Marriage On Trial

‘Let me see.’ Quinn was by her side in an instant. Lifting her hand, he examined the cut where a blob of red blood was welling.

‘It’s nothing,’ she assured him.

All at once her stomach clenched and fire flashed through her, as he put her finger in his mouth and sucked. While he kept it there, his green eyes met and held hers, as though assessing her response.

It seemed an eternity before, head spinning, she was able to tear her gaze away.

Inspecting the now bloodless cut, he asked, ‘Where do you keep your sticking-plasters?’

Trembling in every limb, and feeling as though she’d narrowly survived some disaster, she said jerkily, ‘There’s a first-aid box in the cupboard.’

When, with deft efficiency, he’d put a plaster on her finger and replaced the box, he remarked, ‘You look shaken.’ He sounded smug and self-satisfied, as if he knew perfectly well that it had nothing to do with cutting herself. ‘Perhaps I’d better make the sandwiches?’

‘No, I’m quite all right, really.’ It seemed easier to be occupied.

While he leaned against one of the oak units and watched her, she finished making the sandwiches and filled the cafetière.

When it was assembled on a tray—and remembering his ‘do join me’ she’d added an extra plate and cup—he straightened. ‘Let me carry that.’

With a sense of unreality, she followed him back to the living room.

She was about to take a seat in one of the armchairs when, having put the tray on the low table, he motioned her to sit beside him. Then, as though he owned the place, he pressed the plunger and poured coffee for them both.

Passing her a plate, he urged, ‘Won’t you have a sandwich?’

‘Thank you.’ Elizabeth took a sandwich she didn’t want and toyed with it, while he began to eat with a healthy appetite.

She had presumed that, in asking for supper, he was simply demonstrating his power, but he seemed to be genuinely hungry.

Catching her look of surprise, he said, ‘I missed dinner tonight.’ Then he added wryly, ‘You thought I was just practising being obnoxious, didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t think you needed any practice.’ The words were out before she could prevent them.

‘Oh, well, I suppose I asked for that.’

To her amazement he was laughing, white, healthy teeth gleaming, deep creases appearing at each side of his chiselled mouth.

She felt her heart lurch then begin to race as she remembered the feel of that mouth touching hers…caressing her throat…finding the soft curves of her breasts…closing on a taut nipple…bringing a pleasure so exquisite it had been almost pain… Arousing a hunger that had made her shudder against him in an agony of need…

Perhaps she made some small sound, because he turned his head to look directly at her. In an instant her face flooded with scalding colour.

‘Erotic thoughts?’ he asked quizzically.

Knowing it was useless to deny it, she lied huskily, ‘In spite of the headache I was just wishing I’d stayed with Richard.’

Hoping desperately that Quinn would believe her, she knew he had when his face tightened.

But why should he be angry? What she did was nothing to do with him.

Slowly, he said, ‘If you can look like that when you think of him, your feelings must be a great deal more passionate than I’d imagined. I doubt if I’ve ever seen such naked longing on any woman’s face…’

She bit her soft inner lip until she tasted blood, before saying with what equanimity she could muster, ‘It’s getting very late…’

Desperate for him to be gone, she jumped to her feet and, walking to the window on legs that felt like chewed string, drew back the curtain.

A grey blanket of fog pressed damply against the glass, thick and smothering, allowing no glimpse of the outside world.

As levelly as possible, she went on, ‘And I’m afraid the conditions aren’t improving…’

‘No,’ he agreed, coming to stand behind her shoulder.

Awkwardly, she went on, ‘So don’t you think it would make sense to—?’

‘You’re quite right,’ he broke in smoothly. ‘Rather than risk an accident, it would make more sense to stay here.’

‘N-no, I didn’t mean that,’ she stammered. ‘You can’t possibly stay here. There’s only one bedroom.’

‘I’m quite willing to sleep on the couch.’

Panic-stricken, she cried, ‘No, I don’t want you to do that…’

His brows shot up. ‘I see! Well, if you want me to share your bed, I’ll be happy to stand in for Beaumont.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant!’

He sighed. ‘Pity. For a moment I thought—’

‘And you know quite well it wasn’t.’

His grin confirming that he’d just been baiting her, he said with mock resignation, ‘So the couch it is.’

With growing desperation, she clutched at straws. ‘But you don’t have any night things… And surely your hotel can’t be too far away?’

‘I do have some night things,’ he contradicted her calmly. ‘What I don’t have is a hotel. You see, I hadn’t planned on staying in town. My intention was to go on to Saltmarsh.’

‘Saltmarsh?’ The word was only a whisper.

Unbidden, her mind produced a series of vivid pictures. The town of Saltmarsh, with its narrow streets and half-timbered houses, its air of time standing still… Saltmarsh Island, some mile long by half a mile wide, connected to the mainland by a causeway which was only passable at low tide… Saltmarsh House, the beautiful old house that dominated the island…

‘It’s in Essex. Have you ever been there?’ Quinn’s glance was searching.

Her mind still full of images, she shook her head mutely.

‘It was once a thriving coastal town; now it’s a sleepy backwater with a population of a few thousand. My father used to live just off shore, on an island connected by a causeway.’

Used to? Henry Durville had once told her he would never willingly leave his home.

Had he become too ill to remain there? She saw Quinn’s eyes narrow, and for one frightening second thought she’d asked the question aloud.