Wife By Agreement

He’d known her history when he’d offered her a home and financial security. No doubt he’d considered the bait irresistible to someone who was completely alone in the world. She’d never have to budget her meagre resources again; she’d have the family she’d always dreamed of—in short it was a fairy tale. The but was inescapable: he would never view her as anything other than a paid employee, no matter what her title. The pre-nuptial agreement he’d had her sign prior to the wedding had only served to reinforce this fact.

He had probably congratulated himself on his subtle, but clever presentation of the package when she’d appeared the next morning, looking unusually pale and subdued, and said the all-important ‘yes’. He wouldn’t have looked so happy if he’d suspected that, no matter how tempting his offer might appear to a girl who longed for roots and stability, it was love that had been the vital ingredient in the equation. Love that had made her ignore the logical part of her brain that told her that such a union could only give her pain.

CHAPTER TWO

TOM usually woke Hannah by creeping into her bed, often before six in the morning. This morning there was no solid little body against hers when she awoke. A light sleeper, she didn’t normally need to set her alarm clock, but there had been nothing normal about the previous night! A whistle-stop, vaguely panicky tour revealed the children weren’t in their rooms.

‘Why didn’t anyone wake me?’ Hannah demanded breathlessly as she ran into the kitchen still tying the belt on her robe. ‘Ouf, sorry,’ she gasped as she rushed full tilt into her husband.

‘I told them not to,’ Ethan replied calmly.

She was conscious of the intimate contact of their bodies only for a few seconds before he solicitously steadied her and stepped away. It was enough to send her pulse-rate hammering. Although he didn’t douse himself in masculine cologne, she could have recognised his presence blindfolded in any room. Her nostrils automatically flared as she got a full dose of his signature male fragrance.

‘What are you doing here?’ She instantly wished the words unsaid. Ethan didn’t want or need her interest, and any suggestion of interrogation would be met with a sharp rebuttal. Now was the time to get their relationship back on its neatly designed unchallenging lines. Last night had been a blip in normality not a new chapter.

One dark brow quirked. ‘I live here, remember.’

His dry tone brought a flush to her cheeks. ‘Shouldn’t you be in work?’ There I go again.

As she spoke Hannah was conscious of the fact that they weren’t alone; despite appearances, at least one pair of ears was undoubtedly taking in every word. The housekeeper had never made any comment on her employer’s odd choice of bride, but she wouldn’t have been human if the situation hadn’t intrigued her.

Hannah sometimes wondered what she said about them to her husband when she returned home in the evenings. She’d been in situ when the first Mrs Kemp had been alive, and Hannah had half expected her to keep the sort of suspicious, unfriendly distance many of Ethan’s friends did. To her relief this hadn’t been the case. So long as Hannah didn’t trespass on her domestic territory, she seemed perfectly at ease with the arrangement.

Ethan didn’t normally participate in the usual morning chaos of dressing and feeding the children, then ferrying Emma to school. He was generally leaving the house as Hannah fetched the children downstairs. He appeared to start the day with nothing more substantial than a cup of strong black coffee, a practice Hannah privately had serious reservations about. She had never voiced her concerns, because Ethan’s welfare was one of those things that were out of bounds. She had no doubt that with a few well-chosen words he could and would subdue any pretensions she had in that direction.

‘Not this morning, Hannah. Dear God,’ he murmured, inspecting the streak of strawberry jam he’d just discovered down the sleeve of his dark jacket with a grimace. ‘How does he manage to spread it that far?’ he wondered, casting a fascinated look in the direction of his chubby-faced son, who smiled back with cherubic innocence from his highchair.

‘I want down!’ he announced, banging his spoon on the plastic table-top.

‘Soon, Tom,’ Hannah responded automatically. She pushed her hair behind her ears and tried to work out what Ethan was doing here. A devoted father he might be, but he’d never involved himself in the more mundane of parental duties. ‘You should have woken me. I’ll be late getting Emma to school.’

‘Daddy’s taking me, Mummy.’

The ‘Mummy’ was a new thing, and it still gave Hannah a glow of pleasure to hear it. Ethan had never commented on her promotion from ‘Hannah’ in his daughter’s eyes, but she was sure he didn’t like it. His restraint only reminded her that from his point of view her role within the household would always be one of necessity rather than desire.

‘You are?’ she gasped, unable to hide her surprise.

‘You consider the task too complex for me?’

‘You just sit down, my dear, and I’ll get you a nice cup of tea. Mr Kemp has told me about the nasty accident you were in. What you need is a rest,’ the housekeeper advised.

Hannah’s eyes flew to Ethan’s face as her hand went automatically to her scratched cheek. So that was to be the story, she thought philosophically. It certainly made her appear less foolish than the truth.

‘I feel fine—just a little stiff, Mrs Turner.’

