Читать книгу A Husband For Christmas - Emma Richmond, Emma Richmond - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

THEY spent the night in a small motel, in separate rooms, and, in the morning, they breakfasted together—as strangers. The last time they had driven this route, stopped overnight, there had been laughter and teasing. Love. Now there was just tension.

‘Ready?’

Sébastien nodded.

‘Over halfway,’ Gellis added inanely as they made their way to the car.

‘Yes.’

Climbing behind the wheel, she waited until he was settled, then pulled onto the road that would take them back to the autoroute.

Hours passed. Silent hours, tense hours, and the further they drove, the tenser it became. Stops for petrol or meals weren’t much of a relief, and when they did speak conversation was stilted, unnatural. He, presumably, because he was nearing his goal and so much was riding on it. She because of the close proximity, the realisation of what she was actually doing.

And then there was only one last stop to make.

‘Not much further,’ she murmured as she stood beside him whilst he filled the car with petrol.

‘No. I expect you’re tired.’

‘Yes, a bit.’

‘Your French is very good.’

‘Thank you. You taught me.’

‘Did I? I wonder I had the patience,’ he retorted a trifle bitterly.

Glancing at him, she saw that he was frowning, fingering the white stripe of hair.

‘You cut your head in the accident?’

‘Hmm? Oh, yes. Fourteen stitches,’ he added absently. Removing the nozzle, he fitted it back in its slot, looked at her, then away.

With a little sigh, she walked to the booth to pay, and when she returned to the car she delayed a moment before climbing in, to stare round her. She loved France. Loved the people, the language. And now she was back. Briefly.

It was late afternoon when they reached the turn-off for Collioure, and she glanced at him. He’d been silent since they’d left the service station. Grimly so as he stared out at places he obviously didn’t recognise, and she wondered what was going through his mind. Hope? Despair? It must be so frightening not to know who you were. What you had been. Done. And she was tired, worried about what the next few days would bring.

‘Nearly there.’

‘Are we?’

‘Yes, just down the hill.’ Slowing so that he could see the town spread out below them, the little red roofs, the sparkling sea, she glanced at his stern profile and saw that he was rubbing his fingers across his forehead. ‘Does your head ache?’

‘No.’

Her sigh muffled, she probed hesitantly, ‘Does any of it seem familiar?’

‘No.’

Probably best not to question him, prompt—but how could she not? How could she stay silent in the face of his pain? In the face of her own?

Feeling bewildered and inadequate, wishing now that she had not come, she turned into the little private car park that served the apartments. ‘We have to walk from here,’ she stated quietly.

He nodded, unlatched his door and got out. Collecting their bags from the boot, face grim, he hovered indecisively until Gellis had locked the car. ‘This way. It’s not far. I brought the key. I also rang the agent, told her we were coming, made sure it hadn’t been relet.’

‘Thank you.’

They didn’t see anyone they knew as she led the way along the cobbled alley, for which she was thankful. She didn’t think she could have coped with questions, curiosity. As the lane widened out to a small square, she felt a lump rise in her throat as she saw the planted tubs on everyone’s wrought-iron balconies. No riot of colour at this time of year, but there were little shrubs, some white and mauve flowers. Someone had obviously replanted her own tubs—what had been her own tubs, she mentally corrected—because they were as pretty as everyone else’s.

Halting outside their apartment, she tried to see it through his eyes, feel it through his confusion. Grey stone, leaded casement windows. Not large, not fancy, just—home.

Turning her head, she watched him, saw the complete absence of recognition. With a gesture that hurt her more than she could ever articulate, he unlatched the gate and stood like a stranger, the white streak at his left temple a flag of unfamiliarity. The hair across the scar tissue would never grow back dark. Always there would be that white streak as a reminder.

He turned to look at her, gave a wry smile, but his eyes were bleak. As bleak as her own. Taking out her key, she opened the door and led the way into a pretty apartment that suddenly felt cold, empty, unlived-in. Should she leave him? she wondered. Let him find his own way? Come to terms with it on his own?

‘Would you prefer to be alone?’ she asked quietly, and he shook his head.

‘Then I’ll make some coffee, shall I? The agent said she would stock up for us.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed absently, and pushed into the lounge.

Hands shaking, a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach, she went into the kitchen, felt the memories rush back and hastily banished them. She had to be hard. Distance herself.

A packet of coffee stood on the counter with sugar and a fresh loaf. The fridge had been switched on and inside were milk and butter, a few vegetables, fiuit. With a deep sigh, she filled the percolator, switched it on, then opened the back door that led onto another little balcony. She saw that these plants too had been looked after. A cool wind blew off the sea, but it wasn’t as cold as in England. Not as bleak. Only in her heart, she thought That was bleak. Very bleak indeed.

