Witch's Harvest (20 page)

One swift wrench disposed of the strip of fabric that joined the lacy cups of her bra, and she was bare to the waist.

His hand closed insolently on one small breast, his palm moving in slow, demanding circles against her nipple.

Hardly breathing, Abby said, 'I hate you.'

Vasco shrugged, his other hand sliding down to deal with almost negligent ease with the fastening on her jeans. 'Then what

have I to lose?' he asked ironically.

His invasion of her wasn't brutal, but at the same time she was left in no doubt that she was being punished. He showed her

none of the heated sensuality which had pervaded their lovemaking on the night of his birthday. Instead he was almost casual,

using her body to obtain for himself an insultingly swift gratification. He had not, her numb brain registered, even bothered to

remove his clothing.

She lay under him, when it was over, outraged, despoiled—yet even then feeling deep within her the first torment of her own

uncurling need. She felt shamed to her very soul.

An eternity passed, then Vasco sighed harshly, lifting himself away from her and propping himself on one elbow while he

looked down at her.

He said, 'So you understand me now, do you, Abigail? You believe me when I tell you that you will stay here with me, and bear

this child we have made, and our other children. And there will be no more nonsense of closed doors between us either. From

now on you share this bed with me.'

She made a little sound, and his mouth curled.

'You find the prospect unappealing?
Que pena
! Irksome as this marriage may be,
carinha
, it exists, and I intend to make it real for
both of us.' He paused. 'I promise, however, to try and contain my lusts within acceptable limits. Once a week, perhaps—isn't

that the convention?'

Abby flinched from the blatant cynicism in the dark eyes. If the last few minutes was a sample of what she would be asked to

endure, she didn't think she could bear it. Not after he'd shown her so devastatingly what passion could be.

She said huskily, 'And what about Della?'

He was very still for a moment, then he said quietly, 'Ah—your letter was obviously an enclosure. I should have realised…' There

was a brief pause, then he said, 'She need not concern you. All that can be allowed to matter is our life here together, and the

well-being of our child.'

'You can say that?' she managed out of her dry throat. 'You can keep me here, knowing…' She couldn't go on.

'You know why you are here. We settled that in London.' His voice was hard.

'And if there was no baby?' Her eyes were fixed painfully on his unrevealing face. 'Would you let me go then?'

'The question does not arise.' He yawned, stretching. 'And now I am going to take a shower. Are you going to crown our blissful

reunion by taking it with me?'

'No!'

He laughed. 'That is what I thought. However,' his forefinger traced the curve of her hip, 'I could insist, or even—persuade you to
change your mind.'

Abby said quietly, 'Haven't you humiliated me enough?'

He lifted a brow. 'You regard the normal intimacies of marriage as humiliating. I shall have to teach you differently,
amada
.' He
sat up and began to unbutton his shirt, his voice deepening in mockery. 'But some other time, perhaps. When you are more

accustomed—resigned perhaps to our new relationship.'

'You think that can ever happen?' The word 'resigned' made Abby shudder inside.

'I think it will have to, if we are not to spend the rest of our lives in purgatory,' he jibed, stripping off his shirt and dropping it on
to the floor, then getting to his feet to rid himself of the rest of his clothes.

Naked, he crossed to the wardrobe, opened one of the massive drawers it contained, and extracted one of Abby's nightgowns.

He returned to the bed and let it fall like a drift of thistledown across her body.

'You see how thoughtful I am,' he told her sardonically. 'Hide yourself in that,
querida
. I won't trouble you again this evening. But
please don't expect me to be equally modest,' he added, carelessly brushing his knuckles down the curve of her averted face. 'I

have never worn pyjamas in my life, and I do not intend to start now.' He paused as if waiting for some reaction from her, and

when there was none, he shrugged, and sauntered into the bathroom.

Abby lay very still, staring into space, listening to the distant splash of water. If nothing else, she thought, wincing, she now

knew what to expect from him, and the realisation chilled her blood.

Clearly he no longer harboured any scruples about sex without love, she told herself wretchedly as her body burned in

frustration. No doubt he considered he was simply being practical in a totally impractical situation. He had married her out of

some weird combination of duty and chivalry, and now that he was stuck with her, he was making the best of things, as he saw

them.

