No Second Parting

NO SECOND PARTING Lilian Peake

Could she say goodbye again Logan Tate had walked out of Marianne's life eight years before, breaking her heart as cru as he had broken their engagement. Now he was back--a widower, with a little girl who desperately needed a mother. "I want to marry you for my daughter's sake," Logan said bluntly. "Our relationship would be strictly platonic. I'd provide you with a home and security ...." Marianne had to decide. She could either become Logan's wife in a loveless marriage, or lose him forever.

CHAPTER ONE THE day Marianne discovered that her employer thought she was the kind of girl she most emphatically was not, she walked out on her job. If, she reproached herself, she had told Clarence Barton the first time he had taken her out, 'After Logan Tate, I'll never give my heart to any other man,' he would not have wasted his time trying to persuade her to return with him to his apartment. Next day, Marianne locked the door of her flat, which was a short distance from the centre of London, and began the journey to her widowed mother's home in a small Gloucestershire town. She took a taxi to the station, stowed her suitcases on the rack and settled with a sigh on to the seat in the almost empty carriage. The train would be taking her not only to her old home, but also carrying her into the past. She closed her eyes and drifted back eight years. When her engagement to Logan Tate had ended and he had gone away, Marianne had been devastated. The six weeks during which she had worn Logan's ring was, she recalled with nostalgia, the happiest time of her whole life —until the day Moss, Logan's brother, had told her what Logan had really thought of her. It was then that she had become painfully aware that the belief on which her happiness had been based—that her love loved her—had been an illusion, existing only in her mind. She had, however, learnt her lesson. Since the day she had broken with Logan, she had never given her love, nor any part of her, to any man. Her mother's house was old and solid. It was simply yet comfortably furnished, but most of all it was permeated with her mother's warm, welcoming personality. When Marianne arrived that afternoon,

travel-weary from the journey, her mother's face creased into smiles as she hugged her daughter. 'It's good to see you, love,' Mrs Conway said. 'It's seemed such a long time. How long can you stay?' 'As long as I like. I'm temporarily unemployed—self- inflicted. In other words, I walked out on my job.' 'Why, dear?' her mother asked. 'Weren't you happy?' 'It wasn't that. It's just that I don't like employers who think all secretaries are—well, persuadable, if you know what I mean. It took quite a time to convince him that I wasn't!' Mrs Conway laughed. 'You haven't lowered your principles, dear, that's for certain.' 'I'm not perfect, Mum,' Marianne said with a smile, 'even though I am your daughter!' 'You certainly aren't perfect, love, but tell me, who is, eh?' Maybe, Marianne thought, as she carried her cases upstairs to her old room, if I'd ever been able to forget Logan, things might have been different. But somehow she doubted it. After lunch next day, Marianne went for a long walk. She felt the need to rediscover old haunts, perhaps even search for and find the carefree self she used to be. The weather was sunny but cool with an April chill. She wore a pair of old blue pants and under her jacket a scarlet tee-shirt which she had found pushed into a drawer. To her surprise, they Still fitted, although perhaps, she reflected, looking herself over, she needed a size larger. A woman's figure in her twenties was of necessity more mature than that of a girl in her teens.

But as she walked through the streets of the small town, she found that the wearing of old clothes did not bring back old happiness. There was no spring in her step as there had been in the past, in her eyes no anticipation of whatever pleasure that might await her round the next corner. 'I'm twenty-five,' she told herself, 'so how can I expect to feel as young and free of cares as a seventeen-year-old?' She wandered past the house where the Tate family had once lived. Strangers owned the place now and no ghosts emerged to haunt her, no taunting Moss, no Logan to tantalise with his dark eyes, black hair and enigmatic smile, as if, at twenty-five—the age she was now—he had known all there was to know in the whole wide world. The fields beckoned and she wandered on, hands in jacket pockets, fair hair centre-parted and blowing free, her pale blue eyes scanning the landscape for—what? A phantom manifestation of past joys and excitements, with not a hint of pain to cloud the long summer days? She smiled ironically at her own naive expectations. She opened an iron gate and passed through, to find herself looking at the same wide-flung patchwork quilt view of fields and hedgerows. Here and there was a farmhouse, white-painted and well-remembered. Only a handful of new houses had been built, their red brick adding colour to the soft greens and browns of nature. Marianne stood, strangely content, looking towards the horizon, gazing at the sunlit fields and hearing the skylarks twittering their way madly towards a cloud-scattered sky. She took deep breaths of the clean, country air, letting it soak into her system, finding in the peace and the silence a tranquillity she had not known for years. 'Marianne?'

