HELEN BROOKS - The Bride's Secret

‘But we are civilised people, are we not?’ He smiled, but it was a mere twisting of the firm, sensual mouth, and chilled her still further. ‘And civilised people play games, have fun, flit from one partner to another if they get bored—’

‘I’m not like that.’ Her words were a trembling whisper, but he heard them. ‘I’ve never played those sorts of games in my life.’

‘No?’ The grey eyes flickered briefly. ‘Forgive me, but I’m not convinced. My mother’s father, a tough old Texan with a hide as thick as a rhinoceros—from whom I got my Christian name, incidentally—always used to say that actions speak louder than words. It used to irritate me as a boy as he invariably hammered it home when I was guilty of some fall from grace. But he was dead right, Annie. And your actions to date are somewhat—forgive me—frivolous, to put it mildly,’ he added with deadly sarcasm.

‘Hudson—’

‘Or do you consider a breach of faith between lovers as par for the course?’ he asked with lethal softness. ‘Part of the fun?’

‘No, of course I don’t. I didn’t... It wasn’t like that.’ She didn’t want to cry—she couldn’t cry—it would be the final humiliation, she told herself desperately as tears burnt fiercely at the back of her eyes, and she lowered her gaze quickly in case he saw the betraying sheen that was splintering the sunlight into a thousand glittering fragments. But not quickly enough.

‘And that old feminine ploy of tears won’t work either,’ he drawled nastily. ‘I’m too long in the tooth for that For someone to behave like you did takes something the average person hasn’t got, so don’t try the weak, trembling female approach now. There’s steel under that beautiful exterior—I know; I’ve felt it.’

‘You know nothing about me,’ she said shakily, keeping her face turned from him and her eyes downcast.

‘Oh, I’d agree with that, sweetheart.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Now that is the truth.’

‘Then why not just leave me alone?’ she muttered painfully. ‘I didn’t ask to come here with you; I don’t want to be here with you. It was you who instigated this.’

‘I’ve no doubt at all you would rather be back at the hotel enjoying a cocktail or two before dinner with the reputable Keith,’ Hudson said sardonically. ‘But unfortunately here you are and here you will remain until I choose to take you back.’

‘And this satisfies some twisted idea of revenge? Is that it?’ She raised her head now, her face fiery. ‘What sort of person are you, Hudson?’

‘I rather think that should be my line in the circumstances,’ he said with a silky coldness that told her her shot had hit home. ‘But if you’d like me to show you what sort of man I am, Annie...’

He had taken her in his arms before she had any clear idea of his intentions, his embrace crushing her into him as his mouth took hers in a kiss that was meant to punish and subdue. For a moment the shock of being held by him was overwhelming, the touch and taste of him achingly familiar, and then, as the tempo changed and he began to cover her face in burningly hot kisses that made her limp and fluid beneath his mouth, she strained into him, hardly aware of what she was doing.

How long the embrace continued she didn’t know; the magic of his kisses, the sheer sensation that was flowing like fire between them, wiped all coherent thought clean away. She could hear herself moaning his name, and she thought she heard him groan against her throat but then, in the next moment, he had thrust her away from him so violently, she almost fell.

‘How can you do that—kiss me back like that—when it doesn’t mean a thing?’ he snarled bitterly, his eyes blazing. ‘Who, what are you, Marianne McBride—or Harding—or whatever it is you call yourself?’

CHAPTER TWO

MARIANNE had never been more relieved in the whole of her life than she was when a childish whoop of glee sounded from the house behind them, and a small body hurtled over to wind itself round Hudson’s legs, drawing away his attention and breaking his furious gaze.

‘Abdul, my little friend...’ Hudson immediately became the benevolent uncle figure, bending down to lift the small boy into his arms as he spoke. And almost in the same instant a man and a woman, the former in westen dress and the latter in a long, flowing jellaba but without a veil, appeared in the open doorway.

The following minutes of greetings and introductions took them into the house—which was as beautiful inside as out. It was wonderfully cool with its marbled floors and shaded inner courtyard complete with tinkling fountain and huge, leafy palms. Admiring their surroundings and making small talk with their hosts, and their small son, Abdul, eased the tension between her and Hudson.

Idris and his wife, Fatima, didn’t appear to think it at all odd that Hudson had brought her along; in fact such was their open-handed hospitality and genuine delight that Marianne began to feel like an old friend, rather than a stranger in their midst.

‘Have you known Hudson long?’ She was sitting with Fatima on a long, low sofa in a shady part of the courtyard, sipping freshly squeezed orange juice flavoured with limes and lemon. The men had departed to Idris’s study to see his new computer set-up, with Abdul still in Hudson’s arms.

‘Idris has known him since they were students together in the States,’ Fatima answered quietly. ‘But I first met Hudson on the day I married Idris, five years ago.’

‘They seem very good friends,’ Marianne observed, taking another sip of the deliciously cold drink. ‘They’re obviously very fond of each other.’

‘This is true.’ Fatima spoke perfect English with a quaint preciseness that was charming. ‘Hudson helped Idris on the death of his first wife—you know Idris was married before?’