And there was still Della to consider. Abby wondered if her cousin was in Manaus at this moment in her expensive hotel suite,

waiting to hear from Vasco that his unwanted marriage was over, and that they were free to be together.

She could imagine Della's fury on hearing she was to be thwarted yet again. But that didn't necessarily mean the end of the

relationship between them, she reminded herself unhappily.

Della had already demonstrated that she was prepared to go to any lengths to get her own way. Perhaps she intended to stay in

Brazil, and Abby would have to accustom herself to Vasco's periodic absences to visit her.

She sat up, shivering, and pulled on the nightgown. She couldn't honestly believe that Della would be inclined to stay in Manaus

as Vasco's kept woman, living on the sidelines of his life. But then it had never occurred to her that Della would come to Brazil

to win him back, either. From the beginning, it seemed, she had underestimated the strength of their feelings for each other.

But perhaps they had underestimated her too, she thought slowly. Whatever Vasco's motives for marrying her, and keeping her

with him, the fact remained that she was his wife, and was going to be the mother of his child. Surely she could build on that? At
any rate she would try, she promised herself fiercely.

Starting now, perhaps. She slid off the bed, straightening the covers as she did so, and went over to the dressing-table, looking

at herself long and hard in its mirror.

She had never worn this nightgown before, or any of the others of Vasco's providing, but she had to admit it was lovely. And

she couldn't doubt it had been intended for her alone. The deep apricot shade of its filmy folds warmed her pale skin and

contrasted with her brown hair in a way it would never have done with Della's flamboyant blonde beauty. It was enticingly sheer

too, but in a subtle way, veiling her slender curves without total concealment.

The shower, she was aware, had stopped. Hastily Abby grabbed up her brush and began to smooth her hair with long rhythmic

strokes.

Her hair was curving to her shoulders as sleek and glossy as a bird's wing by the time Vasco came back into the bedroom. He

was wearing a towel draped round his hips, and drying his hair on another. Abby watched him in the mirror under her lashes,

feeling excitement clench inside her like a fist as she studied the smooth play of muscle in his chest and arms.

Silently she willed him to look at her—to become aware of her regard. She put down the brush with a clatter, and tilted her head

back a little, letting her hair swing like a silky curtain. But totally wasted, she realised with a pang of disappointment, because he
hadn't even glanced at her. He looked weary, and more than a little preoccupied, she thought, the lines of his cheekbones and

jaw more prominent than usual. In spite of his avowed determination to go on with their marriage, he wasn't happy, she thought.

But how could he be?

And what the hell did she think she was doing, playing the part of the unwanted seductress?

Vasco was in bed now, arranging his pillows for sleep, his back turned to her, totally oblivious to her pathetic attempt to attract
his attention.

Sudden tears stung at her eyelids, but she forced them back, rising and moving like an automaton. She slid under the covers,

staying near the edge, heart-stoppingly careful not to intrude on any territory but her own.

It was the first time they had ever shared a bed for the night, but there was no intimacy in it, no sense of mutuality. Abby felt as if
she was marooned somewhere on a distant star in a dark and unfriendly universe. She could hear Vasco's steady breathing,

but it meant nothing, because even if she stretched out a hand—reached for him, she knew he would not be there for her.

He had not, she thought ridiculously, even wished her 'Goodnight'.

And, with a kind of despair, How am I going to bear it?

It was very warm, and very humid. Abby sat on the veranda on a cane lounger, fanning herself with a device of plaited leaves

which Agnello had made for her.

She had been touched to the heart by his consideration, and had thanked him in her stumbling Portuguese. It was evident that

everyone at Riocho Negro knew she was pregnant, and was wishing her well.

It was, she thought drearily, almost the only consolation she had.

The three weeks which had passed since Vasco's return from Manaus had proved to be the most difficult of her life, relations

between them so strained, she felt ready to snap.

It was not, she reminded herself hastily, that Vasco was in any way unkind. At times he was almost too considerate, too

concerned for her well-being.

And too bloody polite, Abby thought with sudden violence.

It was useless dwelling on yet another round of 'might-have-beens', she knew, but it could all have been so different if he had

married her for the right reasons—if their child had been conceived in love. In those circumstances, this waiting time could have

been fun, full of warmth and laughter and anticipation. If they had had a normal marriage, she could have grumbled cheerfully