One word, and her new-found contentment was shattered. Her name had been spoken—and only one man had said it that way. Her head turned slowly, her eyes stared, her breath was caught in her throat. 'It is Marianne—Marianne Conway?' the man said. She nodded, stupefied. She refused to believe her eyes. It couldn't be ... it couldn't be the person he resembled! Logan Tate was thousands of miles away. In Africa, his, brother Moss had told her once when they had met by chance in London. So how could Logan be in two places at once? Through the mists which clouded her mind, Marianne saw a stranger with jet black hair. His eyes were dark, the brows thick and arched. The long face with its excellent bone structure tapered to a chin that was as rounded and firm as it ever was. No stranger, this man, yet no old acquaintance, either. Time had brought about a change in him that had taken away the young man she had once known, in whose arms she had been held, whose lips had covered hers as if they had belonged to him and him alone ... This was a man who had known the pain that life could sometimes inflict—the frown mark between his brows told her that. He had, she guessed, experienced deep unhappiness,, with no glimmer of promise to give him hope of happier times ahead. Those lines spreading from his eyes, around his mouth, the deep clefts of fierce resolve like two scars indenting each cheek, they belonged to a different person. The smooth, untroubled face she had loved to rest her lips against had gone, too. The illusion and youthful anticipation which, young though she had been, she had loved to look upon in his dark eyes had vanished, and a deep cynicism had taken over.

It was Logan Tate standing there, wasn't it? He looked real, but if she touched him, would he go, as he had gone eight years ago? His smile was faint, his eyes guarded. Yes, he was real. But why was he here? Who had told him where she might be found? 'How—?' Her voice was dry. 'How did you know where I was?' 'I called on your mother. She told me you'd gone for a walk. I remembered the old times and guessed where you might come.' The old times ... How well did he remember those? Marianne frowned, turning back to the view. She racked her brains for a possible reason for his visit. His family had left, long ago. 'How did you know,' she asked, 'my mother still lived here?' 'I took a chance.' 'Your parents—don't they live abroad?' ' 'In Canada. They're still there.' There was a pause as if he were turning over in his mind how he might continue the conversation. 'I came to see you.' Marianne waited for him to go on, but he stayed silent. She wanted to ask, wildly, Why, why? But all she said was, with an attempt at humour, 'Much water has flowed under many bridges ...' 'Yes, indeed.' Another silence, then he said, moving to stand beside her, 'You've changed.'

'Not all that much!' 'Are you married?' She looked up at him. It still gave her a shock to see how tall he was. 'Does it look like it?' He lifted a noncommittal shoulder. 'Who can tell these days? Maybe you're living with someone. Maybe you're living apart from your partner. Could be that you're divorced.' 'Wrong three times. I'm single. I'm still plain Miss Conway.' 'Plain?' She could hear from his tone that he intended to tease. 'Hardly that. Look at me, Marianne.' The same imperious tone ... Nevertheless, as in the past, she complied, even though it was with great reluctance. She had no wish to get under this man's spell for a second time in her life.'Same blue eyes,' he mused, 'same tapered eyebrows giving a slightly supercilious air. Mouth as wide and—to some men—as inviting.' The qualification did not pass-Marianne by. 'Skin as smooth,' he went on, his smile touched with irony, 'nose as impudent.' His eyes narrowed consideringly. 'A greater maturity, of course,' his gaze dropped in the old Logan-like, indolently assessing way, 'not only of character, but of figure, too.' There was the slightest hint of familiarity—but wasn't it excusable? Hadn't she once, long ago, lain in his arms? „ There was a long pause and Marianne wished he would speak, explain his presence, talk about the weather, anything to break the silence. 'Do you have a job?' he asked at last. 'No. I was a secretary, but at the moment I'm unemployed.'