Marianne shook her head quickly. ‘No, no, I didn’t.’

‘She was killed in an automobile accident,’ Fatima said quietly, ‘with their two children. The chauffeur also was killed. It was very hard for Idris, and Hudson—how do you say it?—dropped everything. Idris often says he does not know what he would have done if Hudson had not been there. He stayed with him many weeks. Hudson is a very compassionate man, yes?’

‘Yes...’ Compassionate? He might be; she really didn’t know, Marianne thought numbly. Their whirlwind romance had lasted almost two months, and from the day they’d met they had barely been apart for more than a few hours. But...she hadn’t got to know him—not really—not properly. It had been crazy, unreal—they had been locked into their own little world where everything had been vibrant and vivid and magical, and where one glance, one lingering look, had had the power to send her into the heavens. They had barely talked about their respective pasts, and the future had been nothing more than a rosy dream. It was the present that had been real, and they had known their immediate time together was limited.

Hudson had taken a three-month sabbatical from his law firm and had already used a month of that time before he had met her, and Marianne had had a new job waiting for her in Scotland. But on the night he had asked her to marry him—and she had accepted—she had known she would follow him anywhere. It had made the next few hours all the harder.

‘Is it not...?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Marianne came to with a jolt to realise Fatima had been speaking and she hadn’t heard a word. She blushed hotly, forcing herself to give all her attention to the Moroccan woman.

‘I said your job must be very interesting, Marianne.’ Fatima was too sensitive and far too well-bred to show open curiosity, but it was clear she was wondering where Marianne fitted into Hudson’s life, and after a somewhat cagey conversation Marianne was relieved when the men returned and they all went through to the dining room to eat.

The meal was in traditional Moroccan style—everyone seated on sofas around a low table—and before they ate they were given towels and rose-water in order to wash their right hands—the hand Moroccans used to eat from the communal dishes they favoured. Marianne had heard of the custom, but only having eaten at the hotel—which was distinctly European—had never seen it in action.

She found it fascinating to watch the others reaching into a big bowl of couscous, picking up olives and raisins with three fingers, twirling them round in the creamy mixture and then popping them into their mouths. Normally she would have thoroughly enjoyed the experience—the table was full of mouth-watering dishes that smelt divine—but her stomach was so knotted with nerves, she could barely force anything past the constriction, and each mouthful was an effort of will.

Why had Hudson brought her here? The question was drumming in her head all through the meal and the subsequent conversation over coffee. She hadn’t seen him for two years. They both had separate lives now—and if the tall, elegant redhead was anything to go by he hadn’t exactly pined away for her, she thought with a touch of bitterness. He must hate her—he did hate her; he’d made that plain—so why bring her to his friend’s home and act as though she was with him? Why put them both through such torment?

She didn’t understand it and she didn’t understand him, but he made her nervous—very nervous. She had never imagined he was a man who would forgive easily, but this—there was no rhyme or reason to it.

It was after eleven when they left Idris and Fatima, and the soft indigo dusk had given way to a black velvet sky pierced through with hundreds upon hundreds of bright, twinkling stars, the darkness perfumed with the heavy, rich scent of magnolia flowers.

It was a beautiful night—romantic, gentle, the full moon silhouetting the eastern horizon of flamboyant mosques and towering minarets with ethereal charm—but Marianne had never felt so tense and nervous in her life. Just sitting beside Hudson made her as jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof, and she knew he sensed her agitation. Sensed it and was satisfied by it.

‘You are frightened of me?’ The dark, deep voice was silky-soft, but caused her to straighten her backbone as she glanced at the ruthlessly cold profile.

‘Of course not,’ she lied tightly, her voice cold and even.

‘No?’ The query was soft, charged with dark emotion.

‘No.’ She forced her hands, which had been clasped in tight fists on her lap, to relax before she said, her voice as steady and unemotional as she could make it, ‘Why? Should I be?’

‘Most certainly.’ It wasn’t the reply she had expected, and as her eyes widened with the shock of it her heart went haywire.

‘You walked out on me, Annie, and no one had ever done that to me before. I didn’t like it.’ It was the understatement of the year, and delivered in such an expressionless voice that her blood flowed cold. ‘I didn’t like it at all.’

‘I... I explained—’

‘We had an agreement, Annie.’ He continued as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘An agreement you welshed on. How do you think I should deal with that?’ he asked coldly, his eyes on the road in front of them.

She stared at him warily, quite unable to gauge anything from the cool mask he could don at will and which proved so formidable in the courtroom. He was formidable, terrifyingly so.

‘Now look, Hudson—’

‘No, you look!’ It was an explosion, hot and acidic, and as she felt herself shrink in the seat it dawned on her that he was furiously angry—that he had been furiously angry from that first moment of meeting her again. The fact that he had been holding the rage in didn’t comfort her in the least, merely emphasising, as it did, the almost superhuman power and control he could exert over his emotions when he chose to do so. But the fury was still there, just waiting to escape the iron constraint and devour her, she thought shakily. And it had had two years to simmer and burn.