Wedding Nights: Woman to Wed?

Brad was halfway through his meeting with Tim when he realised that his wallet was missing. Mentally reviewing the events of the day, rerunning them through his mind’s eye, he pinned down its possible loss to the moment when he had leaned forward and then bent down to inspect the workings on the shower on his tour of Claire’s house. Glancing at his watch, he decided that it would probably be quicker and simpler to drive straight over than to waste time telephoning to announce his arrival.

Breaking gently into Tim’s long-winded description of the vagaries of the British weather and its effect on the sales of air-conditioning systems, he explained that there was an urgent task he needed to perform.

As Brad parked his car in the drive he saw that Claire’s back door was slightly open in the homely way he remembered from his own childhood, and without thinking he pushed it wider and walked in.

He found Claire in the drawing room, gently dusting the face of one of the silver-framed photographs. When she saw him she put it down quickly, guiltily almost, and for some reason the defensiveness of her action angered him, making him demand brusquely as he gestured towards the photograph, ‘Wasn’t there ever a time when you were jealous of her, when you resented her and wished that you came first, instead of always having to stand in her shadow?’

Claire’s flush, initially caused by a mixture of shock at the unexpected arrival and embarrassment at the way he had caught her behaving in her own home almost as though she felt that she had no real right to be there, darkened to one of outraged anger.

‘In your country it might be perfectly acceptable to make personal criticisms and to ask intimate questions, to pry into people’s personal thoughts and lives, but in this country it isn’t,’ she reprimanded him sharply. ‘My marriage—’

‘Your marriage!’ Brad interrupted her. ‘In my country we don’t classify the type of relationship you seemed to have with your husband as very much of a marriage,’ he told her scornfully. ‘In my country,’ he stressed, ‘no woman worthy of the name would tamely accept being pushed so obviously into second place by accepting second-best—’

‘My marriage was not second-best,’ Claire denied furiously. ‘I knew when I married John how much he loved Paula. I knew then that …’

‘That what? All he wanted you for was to care for the shrine to her that he had turned this place into? And you were happy with that … you accepted that …?’

The contemptuous disbelief in his voice stung Claire into defending herself. ‘You don’t know the first thing about marriage.’

‘Don’t I?’ Brad challenged her softly. ‘I know as much as any other man about what it feels like to be a man. Why did you move out of your—sorry, John’s—bedroom?’ he asked her.

‘I … After John died … I didn’t …’

‘You didn’t what? Like sharing your bed with a ghost? Funny that, since all your married life you’d already been sharing it with the ghost of his first wife.’

Brad didn’t need to hear Claire’s shocked gasp or to see the anguish in her eyes to know that he had gone too far, said too much. He had realised it almost as soon as the cruel words had left his mouth but, of course, it was too late to recall them now; too late too to curse himself under his breath and to question what on earth had prompted him, driven him—him of all men, who had surely learned years ago to deal gently with other people’s vulnerable emotions; you couldn’t raise four sisters without doing so—to tear away another human being’s defences so ruthlessly and so angrily.

Why? Why? What was it about this one particular woman that made him react so challengingly, so malely aggressively?

‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised quietly. ‘You’re right … I was out of line. It’s just …’ He gestured towards the photograph and told her, ‘I guess it’s just that I can’t help thinking how I’d feel if you were one of my sisters. It can’t have been easy for you … married to a man who …’

‘Who what?’ Claire challenged him. ‘Who loved his first wife more than he loved me?’ Her mouth twisted slightly as she saw the way he looked away from her. So she had embarrassed him. Well, it served him right. He was the one who had brought up the subject of her marriage, not her, and a little embarrassment was the least he deserved to suffer after what he had said to her … done to her.

‘Well, I’m not one of your sisters,’ she told him fiercely, ‘and my relationship with John—our marriage was …’ She paused, her eyes suddenly filling with tears.

‘You must have loved him very much,’ she heard Brad saying gruffly, whilst he wondered how and where Tim fitted into her life.

In a way what he had said was true, Claire acknowledged inwardly, only it wasn’t so much John she had loved as what he had done for her. But that knowledge, those thoughts were too private to disclose to anyone, and most especially to the man now standing watching her.

‘He’s been dead for over two years now and yet you still keep this place like a shrine for him,’ he commented. ‘Why?’

Were all Americans so forthright, so … so openly curious about other people’s private lives? Claire wondered in exasperation. Wasn’t there anything she could say to get it through to him that his questions were too personal and unwelcome?

‘It was her home,’ she told him evasively, hoping that he would drop the subject and tell her why he had returned.

Instead he pounced on what she had said with all the skill and speed of a mountain cougar, repeating softly, ‘Was … Past tense; she’s in the past, but so are you. This is the present and you should put the past behind you …’

Now what had he said? Brad wondered perceptively as he saw the way her face changed, her body tensing.