He looked down at her. 'May I ask why?' At first she chose not to answer, then thought, Why not? 'My ex-boss had the wrong idea about me.' 'So you put him right?' 'Yes. I'm not the kind to have affairs.' 'You're not?' With a sardonic smile, 'I thought all women were "that kind" these days.' 'If that's what you think,' she retorted, 'think again. I'm just a little different from the rest.' He smiled and it was genuine this time, making her heart leap. 'The fiery child lives on.' 'It's your fault,' she said petulantly, turning away. 'Your sudden appearance seems to have brought out the adolescent in me.' She smiled, but her mouth was tight. 'You'd hate to be saddled once again with a clinging teenage fiancee, wouldn't you?' Hoping that he would take the hint and leave her, she said coldly, 'Do you mind if I continue my walk?' 'Yes, I would mind.' The quiet firmness with which he spoke surprised her into stillness. He sounded so like the old Logan Tate, it was unbelievable. He stood beside her and his eyes roamed, looking at the view. He appeared detached and calm. 'Wasn't it here,' he said at length, 'no, just there,' he pointed, seeming amused, 'we occasionally lay, as they say, in the long grass? After we were—engaged, I think we called it?'

'I don't remember,' she tossed at him carelessly, angry that something which had meant so much to her had plainly meant so little to him. 'Don't you?' A sardonic eyebrow lifted. 'That's not surprising. I can hardly remember it myself. But I do remember,' he added dryly, 'that I never got very far past the first fences with you.' She said nothing, compressing her lips. Engaged, we called it, he had said. Of course, it had-been nothing but a game to him. Hadn't he said so at the time, the day he ended the 'understanding' they had had? His hand came to rest on her shoulder and she shivered. It was the first contact between them for eight years and the memories came tumbling into her mind like treasures from a store cupboard. 'I want to talk, to you.' The old authority was in his voice, the commanding manner which, even in those days, had made her respect as well as love him. 'Shall we sit down? In the long-grass?' He was mocking her. 'We're both so much older and wiser now, aren't we, that it goes without saying we'll behave ourselves. Here,' he peeled off his jacket, 'sit beside me.' She sat on the jacket, taking care to stay clear of any physical contact with him. They were silent for some time. Marianne remained completely still. Only her faint intakes and exhalations of breath revealed that she was not a statue, but made of flesh and blood. But her cool appearance gave a false impression. She was conscious of him as she had never been even in the days of their brief engagement. Every nerve in her body had come to life, all her senses were sharpened because Logan Tate had come home again. At last he spoke. 'You may or may not know that six and a half years ago, I married.'

Marianne's eyes closed, her lids pressing tightly down. Her fingers, interlaced round her knees, gripped until all feeling was deadened. However, she betrayed in no other way the pain his words had caused her. Logan was married. It was the end of a dream that had not even begun. It seemed he was looking at her profile. It was just as well that her eyes were open now. 'You're not surprised? Maybe you've seen Moss and he told you?' 'I am surprised.' She spoke the words so calmly she astonished herself. 'I did meet Moss, but he didn't tell me.' 'Cool, aren't you?' his voice mocked. 'For one who, eight or so years ago professed to "love me until death" '—yes, he was right, she had used those words to him once—'you appear strangely unmoved by the fact that I married someone else.' 'As you said at the time,' she replied tonelessly, 'I was only a kid, a school kid. You also told me to forget you.' 'And did you succeed?' he asked softly. 'Astonishingly well,' she lied. 'I threw myself into my work --' 'And into other men's arms?'' She did not respond. For some time he was silent. When he spoke, another shock wave passed through her. 'Four years ago, my wife died tragically in a plane accident.' Stiffly, and because it was required of her, Marianne said, 'I'm sorry to hear it. So,' her head came round, 'now you're a widower?'

