Husband By Necessity

CHAPTER EIGHT

AT LAST Bernardo slackened his grip and she could ease herself carefully from under him. He didn’t awake, and she managed to slip from the bed and pull on a light robe before going into the kitchen.

The light startled her. In the bedroom the wooden shutters were drawn across the windows, blocking out the light. Now she realised that they had both slept very late and it was nearly ten o’clock in the morning. Luckily it was Sunday, Ginetta’s day off, and they wouldn’t be disturbed. She was smiling as she began to make the coffee.

The soft rustle of her movements as she left the bed was enough to awaken Bernardo. At first he lay very still, baffled by the unfamiliar surroundings. This was neither his room nor his bed. Nor did he feel very much like himself. The man he knew himself to be had gone to sleep in the snow and darkness a thousand years ago. He didn’t know how he’d been transported to this place so that he awoke bathed in warmth and well-being. He only knew that he wanted to stay here forever.

As more of his surroundings came into focus he became aware that the far side of the bed was warm and sweet-smelling. There was a dent, too, in the other pillow. Inspecting it more closely he found a single hair. It was blonde, fluffy and intensely feminine.

Then it all came back to him, the driving need to return to this place to watch over her, the journey that had turned into a nightmare, and the presence that had materialised out of the darkness to take him home. She’d tended him, fed him, then left him asleep on her sofa. He remembered that bit very clearly now.

What he couldn’t recall was how he’d come to be sleeping in her bed.

Naked.

Or what he’d done once he was there.

He tried frantically to kick start his memory, but it was hard when it was so entwined with his longings. In his dreams he’d made love with her so often that it was impossible now to be sure whether the pictures in his mind were memories or imagination.

He sat up, shaking his head. The movement caused the robe to slide right off the bed. He made a grab for it, missed, and was about to lean out for it when the sound of Angie’s footsteps made him hastily retreat under the duvet.

She appeared with coffee, smiling when she saw him awake. He tried to read that smile, to guess what she expected of him. But though friendly, her eyes gave nothing away.

‘Have you rejoined the human race?’ she asked.

What did that mean?

‘I’ve thawed out,’ he said carefully.

‘Good. There was a time I thought that would never happen. Which side do you want your coffee?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You’re in the middle of the bed. Do you want to lean over here or that side?’

‘Over here is fine,’ he said, indicating the side where she was standing, and inching his way over. She sat on the bed and he clutched the duvet.

‘You were like an icicle, when I found you on the road,’ she observed, setting down the coffee.

‘Pretty near a dead icicle,’ he admitted. ‘Thank you, dottore.’

‘Dottore?’ she asked, looking amused.

What, in heaven’s name, had he called her last night? He had an unnerving feeling it hadn’t been dottore.

‘I never thought to hear you say thank you,’ she said with a shake of the head that made her soft hair dance wickedly about her cheeks. She smiled, meeting his eyes significantly, and he drew the duvet a little more firmly around him. ‘You just never know what’s going to happen next, do you?’

‘No,’ he agreed, not taking his eyes from her. ‘Life is full of surprises.’

‘And some things are more of a surprise than others.’

That reply was like a blow over the solar plexus. It was true, then. She really had lain in his arms, offering him all herself, whispering his name in her delight, asking everything, giving everything…

And he couldn’t even remember it properly.

Angie was trying to collect her scattered wits. Her eyes would insist on fixing themselves on his bare chest. She could still feel where his arm had been flung over her, where his head had lain against her and his breath had warmed her. If only she knew whether he’d been aware of that. Had he known when he moved his lips against her and murmured words she couldn’t hear? Did he remember it now? Did he regret it? What ‘surprises’ was he thinking of?

She searched his eyes. They gave nothing away.

‘If you’ll go away for a moment,’ he said, ‘I’ll get up.’

‘Oh, no, you don’t. You’re staying in that bed. You nearly froze to death yesterday and I’m going to take care of you. That’s what a doctor is for.’

He frowned. ‘Did I get a bang on the head?’

‘Not that I know of. Why?’

‘There are gaps in my memory. I’m sure I went to sleep on your sofa.’

How did I get into your bed? At what point, exactly, did I discard my clothes?

‘I found you wandering around in the night. You were half asleep and confused. You thought you were back in your own home. I thought you’d be more comfortable in here.’

‘Is-that all?’

‘That’s all.’

Perhaps he’d imagined her little sigh of regret. Or perhaps he’d only heard it inside himself.

‘It’s time I made you something to eat,’ she said. ‘English breakfast, bacon, eggs, sausage, tomato, fried bread. And you’ll have it in bed.’

By the time she returned with a laden tray he’d retrieved the robe from the floor, tucked it decently around him and was back under the duvet. He’d meant to stride out determinedly and insist on sitting at the table, with dignity. But suddenly it was pleasant to be looked after, and he stayed where he was.