And the last time they had driven from England to Collioure she had done exactly the same things. Switched on the percolator, come to check on her plants whilst he unloaded the luggage. And then he had come up behind her, slid his arms round her waist, held her against him, touched his mouth to her temple.

‘Bed?’ he had suggested with that devilish twinkle in his eyes. And then he had swept her up in his arms, carried her along to their room. His eyes had been laughing, his mouth curved in that wicked smile that had always been her undoing, and they’d lain on their wide bed and made love. So much passion there had been. Always so much passion. And now they were strangers, and she suddenly felt frightened. Frightened of a future that stretched bleak and empty.

Wrenching her mind away, she returned to the kitchen, got out their cups. Thick, heavy coffee-cups they’d bought in the market together. And she felt her eyes fill with tears for what might have been. What she had thought would be. Perhaps she should have worn his favourite outfit in the hope that it might jog his memory, she thought bitterly—should have worn his favourite perfume, left her dark hair loose, just as he’d liked it... And perhaps the eyes that had always been filled with laughter and love would flicker with memory.

And then what? An explanation for his behaviour? But supposing there wasn’t an explanation? Supposing he just hadn’t loved her any more? Or their son.

Leaving the coffee to percolate, she went to find him because she couldn’t do anything else. The compulsion was coming back. The need. And that had always been the danger.

He was in their bedroom, wardrobe door open, staring at the few clothes hanging tidily inside. Standing quietly in the doorway, she watched him with an aching intensity, a hopeless yearning for it all to be different, all to be right. For him to turn, smile, say he remembered, that everything was all right. But he didn‘t—just continued to stare into the wardrobe with bitter hopelessness. Staring at him, at this bitter stranger, she tried to hate him. And couldn’t.

He lifted out a jacket, tried it on, then gave a grim smile as it strained across his back. ‘I’ve put on weight.’

‘Muscle,’ she corrected him quietly. ‘You’ve put on muscle.’ And she didn’t want to feel pity for him, compassion, but she did. He’d once been so dear, so loved, and was now so impossibly distant.

He removed the jacket, hung it back on the hanger and turned to look at her. ‘Help me,’ he said quietly. ‘Tell me what I was like. I feel as though I don’t exist. That I never existed. My only memories are of a dirty cargo ship, of rough men in rough places. I look at you and I don’t know you. We presumably kissed, made love...’

Turning away, she forced herself to sound flat, uninterested. ‘Yes.’ But her heart wasn’t uninterested, or her mind.

‘But I don’t remember it!’ Rubbing a hand across his forehead, he gave a tired sigh.

‘Don’t try to force it.’

‘Why?’ he demanded raggedly. ‘An expert on head injuries, are you? Know about amnesia? Sorry,’ he apologised wearily.

‘It’s all right. But did you really expect it all to come rushing back when you walked through the door?’

‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘I rather thought I did.’

‘Then I’m sorry. I’ll tell you all I can, do all I can, but—’

‘But it won’t mean anything, will it? The last doctor I saw said something about a mental block I’d put up. For why? Why would I put up a block? What happened, Gellis?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you’re weary of me, aren’t you?’

‘Trying to hate you,’ she said, almost too softly for him to hear. Walking to the window, she stared out over the sea. It was easier if she didn’t look at him. ‘For fourteen months we were—everything to each other. Or so I thought. I loved you. Heart and soul. I thought you felt the same way about me.’

‘And I didn’t?’

‘Obviously not,’ she said slowly.

‘But there was no hint of it? I just left one day? Sent you a note? Which said what?’

‘That you wouldn’t be back.’

‘Nothing else? Nothing happened? Was said? Done?’ Moving across to her, he slowly turned her, stared down into her lovely face. ‘There must be something else! Must be! You said you looked for me...’

‘Yes. I couldn’t believe it, you see. And I needed to know what was going on. And then...’

‘Then?’ he prompted.

She shook her head. What was the point in telling him about Nathalie? It would only confuse the issue. ‘And then I went back to England,’ she improvised. Days, weeks of worry, not knowing where he was, what had happened to him. And, in the end, she had tried to resign herself to not ever knowing what had happened, why he had done what he had. She’d got on with her life, because there wasn’t only herself to think of, was there? And she couldn’t tell him about his son, could she? Not now.

And so, for the moment, until she came to terms with this new Sébastien, she would keep quiet, tell him only about their life together, how it had been before he’d left. Glancing up at him, she saw that he was frowning—not really seeing her, she thought, only trying to part a veil that would not part.

‘You said I was kind, humorous...’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me how. Instances, something. Help me, Gellis! What was I like? What did I do? How did I behave? I look at you, and I can’t believe I would have forgotten you.’ As though unaware of what he was doing, he reached out, gently touched his fingers to her face, looked deep into her eyes. And she held herself stiff, determinedly refused to feel anything. ‘You’re exquisitely beautiful, and I have a yearning to—kiss you. May I?’ he asked huskily.

