Loves Choices

‘Hope.’ She felt his hand on her shoulder and tensed. ‘It’s all right, I’m not going to touch you.’ She didn’t move, terrified into immobility, not even relaxing when he cursed and withdrew. She felt him leave the bed and walk round it to the window. He didn’t bother to pull on his robe, and Hope’s eyes, unable to blot out the shape and power of his body, watched him look into the darkness.

‘I’m sorry it had to be like that, but you were so tense and terrified it couldn’t have been any different. But next time …’ She must have made some small sound that alerted him because he swung round, catching her anguished, bitter expression. ‘Try to get some sleep. Things will seem different in the morning.’ He came and sat down beside her, watching her shrink back. ‘You were fighting yourself as well as me, Hope. The Sisters have doubtless taught you that sex is a duty you owe your husband, a means to an end—children—but it is also a rare and lovely pleasure. If you listen to your body and not your mind you will discover that for yourself.’

She saw him get up and expected him to go away, but to her dismay he walked back to the other side of the bed and climbed in beside her, pulling the covers over them both, but not touching her. As she lay tense beside him, Hope heard his breathing deepen into sleep, her body gradually relaxing a little, her breathing still shallow.

Had what happened between them brought him any physical satisfaction? It seemed impossible to believe it could, but the Sisters had said that male needs were different from female. Hope sighed. She was not completely ignorant—she knew from her reading that there were women who enjoyed the sexual act, but felt that she was never destined to be one of them. Her mind and body both felt bruised and sore, her skin defiled, and she felt an overwhelming need to soak her body in water, to scrub away all memories of Alexei’s touch.

Slowly, Hope slid out of the bed, taking care not to disturb the sleeping figure behind her. The carpet felt soft to her bare feet, but she felt oddly dizzy and breathless. She reached the bottom of the bed before she felt her knees start to buckle under her, her body floating, weightless almost. She heard a sound behind her, barely registering what it was, uncomprehending even when Alexei caught her, swinging her up against his chest as the room whirled unpleasantly round her.

‘I wanted to wash,’ she told him, scarcely aware of what she was saying. ‘I want …’

‘Yes, mon petit, I know.’ The words floated around her, her head dropping on to Alexei’s shoulder, her mind and body too drained to respond. She was distantly aware of being carried into the marble grandeur of the bathroom, of being wrapped in a huge warm towel as water gushed into the bath, but it was too much of an effort to pay much attention. She didn’t want to think or remember, this floating, hazy feeling was so much pleasanter.

The water was warm and scented and she wanted to lie in it for ever, but someone kept talking to her, gently sponging her skin, the touch soothing, reminding her of her childhood and the nanny she had had before she was sent to school. But she had left school now and … Her mind veered away from the pain she could sense waiting for her. She was being lifted out of the bath and rubbed dry, her skin glowing and warm, a brisk command to open her mouth instantly obeyed, the tablet she was given making her pull a face and gratefully accept a glass of water. Almost within seconds she seemed to be pulled down into an abyss of darkness, fighting against it instinctively, terrified by dim memories of unperceived horrors waiting for her in the Stygian darkness, until a cool voice murmured her name, a hand lifting the heavy weight of her damp hair, her face pillowed against something warm and somehow vaguely comforting.

‘Hope.’ The sound of her name penetrated the thick mists. She opened her eyes—she was in Alexei’s arms, her face resting against the curve of his throat.

‘You hurt me.’ She said it sorrowfully, as though she were still a child, wondering at the way he tensed, and then the sleeping pill he had given her did its work and she was sucked back down into the blackness, unaware that when he returned her to the bed, it was to Alexei that she turned, curling into his body in an instinctive search for comfort, or that he watched her long after she had fallen asleep, something very like pain darkening his eyes. It wasn’t his way to deviate from any path he had decided upon. Tanya’s suicide had to be avenged and this was undoubtedly the best way.

Muttering something under his breath he looked down at the silver head pillowed against him, tear tracks faintly discernible on the pale skin.

Hope opened her eyes, awareness immediately flooding over her, her movements jerky as she turned her head, relief invading her tense body as she saw that she was alone. Shakily she threw back the bedclothes, moving gingerly towards the edge of the bed. She had a dim memory of getting out of bed last night after … She frowned, checking as she fought to remember exactly what had happened, her eyes widening as tiny scraps of memory floated to the surface of her consciousness.

‘Ah, you’re awake.’

She froze as the door opened and Alexei walked in, tall and lithe in a cotton shirt and jeans. ‘Breakfast,’ he told her, indicating the tray he was carrying. When she averted her face he put the tray down on a small table and she felt the bed depress as he came and sat beside her.

‘There’s no point in sulking, Hope,’ he told her, not unkindly. ‘It won’t always be as it was last night. What you suffered was no worse than you would have endured at the hands of Montrachet, probably less, although you probably can’t believe that now.’

‘Except that he would have married me,’ Hope pointed out, ignoring the last part of his sentence. How could he talk so calmly about what had happened between them? The invasion of her privacy as much as the violation of her body had shocked her. She couldn’t accept the unwanted intimacy of their situation; she couldn’t endure knowing that this man had not only possessed her body, but also seemed to know, to the last degree, her every feeling and emotion. She felt as though there was nothing left she could call her own, no corner of her soul in which she could hide from him, and the knowledge frightened her.

‘Hope.’ His hands grasped her shoulders, and he frowned when she tensed, obviously guessing one of the causes of her concern when he saw the sunlight dance on the exposed curve of her shoulder. He got up and walked over to the dressing room, returning with a flimsy, silky robe. ‘Sit up and turn round,’ he told her, sitting on the bed behind her, and sliding the robe over her arms when she reluctantly did as he instructed.

‘Now,’ he said, when he had firmly tied a bow in the ribbons that secured the front. ‘Try to understand,’ he said slowly. ‘In the eyes of people whose opinion your intelligence tells you matter, the fact that we have been lovers will mean nothing. They will judge you as the person you are, Hope. Your virginity or lack of it matters only to your father because he regards you as a commodity, as something he can sell,’ he told her brutally. ‘Women don’t barter innocence for marriage these days, little one. Strange though you may find it now … one day you will perhaps thank me for this.’

‘Don’t lie to me.’ Angrily, Hope pushed him away. ‘You told me yourself last night that my father made your sister his mistress, that he wouldn’t marry her …’

‘He wouldn’t marry her because of her lack of wealth, not her lack of virtue,’ she was told grimly. ‘And it was not because my sister chose to give herself to your father that I have brought you here, but because of his treatment of her once she had. Now, I suggest you have your breakfast and then get dressed.’

‘What in?’ Hope demanded childishly. ‘I don’t have anything in scarlet …’ He laughed, further infuriating her, seeming more amused than annoyed by her comment, saying wickedly:

‘Even dressed in the garments of a putain, you would still look exactly what you are, mon petit—an innocent bearing the outward and inward bruises of her ravishment.’

‘When do we leave for the Caribbean?’ Hope asked him, trying to subdue the high colour his words brought storming to her face.

‘When you have ceased to look like a ravished child and have become a woman.’

‘That will never be,’ Hope promised him rashly, hating him when he laughed again, curling a strand of her hair round his finger until she jerked away.

‘Au contraire, ma jolie,’ he mocked her. ‘I would hazard a guess it will be sooner than you think–much sooner.’ He leaned forward, his fingers sliding along her throat to her jaw, holding her prisoner while he stroked his tongue against her lips and then kissed her, withdrawing to study her flushed cheeks and tumbled hair with a thoughtful expression. Just for a moment, Hope thought that he would touch her again, but to her relief he made no move to do so, simply saying, ‘Now, I have to go and inspect the vineyards. You are at liberty to explore the house and inner courtyard, but I’m afraid you cannot wander any further. The drawbridge will remain up, and remember Pierre cannot help you. Take my advice and accept the inevitable, Hope,’ he finished quietly. ‘There is no shame in finding pleasure in the sexuality of your body, you know, despite what the Sisters may have taught you.’

‘How can I find pleasure, as you call it, when I hate you,’ Hope flung at him, watching the smile crease his skin, tiny lines fanning outwards from his eyes.

‘You will see,’ he promised softly, heading for the door. ‘Eat your breakfast. I shall see you tonight.’

He was gone before she could think of a suitably cutting retort, leaving her alone with her thoughts. What a complex man he was, one side of his nature passionately Russian, thirsting for the revenge his pride demanded and determined to have it no matter what the cost to anyone else, and yet there was another side to him almost completely opposite, and that had been the side she had experienced this morning. But she wasn’t going to make the mistake of underestimating either, Hope decided with a shiver. She couldn’t escape, he had told her, but even if she could it was too late, if what he had said about her father’s plans was true, and somehow she sensed it was. He would do with her what he had said and nothing would swerve him from his purpose, but one day he would no longer have any use for her, there was nothing to hold them together, no emotion on either side bar his thirst for revenge, and once that was satisfied …

Hope’s skin chilled and goose-fleshed, and she shivered, struggling to come to terms with what had happened and what her life would now be. Life in the convent had been ordered and peaceful, not requiring any effort upon her part other than obedience, but she wasn’t a child any longer and somehow she was going to have to find a way to make her own life. Alexei’s plans for her were something she would have to endure until she could escape from him, but once she did … gnawing her bottom lip, she wondered what was going to become of her, jolted out of the passive acceptance that had become second nature to her. She would have to find a job; thousands of other girls her age survived on their own. Thousands of other girls had affairs with men outside marriage; thousands of girls learned to cope as she was going to have to learn, and feeling sorry for herself would achieve nothing.

Her coffee was cold by the time she had washed and dressed. She found the kitchen eventually, and saw Pierre standing over the sink peeling some potatoes. He raised his head warily and Hope guessed that Alexei had warned him about her. A coffee percolator stood on a table next to the sink and she picked it up miming a pouring action. Nodding his head, he took it from her and Hope watched him fill it with fresh coffee and water. While it was perking, he opened the fridge door and indicated the contents. Guessing that he thought she might want some breakfast, Hope shook her head, unable to face the thought of food, although the hot strong coffee was blissfully reviving.

When she had finished it she went outside into the courtyard, and walked aimlessly around it. Stables bordered it on one side, but the stalls were empty. When she peered over the wall Hope saw the water of the moat glistening below, some ducks diving for food. It was warm enough for her to be tempted to sit in the sun, but she felt too restless, too keyed up to relax.

Unwillingly, she returned to the château, wandering from room to room, studying the portrait of Tanya for several minutes before going into the library and searching the shelves for something to read.

Eventually, she picked out a volume of Tolstoy’s War and Peace, something she had not read, hoping she could lose herself and her fears inside its pages.

At one o’clock, Pierre brought her some lunch—a light, fluffy omelette and a pot of fresh coffee with some fruit to eat afterwards. The smell of the omelette made her realise that she was hungry, and when she took a forkful, she found that it tasted as delicious as it looked. When she returned the tray to the kitchen, Pierre eyed the clean plate with a glimmer of approval.

Hope read well into the afternoon, tension curling through her body as the afternoon wore on until she was no longer able to deceive herself that the novel was holding her attention. Closing it, she wandered to the window, looking out on to the lake. The ducks were diving industriously in the pale green water, and suddenly restless she went to the kitchen looking for some bread to feed them, thinking the activity might distract her mind, if only momentarily.

There was no sign of Pierre, but she found a loaf and cut off a small chunk, going outside and walking through the courtyard until she came to the small gap in the wall she had noticed that morning, leaning out from it so that she was directly over the water, breaking the bread into crumbs and calling to the ducks. For several minutes their antics amused her, the inept attempts of the small ducklings to get their share making her smile.

The heavy sound of wood and moving machinery drew her attention, and frowning, she turned, just in time to see Alexei’s car drive into the courtyard. He climbed out, hesitating when he saw her, calling her name sharply, his forehead creased in what looked like anger.

Automatically, Hope panicked, retreating into the embrasure as he strode towards her, shrinking away instinctively, not realising how tenuous her foothold was until her shoe slipped and she overbalanced, the water of the moat rushing up to meet her, engulfing her, silencing her choking cry as her mouth and nose filled with the cold water. She could swim, but the shock of falling made her panic and struggle instinctively as she felt something clasp her arm, Alexei’s angry features swimming in front of her eyes.

Later, she remembered thinking in a confused way that Alexei was trying to drown her, before she realised that that couldn’t be true. He couldn’t flaunt her in front of her father if he drowned her, but at the time the thought made her fight against his constraining arms, consciousness ebbing and flowing until she was suddenly aware of sun-warmed stone beneath her body, and the cold darkness of wet clothes. Alexei was standing over her, water dripping from his lean body, his mouth a grim line that made her shudder.

He muttered something in Russian as he bent to pick her up, and Hope realised that Pierre was standing beside him. Alexei must have indicated something to him, she realised, because the other man hurried into the house.

‘Mon Dieu!’ Alexei swore as he carried Hope inside. ‘Is that how your mind works, you little fool—death before dishonour?’

Hope struggled to tell him that her fall had been an accident, that his sudden grim-faced appearance had frightened her, but the words wouldn’t come.

‘This is the second occasion on which I have had to bathe you, mon petit,’ she heard him say seconds later as he set her on her feet in the bathroom. ‘I confess the role of nursemaid is not entirely an unappealing one, although on this occasion …’ Hope shivered as full consciousness returned and she realised how easily she could have been drowned.

‘I didn’t jump.’ Alexei had his back to her, his wet jeans clinging to his body as he bent over the bath running the water. She bit her lip—now what had made her say that? A desire to show him that she wasn’t quite the weak, childish fool he had thought her? ‘It was an accident,’ she added huskily. ‘I was feeding the ducks, you startled me and …’

‘And you fell into the moat rather than endure my company?’ he offered grimly. ‘God, you are such a child … determined to cast me in the role of villain. Has it not occurred to you yet that once you are free of me you may choose what to do with your life, Hope, instead of having someone else’s will imposed upon you—and do not make any mistake, as the bride of Montrachet you would have no choice. Have you no ambitions? No desires of your own? Nothing you want from life?’ His voice was edged with impatience, and he gave a muffled curse before straightening up and looking at her. ‘You are a person, Hope, a reasoning, intelligent human being. Can you honestly tell me that you would be happy with the life Montrachet would offer you?’

He sighed, suddenly looking tired, and Hope reflected wryly that it must have been a shock to him when she fell–her death would have deprived him of any chance of obtaining his revenge. No wonder he had fought so strongly to save her.

‘Get out of those wet things,’ he instructed curtly. ‘Pierre is making you a tisane. I thought we’d dine out tonight, but perhaps in the circumstances …’ He looked at her doubtfully, but Hope seized on his words as though they were a life-line. Dining out would be infinitely preferable to remaining here alone with him, dreading the time when she must eventually go to bed.

‘No … please, I should like to go out.’

Alexei studied her for a moment, shrugged and then glanced distastefully at the jeans plastered to his legs. Against her will Hope’s glance followed his, the taut pull of the fabric against the hard muscles mesmerising her.