Besides, she looked so pretty with her face flushed from the stove, and her ridiculous hair wafting around it in tendrils. How could a doctor have hair like that?

‘Bernardo,’ she said patiently, trying to get through his glazed expression.

‘What?’ Startled, he came back to reality.

‘I asked you to straighten your knees. I can’t put the tray down.’

‘Sorry.’ He complied and they settled matters efficiently. ‘Aren’t you having anything?’

‘Just getting it.’

She returned and sat on the bed, with a large mug in her hands. It was a child’s mug, covered in cartoon characters, and right this minute she looked little more than a child.

‘Is that all?’

‘This is English tea. It’ll set me up for the day.’

‘Is that what I’ve got?’ he asked with misgiving.

‘No, I made you coffee.’

‘Let me try that.’ He took a sip from her mug, made a face and nearly choked. ‘Good grief!’ he said, reaching hastily for his coffee, and they laughed together.

‘How did the party go?’ she asked.

‘Wonderfully well,’ he said, tucking in and speaking between mouthfuls. ‘Renato has finally made up with Lorenzo. I mean really made up. Before we went down to the guests we had a drink together, and Renato toasted Lorenzo, saying he owed his happiness to him. He said they all knew Heather and Lorenzo’s wedding was a mistake, and Lorenzo was the only one who had the nerve to do anything about it.’

‘Which is true,’ Angie mused.

‘Yes, it is.’ Bernardo gave an ironic grin. ‘If Lorenzo hadn’t been brave enough to be a coward, Heather and Renato wouldn’t be as happy as they are today.’

‘Are they really, do you think?’

‘They’re in love. They belong together but Renato screwed it all up by trying to marry her to Lorenzo.’

‘Why did he do that, I wonder?’

‘Because he was enjoying his life as it was, a string of girlfriends and no commitments. But someone had to marry and provide an heir so he cast Lorenzo as “the sacrificial lamb”-that’s how Lorenzo puts it. But you should see Renato now, the very picture of the happily married man, and-’ Bernardo paused, grinning.

‘No!’ Angie exclaimed. ‘Is Heather-?’

‘There’s no announcement, but Baptista’s certain. She says she can “tell”.’

‘That would be wonderful,’ Angie said with a touch of wistfulness. ‘A baby. They’ll be a real family at last.’

‘Nothing matters as much as family,’ Bernardo agreed. ‘That’s why Baptista likes to have everyone around her on her birthday.’

‘Tell me about the rest of the evening. Did she like my gift?’

‘She loved it. The hall was filled with hothouse flowers that Heather had bought from some fellow who specialises in winter blooms. He was there, and he turned out to be an old friend of hers, from far back in her youth. Federico, I think his name was. She seemed very happy to see him.’

‘I’m glad,’ Angie said sincerely. ‘I love Baptista.’

Bernardo paused, not looking at her. ‘So do I,’ he said after a moment. He looked at her. ‘You should have been there.’

‘If you knew how much I wanted to.’ She chuckled ruefully. ‘And nothing happened. Nobody so much as cut their thumb.’

‘But you were right about the weather,’ he admitted.

‘Why did you try to get back, Bernardo?’

Silly question. The answer was there in his eyes, fixed on her.

‘You’d think I’d have known better,’ he said. ‘But-I didn’t.’

‘Do you have to be wise all the time?’ she asked wistfully.

‘I’m not so very wise, Angie.’

He made a slight movement and the tray tilted, forcing him to grab it just in time. Angie took it hastily and removed everything to the safety of the kitchen.

He leaned back against the pillows in a state of deep content. It was a strange feeling, and one he’d never known before-or not for twenty years. After a good night’s sleep and a large breakfast he should be ready to leap out of bed. Instead a heaviness seemed to weigh down his limbs, and he wanted only to stay here, happy to be in her hands. For years he’d known no comfort such as this, nobody to say, ‘Stay there and let me look after you.’ He hadn’t asked for it, couldn’t take it, and would have fiercely rejected the offer.

But suddenly it was simple. All you had to do was give in, let go, trust somebody you loved. Slowly he slid down in the bed, abandoning himself to the sweet warmth and content that he wanted to last for ever. It was bliss to be free from strain, to let the thoughts fade away, taking the worries with them.

Angie set things down quietly in the kitchen and went quickly back to the bedroom, her heart singing. Their troubles were over. She’d made the longed-for break through, he would open his arms in welcome, and then…

She pushed open the bedroom door.

He was asleep.

But he couldn’t be. He’d only just woken up.

Then her indignation faded as she crept closer and saw that his face was as she’d never seen it before, relaxed and untroubled, like a child’s face before the discovery of pain. He looked as if he might actually know how to be happy, and that too was new, she realised.