'Now I'm a widower. My daughter is six years old.' 'Daughter?' she whispered, unable this time to keep her private pain from showing. She knew it didn't matter. He would interpret it as sympathy for his motherless child. 'She's fair-haired and blue-eyed.' He looked at her, then his hand lifted and ran over her hair. There was the old possessiveness still inherent in the action. She shrank away. She could not turn back the clock, even if he could. 'Fairer than you,' he went on. The same hand reached out and turned her face by the chin. She resisted fiercely, but he won. 'Her eyes are bluer than yours.' She jerked her chin away. 'Nevertheless, basically the colour is the same.' She turned expressionless eyes towards him. 'I'm not sure where all this is leading.' 'No?' He reclined on his side, resting on an elbow, bringing him nearer. She drew herself in tautly. 'I'll tell you. Jilly, my daughter, needs more attention than I'm able to give, nor can I cater for her emotional needs. Only a woman can supply all these things.' 'How have you managed up to now?' 'In Nigeria, where I've been living and working for the past seven or so years, she had a nurse.' 'Is your daughter with you?' 'She's in this country, yes, but, she's staying with some friends of mine in Suffolk. Marianne --' He stopped, picked a clover, counted its leaves and cold-bloodedly tore them off, one, two, three. He went on, 'As you're the only woman of whom I have any relatively close knowledge --' 'I'm not what I used to be. I've changed --'

'Haven't we all?' he asked quietly. 'None of us stands still in our personal development. Marianne, I'd like to ask you something, if I may? Something personal.' 'Ask,' she said. 'It doesn't mean I'll answer.' 'Are you free of emotional ties? Is there someone in your life, past or present——?' She interrupted, 'I know what you-'re going to ask. I have . never been married—see, no rings—and I have no intention of doing so. I intend all my life to remain --' 'You've answered the question,' he broke in curtly. He paused and then continued in. a different tone. 'What I'm asking you to do is to step into the void in my small daughter's life and give her the love of which the death of her mother deprived her.' Marianne stared blankly at the gentle rise and fall of the countryside around them. 'Please explain what you mean.' 'It's quite simple, Since you're the only woman I feel I could trust to form such a close and important relationship with-my daughter—that is, to take the place of her mother—I'm asking you to marry me.' In the silence, he pulled at another piece of clover, but this time he allowed the three leaves to remain intact. He went on, twirling the stalk between his fingers, 'I've given the problem a great deal of thought, and I've come to the inescapable conclusion that if you took on the job of mothering my daughter, it would only be really workable and satisfactory if you were to become my wife.' 'My daughter', he kept saying, 'my daughter. Be mother to the child I had by another woman.'

The lump in her throat was hardly to be endured. 'Thank you,' she said thickly, 'for the honour of asking me, but I --' 'No strings or ties, Marianne, no conditions. We would be joined in friendship, in companionship only, nothing more. All I ask is that you—try to love her for her sake, if not mine.' He threw away the clover and stood up, pushing his hands into his pockets. He stared across the fields at the green horizon. Then he turned towards her and she saw on his arms the tan he still retained from his years in the African sun. His gold watch glinted, fastening down the dark hairs around his arms and wrists. The wind caught at his short- sleeved shirt, billowing it out across his broad shoulders. His slacks, although casual, were well-cut, revealing lean hips. 'You haven't answered,' he said. She shook her head, too full of emotion to speak. 'I'm sorry,' he went on, 'if I've given you a shock. I'm sorry, too, if it's upset you that my proposal of marriage hasn't been accompanied by an avowal of everlasting love. It just doesn't happen that way, Marianne. I've grown cynical with the passing of time. This would be my second marriage. I'm afraid I just can't get romantic any more about living with a woman.' She thought in anguish, Doesn't he know how much he's hurting me? 'In the few years since my late wife died, I've lived and I've lived hard.' He bent down and caught her hands, pulling her up to face him. 'But it's you I'm asking to marry me, Marianne, not for my sake but for the sake of my daughter.'

She removed her hands from his and pulled her jacket round her, folding her arms as if to keep die breeze at bay, but in reality to stop the shivering which threatened to shake her from head to foot. She turned from him. 'Marrying you wouldn't give your daughter a mother, . a real mother.' 'I disagree. I knew you in the past and although you tell me you've changed, I can't see it.' He paused, then went on, as if she had accepted, 'One day Jilly will thank you for taking her real mother's place, Marianne.' I don't want to be your daughter's mother, she wanted to scream, I want to mother your child—yours and mine ... 'I'll think about it,' she said, and walked away.

