurt her