Dragon's Lair (7 page)

that a divorce was projected, so how could she have put her in this

room?

Davina swallowed and closed the drawers, backing away from

them. Then she caught at herself. She was being utterly ridiculous.

She would have to spend one night in this room—two at the most

depending on when Gethyn returned, and then she would be gone.

It would probably be never necessary for him to know that she had

slept in his room—in his bed. And she was being foolish to ascribe

any ulterior motive to Mrs Parry. Gethyn's aunt had obviously been

disconcerted by her arrival and had probably reacted without

thinking. Besides, if there was no other room available, what choice

did she have? It was either this, or some makeshift on a floor

somewhere—possibly Rhiannon's room, and Davina shuddered at

the prospect. She was being hysterical, she thought. She should be

thankful for small mercies. At least she had a roof over her head for

the night.

But she still walked over to the bed and pulled back the

counterpane. She relaxed perceptibly. The bed linen was crisp and

fresh, clearly newly-changed. She knew, with an odd twist at the pit

of her stomach, that it would have disturbed her to have to sleep in

the same sheets as Gethyn had used, and she told herself

defensively this was because he was now a stranger to her.

But she knew, if she was honest, that that was not her real motive,

and she turned away sharply, forcing herself to go back to the chair

and sit down and pour herself a cup of tea. It wasn't her favourite

drink, but she supposed wryly it might help to steady her jumping

nerves.

Her pulses seemed to be behaving most oddly altogether, and she

made herself sit quietly, trying to regain her control of herself.

Anyone would think, she told herself, that the door was suddenly

going to swing open and Gethyn was going to be standing there—as

he had been that night more than two years before.

Davina put up her hands to her face as if she was trying to blot out

the images that presented themselves relentlessly to her teeming

mind. But it was no use. She was incapable of stemming the flood

of memory that rushed to engulf her.

The bed in the honeymoon suite had been a very different affair—a

wide, low divan with fluffy lace-trimmed pillows and a magnificent

gold satin bedspread. She had sat at the dressing table in the white

chiffon of her wedding nightgown, brushing her hair with long

nervous strokes. She could see the bed behind her in the mirror, and

she was assailed by a terrible feeling of inadequacy.

The dinner in the hotel restaurant had been a disaster. Gethyn had

retired behind a mask of cool courtesy, and it was impossible for

her to reach him, to try and explain the fears and apprehensions

which were overwhelming her. In the end, resentment had begun to

burn in her, and she had become equally silent. She shouldn't have

to explain; he ought to know how she was feeling. But sympathy

and understanding seemed to be the least of his emotions. When

they left the restaurant, he told her abruptly he was going to the bar

for a drink, and wished her goodnight.

She came up to the suite alone, and looked round her desolately. It

was air such a farce. The flowers were already beginning to wilt in

the central heating, and the champagne remained unopened. She

found some magazines on a table and sitting down on one of the

sofas began to leaf through them, but the words and pictures danced

meaninglessly in front of her eyes, and at last she threw them down

with an exclamation of disgust. She glanced at her watch and saw

that Gethyn had been gone for over an hour. Her temper rose. Well,

he would not come back and find her sitting here meekly waiting

for him! '

She banged into the bedroom and closed the door. If it had had a

key or a bolt, she would have used them. She undressed and

showered in the luxuriously appointed bathroom, then put on her

nightgown and the negligee which matched it and went slowly back

in the bedroom.

She was feeling totally unnerved by the apparent
volte-face
her

emotions had suffered, and all because of a few bitter words from

her mother. Was it—could it be because deep in her heart she knew

those words were true and that she had married a stranger? She

shivered and laid down her hairbrush. Was it better, as her mother

had always claimed, for love to develop slowly from friendship, and

trust and respect over a long period, or could it burst on the senses

in a few short weeks with all the violence of an electric storm? Did

Gethyn love her? He had never said so —that was when she

realised it for the first time. She knew he wanted her, and had

hugged to herself her secret joy in her own sexual power over him.

But love was a different matter and one she had tended to take for

granted. He wanted her, therefore he loved her, and it had taken her

all this time, to their wedding night in fact, to realise that the two

things did not necessarily bear any relation. This was what

frightened her—this lack of spoken commitment which should have

come, she thought, much, much earlier than the brief vows they had

repeated that day. Sheer physical desire alone was too transient a

thing on which to build a relationship which had to last for life.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked in the mirror at the

blurred image of a girl, her body barely veiled by the misting of

chiffon, traditionally prepared for a night of passion, and terrified.

She tried to recapture the memory of Gethyn's mouth on hers, to

remember the swift, vibrant response he had been able to engender

from the day they had met, but there was nothing but chill inside

her.

And at that moment she heard the outer door of the suite slam. For

a second she sat tensely, her slim body poised as if for flight, only

there was nowhere to fly to. But her door remained closed, and

after a while she relaxed perceptibly. Gethyn, it seemed, had gone

to the other room, as he had indicated before dinner.

She slipped out of her negligee and laid it across the dressing stool,

then got into the big bed. She felt lost in the wide expanse of

sweet-smelling linen, and she wished fretfully that she had some

sleeping tablets so that she could blot out this whole disastrous

night. Perhaps everything would seem different in the morning.