Marianne walked for miles across the fields, climbing over stiles, passing herds of cows calmly grazing. When clouds began to darken and mass threateningly overhead, she did not notice. When they released their contents on to the fields and meadows, drenching her from head to foot, she cared very little. Her thoughts were elsewhere, trying to untangle the problems that had appeared from nowhere to threaten her established way of life and wreck her peace of mind. For . the past eight years she had spent her waking moments trying to forget Logan Tate: Now he was asking her to join her life to his in marriage. Not as his wife, he had hastened to affirm, but as his daughter's mother. It was like an old film being re-run ... She was a month away from becoming seventeen. Logan had been twenty- five. His work had been

within reach of his home, so he had continued to live with his parents and brother. In her teens, she had looked mature beyond her years. Although Moss never troubled her, it was his elder brother, Logan, who made her conscious of her developing womanhood. Often his eyes would be upon her, inscrutable, hooded, his faint smile provoking and, to her innocent eyes, full of knowledge of the world—and women. Moss, his brother, who was his junior by five years, said one day, 'I know you're in love with Logan. I dare you to tell him.' Blushing deeply, Marianne had denied his assertion and had shaken her head. She was furious with him for guessing her cherished secret: It was true that she-loved Logan, but it was such a private feeling, she had wanted no one to know. 'Tell him,' Moss had persisted. 'I bet he'll take you out. He likes girls,' he had eyed her, 'especially girls with your shape.' 'Girls like him, too,' she had said, 'and what's more he knows it. Anyway, it's true, I like Logan,' she would admit no more than that, 'but I'm certainly not going to tell him. What girl with any self-respect would?' 'I know lots who would,' Moss had said with a taunting grin. Logan had asked her out. Had Moss told him? Marianne had wondered. Embarrassed, she had at first refused Logan's invitation, but his gentle, teasing, 'Come on, chick,' as his fingers had flicked her hair had easily changed her mind. He had taken her in his car to see a play performed by an amateur dramatic company at the local repertory theatre. Marianne had enjoyed

it, especially when, halfway through the performance, Logan had taken her hand and held it. Even the thought of it now, soaked though she was from the relentless rain, stirred her feelings alarmingly. Afterwards, in the car outside her house, he had pulled her across and kissed her. Even then it was the kiss of a man who had known other women's lips. Young as she was, she had sensed that. The second time Marianne went out with Logan, they had spent the evening walking across the fields. When it began to grow dark, he had kissed her again and, remembering what Moss had said about other girls confessing to their depth of feeling, Marianne had told Logan she loved him. 'I know, sweetie,' he had answered. 'Moss told me.' Indignantly she had pulled herself out of his arms, but he had pulled her back. 'Do you want to become engaged to me?' he had asked. 'Are you—are you asking me to marry you?' she had faltered. He had shrugged. 'That's what engagements are usually for aren't they?' 'Oh, yes, please, Logan,' she had answered, and had entwined her arms round his neck. 'Heaven help me,' he had said, burying his face in the softness of her neck, 'you're tempting me, chick, you're tempting me sorely.' But he had taken her home. 'Let's keep it a secret, Logan,' Marianne had whispered, outside the gate. 'Just for a while. Our very own secret.' Logan had agreed, but Moss had discovered the secret.