‘I want out, now!’ Patience was uncharted territory for a three-year-old.

Hannah unclipped his harness and heaved his sleep-suit-clad body into her arms. His sturdy frame made her conscious of bruises she hadn’t known she had. She wasn’t able totally to subdue the wince.

‘Give him to me,’ Ethan said, holding his arms out.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Martyrdom is an overrated and tedious virtue,’ Ethan observed in a bored drawl.

Hannah handed over her charge with as much dignity as she could muster. Normally their parental duties were strictly, if unofficially, defined, and it was vaguely disorientating to have her role so thoroughly usurped.

Ethan might well regret his chivalry when he discovered that the wet kiss his beaming son had pressed somewhere east of his mouth had left a blob of porridge adhering to his freshly shaved cheek. A wicked impulse made her keep this information to herself.

‘Will you do my hair?’ Emma slid onto Hannah’s knee and solemnly passed her a comb and ribbons.

‘With your permission?’ She shot Ethan a challenging look. She sounded cranky and didn’t much care. She knew he was watching her again and it made her feel uncomfortable.

‘I’d say that constitutes light duties,’ he conceded. Whilst playing a tickling game, which Hannah thought might well result in his small son throwing up, he watched Hannah’s expert fingers twist Emma’s fluffy golden locks into the desired design. Emma was a beautiful child who looked remarkably like a miniature version of her mother. Hannah was sure Ethan didn’t need the constant reminder to keep Catherine’s memory fresh—several people had lost no time telling Hannah how passionately in love he’d been, how he’d worshipped her.

Hannah had been astounded the first time she’d seen Ethan with his children. Who would have guessed that behind the austere, rather daunting façade there lurked such a warm and humorous man? She’d thought his attitude towards her might bend a little over the months, but he’d never actually dropped the formality with her. She’d never been in any danger of forgetting her position in this household.

It wouldn’t be long before Emma at least began to notice that her parents weren’t like other people’s: no hugs or teasing, no shared history of private jokes. Ethan didn’t appear to have taken this aspect into account in his calculations. Children were sharp; nothing much escaped their observant eyes. It would be interesting, and probably uncomfortable, Hannah reflected, to see how he dealt with the inevitable questions.

‘I’ll be back shortly,’ he said as he stood, the open doorway framing the sight of daughter and father hand in hand.

‘Work…?’ she faltered.

‘I’ve cancelled my appointments for this morning. Cal Morgan will see you at ten. I’ll take you to the surgery—for that tetanus jab,’ he added as she stared at him blankly.

‘Quite right, you can’t be too careful,’ the housekeeper observed approvingly. ‘Tom will be just fine with me. I’ll take him for his bath, won’t I, darling? Kiss for Mummy.’

When Hannah emerged from the grubby embrace Ethan had gone. This new personal interest in her welfare obviously stemmed from his opinion that she wasn’t capable of taking care of herself. It was frustrating to realise that she had nobody to blame for the situation but herself. If only he hadn’t caught her last night. It had been an inconvenient time to discover the man she’d married was either an insomniac or a secret drinker, possibly both. The idea brought a whimsical smile to her lips. She couldn’t imagine Ethan indulging in weaknesses of any variety!

She’d just have to reestablish herself in his eyes as being more than capable of taking care of herself. Driving herself to the doctor’s surgery was step one of this process. He’d be glad to be relieved of this tedious chore.

That view took on a rapid sea change when she emerged from the surgery to find Ethan standing beside her Volvo. His long fingers were rapping an impatient tune on the bonnet. He appeared to be muttering under his breath at regular intervals. He straightened up at the sound of her feet crunching on the gravel. His dark brows met over the bridge of his nose as he recognised her.

‘What the hell are you playing at?’

Whilst his attitude to her lacked warmth, she couldn’t remember any occasion when his manner towards her hadn’t been faultlessly polite. The flash of anger in his grey eyes and the unmistakable message his whole body language was shouting threw her totally off balance. What had she done?

‘I’m not playing at anything, Ethan.’

‘Don’t waste that “butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth” look on me, Hannah Smith… It won’t wash any more.’

‘Kemp, I’m Hannah Kemp.’ He might like to pretend this weren’t true sometimes, but it was.

He rubbed a hand through his dark hair, disrupting the sleek silhouette. ‘You were less trouble as Smith,’ he reflected after a thoughtful pause. ‘I offered to drive you because you’re very obviously not fit to sit behind a wheel. What are you trying to do—smash the parts you missed last night?’

‘That’s a ridiculous overstatement!’ she protested. ‘And don’t think you’re the only one regretting this marriage,’ she yelled wildly.

His expression hardened into one of icy disdain as his cold glance whipped up and down her slender figure. Under the scrutiny she forced herself to straighten up, even though the ache in her ribs intensified.