Tenderness wrenched at her heart. She wanted to enfold him in her arms and promise to make everything well for him. Moving softly, she eased herself onto the bed and dared to stroke his hair. He stirred but didn’t awaken. He looked, she realised, as though nothing could awaken him for a long time, as though he were sleeping away the cares of a whole lifetime.

And perhaps, she thought, that was what he needed to do. She crept away, closing the door softly behind her.

He lay almost motionless for the rest of the day and most of the evening. Sometimes Angie would look in, hear his even breathing, and back quietly out again. It might have seemed like a wasted day, but she was certain that in the peaceful silence his barriers were coming down. Her time would come.

Late in the evening, after a shower, she slipped into the bedroom, and quietly opened the shutters to look out on the mountains. The brilliant moon turned the snow to silver and cast a pale glow over the bedroom. The sudden light caused Bernardo to stir, and in an instant she was there beside him, reaching out, touching his face. Then his eyes opened directly on her, and there was a look in them that made her heart beat faster.

‘Have you been there all the time?’ he murmured.

She shook her head. ‘Only the last few minutes.’

‘I thought you were there-you seemed to be with me every moment.’

‘Only my heart-amor mio.’

He opened his arms to her, and now she was free to go into them, returning his eager embrace with all her heart.

‘Let me hold you,’ he said thickly. ‘I’ve thought about nothing else.’

His mouth cut off her answer. His hands were pulling away the towel, drawing her naked body against his own. She ran her hands luxuriously over him, savouring its hard, compact maleness, the steely, tensile strength. She wanted him so much she could hardly bear it.

It seemed as though he would kiss her everywhere at once. His lips dropped burning kisses on her mouth, her neck, her breasts. They were already full and peaked with desire for him, waiting for him to tease them lovingly. She let out a long gasp of pleasure at the feel of his tongue rasping gently against first one, then the other, taking his time, letting the pleasure build slowly, taking her over, while she entwined her fingers in his hair and gave herself up to her feelings.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ he murmured, regarding her in the moonlight. ‘I’ve tried to picture you so often, but I never came close to the reality.’

‘Not even in red flannel “coms”?’ she teased.

He gave a splutter of laughter. She joined in and then his arms were tight around her again, his head against her breast, laughing helplessly, and it was a good sound from this man who found it so hard to laugh.

‘You wretch,’ he growled. ‘You were tormenting me that day on purpose.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and what are you going to do about it?’

‘This,’ he said, teasing her purposefully, ‘and this-’

‘Oh, darling-yes-’

She offered herself joyfully to his increasingly intimate caresses, telling him by her movements that she was his whenever he wished. But a fever of impatience was growing in her and she ached with the need to be one with him.

At last he moved over her, moving slowly, always waiting for her until he was certain that her desire was in harmony with his own. She reached up for him, eager to feel him inside her, and as he entered she gave a soft cry of need and fulfilment that was cut off by the pressure of his lips.

How could such perfect union be achieved at the first loving? Or perhaps it was a first loving in name only, and these two had already loved each other to satiety in their hearts and souls before their bodies were matched. Angie only knew each of her movements was informed by her deep knowledge of him, and that every touch, every caress he gave her was instinctively perfect.

In the moonlight she could see his face, not completely, but enough to discern its gentle expression. This man, so rough and awkward in his everyday life, had the subtlety to grow close to a woman when he didn’t have to use words. And he had the tenderness to make her heart over-flow, as long as he could show his feelings in actions, in caresses, and soft murmurings.

He could read her wishes by instinct, and knew exactly the moment to hold back and give her time, then reclaim the initiative and love her more vigorously. And as she felt this she gave herself up to him joyfully, knowing that she could trust him at least as well as she could trust herself.

Afterwards as she nestled against him, she received another surprise. In all her earlier relationships-mini-loves, as she thought of them, not to be compared with this love that swamped all others-she had never been troubled by jealousy. She felt it now for the first time.

It was easy to guess how much competition there would be for Bernardo’s attention, she thought. Behind him stretched a whole hinterland of thoughts, feelings, troubles-and loves-of which she knew nothing. And suddenly it mattered.

‘What are you thinking to make you so quiet?’ he murmured.

‘Thoughts you wouldn’t like,’ she said darkly. ‘Possessive thoughts, jealous thoughts.’

He laughed, the first natural, trouble free amusement she’d ever heard from him.

‘You’re wrong,’ he said. ‘I do like that.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘It’s nice to know all the possessiveness isn’t on my side. But never be jealous, amor mia. Whatever has been in the past, now there is only you.’

‘Whatever-has-been-in-the-past?’ she echoed slowly.

‘In future there is only you. Come here-and let me show you.’