Logan told Marianne that he had found at the back of a drawer a signet ring he had been given for his twenty- first birthday. If she wanted their engagement to remain a secret, she could wear the ring on a piece of cotton around her neck and hide it in her clothes. One day, when she had been alone in the house, she had been unable to resist pushing the ring on to her finger to admire it. Moss had arrived at the house unexpectedly and the engagement was no longer a secret. Soon both families and half the village knew. Marianne had not been sorry. It had become a struggle to keep her v happiness to herself. Six weeks later, Moss had come up to her as she had sat on the front wall, hoping for a glimpse of Logan as he swept past in his car from the town after work. 'Enjoying your engagement?' Moss had asked. Marianne had nodded, nursing the Zing as if it were about to be snatched from her. 'Glad you are,' Moss had said, smiling cruelly, 'because Logan isn't. He says you're such a baby you leave him cold.' Marianne had paled and slipped down from the wall to confront him. 'It's not true!' she had cried. 'He kisses me, he --' Moss had clapped his hands over his ears. 'Sh-sh!' he had teased. 'I'm too young to hear the sordid details.' That evening when Logan came to collect her for their walk across the fields, Marianne had gone with him, smiling as she usually did, but nursing an aching heart behind her forced gaiety. There was silence between them until they reached the path which wound its way over the hill. All the time, Marianne had been trying to find the right words to say, the most hurtful things she could think of to

fling at him. But before she could speak, it was Logan who had confronted her with accusations. He took her arm and swung her to face him. It was early autumn and the dusk had begun to darken the landscape. It had put Logan's face in shadow, but Marianne had known without seeing his expression how angry he was by the way he had spoken. 'So I'm too old for you?' he had accused. 'So you only agreed to an engagement and took my ring because it was "fun" telling your friends you were engaged and had a "fiance" instead of just a boy-friend? You can't deny it. Moss told me you'd told him.' 'That's a lie!' Seeing Logan's implacable face, she had gasped, 'You don't mean you believed him?' She had forgotten that she, too, had believed what Moss had told her. 'Well, if that's how much you trust me, you can have your stupid ring back!' She held out her hand, but he left the .ring where it was. --, 'So I leave you cold, do I?' she had cried. 'So I'm a baby to you, am I?' --/ 'I'm not sure what you're getting at,' he had answered, 'but all right, you are a "baby". I'm too old for you, Marianne, and you're not much more than a schoolgirl. So now I've fulfilled your girlish fantasies and you've shown off the fake "engagement ring" I gave you, just forget me, will you? We're riot destined for each other. Do I make myself clear?' She had cried out in pain; 'Is that all it's meant to you, these few weeks? You've just been playing around, teaching me, a mere "kid", how to kiss and make love? Then you're mean, contemptible, detestable! All this time I've hated you. I was lying when I said I loved you.'

How could she hurt him as she was being hurt? she had thought. What could she do to him to give him pain? Her hands had clenched into fists and she had pounded him in the stomach. He had sprung at her, fastening his fingers round her wrists. 'See what I mean?' he had said, and even in the semi-darkness she had seen that he was white with anger. 'Just like a kid. Grow up, girl,' he had sneered. 'Do me a favour from now on and leave me alone, will you?' He had turned and walked into the rising mist. She had pulled off his ring and thrown it after him. 'Have your miserable ring!' she had shrieked, and her words had been wafted away on the wind. 'I don't want it. I hate it as much as I hate you!' He had not turned and it had lain where it had fallen. She had thrown herself on to the meadow grass, wet with the evening dew, and cried until there were no more tears to come. Then, on her hands and knees and aided by the light of the moon, she had searched for the ring, found it and pushed it into her pocket. She had kept it in a secret place and had vowed that she would keep it until the end of her life.

'My goodness,' Gertrude Conway tutted when Marianne arrived home soaked to the skin. 'What possessed you to stay out in the rain all this time?' Marianne smiled and shook her head, unable to explain. What would her mother say if she told her, "I've been reliving the past. I haven't really been here in the present at all. I've come back now because I've found the answer to my problem. I've come to a decision.'

Logan came into the hall from the living-room. It all seemed so familiar. Here was Logan in the house again. The past threatened to return once more and upset her balance, to make her change her mind, abandon her decision and fling herself into Logan's arms. He had made it clear, however, that they would be unwilling arms, as they had been eight years before. 'Up you go,' her mother said. 'Off with those wet things. Have a quick bath, dear, and then come down again for your meal. Logan and I have had ours. Yours is in the oven.' No use telling her mother, 'I'm not hungry,' because she was, surprisingly so. The proposal of marriage from a man who did not love her and, she was forced to acknowledge, never would, the long walk across the fields, the drenching in a downpour—none of these seemed to have taken away her appetite. Pulling on jeans and a long-sleeved, soft pink blouse, she fluffed .out her hair made soft by the rain and went downstairs. While she ate, her mother sat with her, asking how far she had walked and telling her how worried they had been when she had not returned. Marianne gave evasive answers and wondered where Logan had gone. There was the sound of footsteps overhead. Marianne frowned. 'What's Logan doing upstairs?' 'He's staying, dear. So silly of him to think of taking a room somewhere, when we've got one standing empty. I've made up the bed and he's settling in.' 'Settling in?' Marianne's voice rose in surprise. 'How long is he staying?' 'A night or two, I think. As long as he likes, as far as I'm concerned.'