Her heart suddenly jerked and, with fear and panic inside, a shortness of breath she could do nothing about, she whispered, distressedly, ‘Oh, Sébastien...’

‘Was that a yes or a no?’ he asked with throaty humour. Eyes hypnotically fixed on hers, he dropped his hand to her plait, slowly let it slide down to the bottom. ‘You’re shaking.’

‘Don’t do this,’ she whispered.

‘Beautiful hair,’ he continued as though he hadn’t heard. ‘I have a desire to wind it round your long neck, hold you close...’

‘No!’ She wrenched free, and he hauled her back, kissed her. Not brutally, not harshly, but like a man who was so very hungry. With a little sound in the back of his throat, he continued to explore her mouth, gently taste the sweetness. And she could do nothing, only stand there, heart beating furiously, throat dry as the warmth of his kiss set up that familiar shudder inside, that spiralling ache that turned her bones to water, her knees to jelly.

She closed her eyes, fought not to react, and felt her mind slowing, her body begin to melt... ‘No!’ Thrusting him away, she quickly turned her back. ‘You mustn’t,’ she declared shakily. But it was too late, wasn’t it? He already had.

‘I’m sorry, but—Was that how it was, Gellis? Between us? That—magnetism?’

Wrapping her arms round herself for warmth, comfort, she nodded. ‘Yes,’ she admitted painfully.

‘Then talk to me. Put it into words. Let me see how it was. Please.’

Distraught, embarrassed, frightened of feelings she’d thought she had shut away, she murmured huskily, ‘We didn’t like to be apart for long. If you missed me...’

‘And wouldn’t you have missed me?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered thickly. ‘I always missed you. Still miss you.’

‘And if I hadn’t lost my memory? Hadn’t left you? What would we be doing now? Making love?’

‘Yes,’ she admitted rustily, her whole body aching with the sudden need of it. The memory. ‘You would have swept me up when we came through the front door, carried me in here...’

‘And made love to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was I a good lover, Gellis?’

‘Yes.’ Eyes blurring with tears, she choked huskily, ‘Oh, Sébastien, you were gentle, funny...’

‘Funny? Dear God, I don’t think I would know how to be funny even if you gave me a manual. Go on, tell me how it was. Make me see it. Set the scene. Pretend it’s a play. You’ve been out shopping, you come back, I’m here—then what? What would I say? Do? Help me, Gellis!’

Closing her eyes for a moment, she took a deep breath. ‘You would smile—Oh, Sébastien, you had such a wicked smile.’

‘Did I?’ he asked bleakly.

‘Yes.’

‘Then what?’

‘Oh, you would take my shopping, dump it somewhere, and then you would...’ Taking a deep, painful breath, she continued huskily, ‘You would take me in your arms. Your eyes would be alight with laughter, and then you would kiss me as though you hadn’t seen me in weeks, and—’

‘How?’ he interrupted. ‘Gently? Passionately? How?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes! How?’

Face still averted, she whispered sadly, ‘You would start at the corner of my mouth, all the time whispering...’ Whispering and urging, his voice at variance with the devilish laughter in his eyes. And always in French; he’d only ever made love to her in French. Fresh tears in her eyes, she whispered in anguish, ‘Oh, Sébastien, I can’t!’

Touching her shoulder, he gently turned her. ‘Yes, you can. Please. I know I’m hurting you... Dear God, Gellis, what sort of a bastard was I to make you hurt so much?’

‘I don’t know!’ she cried. ‘That’s what I find so hard! That’s what hurts so! I didn’t know! I thought you were so special, so different, and all the time...’ Closing her eyes tight, she took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. But I find this so hard.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed emptily. ‘You think I was living a lie? Pretending to love you?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed painfully.

‘But why?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know why anyone would do that. Or perhaps you did love me,’ she added softly. ‘Certainly that would be less hurtful to believe—and then maybe you got cold feet, felt trapped. I don’t know, Sébastien, but whatever the reasons it was a coward’s way out to write me a note.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed grimly.

‘And yet I wouldn’t ever have said you were a coward.’

‘And so it goes round and round in your mind, with no answers. Just like mine.’

‘Yes,’ she said with a small attempt at a smile.

‘And I don’t think smiling at me is a very good idea,’ he reproved her with ironic humour. ‘I’ve been celibate for four months at least. And I don’t think celibacy is my natural inclination.’

‘No,’ she said awkwardly, her face pink.

‘Go on. What did I whisper?’

‘Suggestions.’

‘Suggestions? What sort of suggestions?’

With an embarrassed shrug, she murmured, ‘Erotic.’

‘Erotic?’

‘Yes.’

A sudden glimmer of amusement in his eyes, he asked, ‘And then what?’