‘The past isn’t always that easy to forget,’ Claire told him in a low voice. ‘Even when we want to—’ She stopped speaking abruptly and Brad guessed that she had said more than she had intended.

‘Why did you come back?’ she asked him, changing the subject. ‘Have you changed your mind about wanting to stay here …?’

She didn’t really want to have him lodging with her, Brad guessed, and had no doubt been pressured into it by her over-assertive sister-in-law. Why? Because Irene was anxious to protect her husband’s job or because she was anxious to protect her marriage?

Under normal circumstances the situation would have been enough to have him backing off, making some excuse to let her off the hook, but he recognised that he didn’t want to lose contact with her—not yet … not until …

Not until what? Not until he had pinned down what it was about her that provoked such a range of volatile and unfamiliar emotions and reactions within him. If you really need time to work that one out, you really are in a bad way, he derided himself inwardly. She intrigued him, angered him … incited him … excited him, and if the time ever came when she shared her bed with him he’d make pretty damn sure that there were no ghostly third parties there sharing it with them.

‘No, I haven’t changed my mind,’ he told her, pausing deliberately before adding softly, ‘Far from it.’

It was interesting the way she had coloured up as betrayingly and vividly as a sexually inexperienced girl.

‘I … I’d like to check over the bedroom if I may,’ he continued. ‘Er … which door was it …?’

Claire couldn’t help it; she could feel the hot colour flooding up under her skin. She was quite positive that he knew exactly which door it was—he was that kind of man—but to challenge him would be to unleash on herself all manner of emotional hazards that she doubted that she had the strength of mind to negotiate, not least the appalling, clear mental image that she had just had of Brad laughingly, lovingly, gently drawing the shadowy figure of a compliant, eager woman towards the protective shadows of an invitingly open bedroom door, the bed just visible within—the bed on which he would very shortly be making expert and intensely erotic love to the woman clinging so eagerly to him.

But that woman wasn’t her … That woman could never be her.

As Brad saw the way she glanced towards the stairs and the shadow that crossed her face, he felt irritably angry with himself for tormenting her. It was so out of character for him—the kind of masculine behaviour he had often verbally checked in his brothers.

‘It’s all right,’ he told Claire quietly. ‘I think I can find the way after all. It’s just that I suspect I may have dropped my wallet there earlier; that’s why I came back …’

‘Your wallet …? Oh. I …’

He had come back for his wallet … Then why pretend …? She didn’t understand. Claire frowned as she watched him taking the stairs two at a time and heading straight for the master-bedroom door.

There were a lot of things about Brad that she didn’t understand, she recognised uneasily as she waited for him to come back down. But what disturbed her most was the fact that she was actually acknowledging that lack of understanding, giving it a gravitas that it certainly did not merit.

CHAPTER FOUR

CLAIRE grimaced to herself as she emerged from the bright warmth of the school to discover that it was raining—hard.

It had been dry and fine when she had left home earlier in the evening, and with time in hand she had decided to walk to the school instead of taking her car.

She hesitated for a moment, wondering whether or not to go back inside and ring for a taxi, and then, realising that she was already wet, pulled up the collar of her jacket and started to walk quickly down the road.

Whilst she had hesitated about whether to walk home or not she had been conscious in a hazy sort of way of the car which had pulled up at the roadside, but had assumed simply that the driver was collecting someone.

Even when she heard the engine fire and saw the brilliant sweep of the headlights illuminating the roadway ahead of her, she still didn’t realise what was happening. That recognition didn’t come until her brain, subconsciously waiting for the car to pick up speed and go past her, warily relayed to her senses the fact that it had not done so and what potentially that could mean.

Instinctively Claire reacted to that awareness, quickening her speed, her head tucked protectively down, her body movements designed not to draw any unwanted attention to herself as she fought not to give in to the urge to stop and turn around. She could hear the car crawling along the road behind her in much the same menacing and terrifying way that panic was now beginning to crawl its way along her tense spine.

One heard about such things … read about them—men who preyed on vulnerable, unprotected women. Her mouth had started to go dry, her heart was pounding. The area of the town she was walking through was void of any private homes—just empty shops and public buildings with no other pedestrians in sight. Whilst the rest of the traffic sped past, either oblivious to or uncaring about the slow crawl of the car behind her, it continued its slow, deliberately menacing pursuit.

Not daring to risk turning round, Claire tried to walk even faster. Beneath her clothes she could feel the hot, nervous perspiration drenching her skin; her heart was beating so suffocatingly loudly that she could no longer hear the sound of the car engine.

Her body stiffened abruptly in terrified shock as she realised why. The car had stopped. She heard the sound of a car door being slammed, followed by determined male footsteps.