She reached for the button of the bedside lamp, but as she did so, a

slight sound came to her ears, and she looked up to see the

bedroom door opening. Gethyn sauntered into the room, and pushed

the door shut behind him. His dark hair was damp and dishevelled

from the shower, and he was wearing a towelling bathrobe, and

Davina knew with a sudden tightening of her stomach muscles that

he wore nothing else. He strolled across the room to the side of the

bed where she was lying and stood looking down at her mockingly.

When he spoke, she could smell the whisky on his breath.

'Good evening, lovely. And how are we enjoying our solitary

honeymoon so far?'

She bent her head so that a swathe of dark auburn hair hung across

her cheek like a curtain. 'Gethyn, please,' she said in a low voice.

'I—I'm very tired.'

'Tired, is it?' The note of exaggerated concern in his voice was

almost more than she could bear. 'But I thought a headache was

always the classic excuse—or does that come later in marriage?

You'll have to instruct me—I'm new to these feminine foibles.'

She looked up at him in swift resentment. 'You mean I'm the first

woman to refuse the great Gethyn Lloyd?' she could not resist the

biting words.

'No, I don't,' he said softly. 'Because you haven't refused me yet,

and you'd better not.'

A searing quiver of alarm ran along her senses, and this time she

made no attempt to answer him.

His voice went on. 'For the past few weeks, you've been promising

me all the delights of Paradise. But at the same time it was made

clear that you being an innocent virgin, and Mummy's daughter to

boot, it would be at a price. Well, today I paid that price, and now

you're going to keep your side of the bargain.'

'Gethyn—no!' She spoke then, her voice husky with suppressed

tears. 'It—it wasn't like that, believe me.'

'Then what was it like?' he said gently. He took off the bathrobe and

tossed it aside. 'You have a golden opportunity, lovely, to convince

me, right now.'

She was cold and trembling as he took her in his arms. As his

mouth sought hers, she turned her head away, and her body flinched

as his hands began their long, slow exploration. After a time, he

lifted himself on to one elbow and stared down at her averted face.

'Was it all an act, then?' he asked, his voice harsh. 'All that passion

and promise? My God, you really had me fooled. Well, you're cast

in a new and demanding role now, Davina, and I'm sorry if you

don't know your lines.'

He took her with an insolent expertise, just short of brutality. When

it was over, she lay very still, the first scalding tears squeezing from

under her closed lids and trickling slowly down her face. She knew

he had left the bed, and when eventually she opened her eyes, he

was standing watching her, tying the belt of his bathrobe, his face

sombre.

"Goodnight, Davina.' His voice was cool and cynical. 'Thank you

for the loan of your body. If at any time in the future you're curious

to know how it really should be between a man and a woman, you

have only to let me know.'

'I hate you!' she whispered with passionate intensity. It might have

been a trick of the lamplight, but she thought for a moment she saw

him flinch. But when he spoke, the mockery was still in his voice.

'Do you,
cariad?
Then that makes two of us, because I also hate

myself.'

He turned and left her.

She fell into a restless uneasy sleep just before dawn. When she

awoke, it was to the rattle of a breakfast trolley being wheeled into

the sitting room outside. She sat up, pushing her hair back, and

dragging the covers across her body as a quiet knock fell on the

bedroom door. But no one made any attempt to enter, and after a

moment or two she got out of bed. Her discarded nightgown lay on

the floor beside the bed where Gethyn had tossed it and she kicked

it out of her .way with loathing. She slipped a black silk kaftan

heavily embroidered with butterflies over her head, and tugged a

brush through the tangle of her hair. She looked heavy-eyed, but no

more so than other bride waking up after her wedding night, she

decided with a wry twist of her lips.

For a moment she stood, nerving herself, then she opened the door

and marched out into the sitting room with a defiant tilt to her chin.

But the gesture was wasted, because the room was empty. And the

breakfast in its silver chafing dishes was quite clearly for one ...

She poured herself a cup of coffee, glancing in bewilderment

towards the closed door on the other side of the suite. Presumably

Gethyn was still asleep, in which case, who had ordered this

breakfast? Cooked food was beyond her, but she took one of the

warm rolls and spread it with butter. When she had drunk her

coffee, she got up restlessly and wandered across to Gethyn's door.

She stood for a moment with her head bent listening for some sound

of movement, but there was none, and after a brief hesitation she

twisted the knob and pushed the door open. The room beyond was

also deserted, the sheets and blankets stripped back, and the

wardrobe door standing open, as if the occupant had made a hurried

departure.

Davina's hand stole to her mouth as the implications of this burst

over her. He had gone. But where? She had never felt so

humiliated. Even the degradation she had suffered at his hands the

night before seemed to pale into insignificance beside this. She sank

down on to the softness of the carpet and stared almost

unbelievingly about her. Nothing could have underlined more

bitterly the terms of their relationship, she thought, swallowing. He

had married her for purely sensual reasons, and when she had

proved a disappointment, he had decided to cut his losses.

Slow anger began to burn deep inside her. And what was she

supposed to do? Go meekly back to her mother's house and admit