Logan asked from the doorway, 'Feeling better, Marianne?' There was mockery in his smile. 'Why,' she retorted, her spirits revitalised by the food she had eaten, 'was I ill?' His eyes dropped, as enigmatic as they had ever been, to the shapeliness beneath the taut material of her blouse. 'In fantastically good health, I should say,' he replied. Mrs ConWay gathered the dishes and took them into the kitchen. Logan moved into the room. 'From the shock, I meant,' he explained. Her challenging eyes lifted to his. 'It's hardly a shock to receive a proposal of marriage.' 'Why, have you received so many?' 'Oh, dozens,' she said lightly. Her attempt to joke about the situation appeared to have annoyed him. His eyelids drooped. 'I imagine that a girl with all your —assets would have received plenty of proposals—of the other sort.' She allowed a small smile to tease her lips. 'I received those, too.' His eyes hardened. 'You must tell me about them some time. We must compare notes and see if your knowledge of, shall we say, worldly things equals mine.' She smiled down at the tablecloth. 'This is a liberated age, Logan. Hidden away in the heart of the jungle as you were, that fact may have escaped you, but --'

'I've been back in what you would call "civilisation" long enough to notice that some things have changed. Whether for the better or worse is not for me to say.' Her face lifted defiantly to his. 'Do you really still believe that a woman should stay faithful to a man till death does them part?' He was growing angry and she knew it, she revelled in it. 'How out of date can you get,-Logan Tate?' The contempt in his face as he looked her over made her feel ill. But she knew she had asked for it, had goaded him on as she had in the old days. Except that this had been in deadly earnest, an attempt at revenge for his rejection of her in the past, but which had rebounded on her in a way she had not anticipated. Her cheeks when she touched them felt cold. He too, she noticed, looked pale. If she had known when she had challenged him that her words would bring such condemnation to his eyes, she would not have made it. 'Do you want to withdraw your offer of marriage?' she asked, summoning her old defiance to her aid. 'Maybe I'm not such a fit person after all to mother your child?' The disparaging look he threw at her made her cheeks flame. He turned and went through the door, going up the stairs two at a time. When Gertrude Conway came back, she found her daughter in tears. 'What's wrong, love?' she asked, putting her arm across Marianne's shoulders. 'Had a row with Logan?' Marianne nodded. Mrs Conway smiled. 'Just like the old days, isn't it, dear?' 'Just,' Marianne whispered, 'except that now it --' If she went on she would be giving herself away. But this was her mother, so what did it

matter if she did? 'Except that now it hurts more,' she finished, and turned her head to her mother's comforting shape.

Logan joined them in the living-room, but he would not take the seat his hostess offered. 'I think I'll go for a walk,' he said. 'Coming, Marianne?' 'Yes, go with him, dear,' Mrs Conway said before Marianne could reply. 'I expect he'd like company. Talk about old times, when all of us were here, Logan's family, your father ...' Her eyes grew wistful. Marianne did not have the heart to refuse her bidding. 'I'll get a jacket,' she told Logan, who nodded, his eyes as cool as hers. They went out of the house, along the street to the market square. Since it was evening, it was empty of stalls but full instead of parked cars. The sun was watery and shed less warmth. The pavements dried slowly in the breeze. Lengthening shadows cast by the old houses, some of which had been converted into shops, spread across the street. Marianne found herself hurrying to keep up with Logan. Then she thought rebelliously, Why should I? I've made my decision. When I've told him, as I'll have to when he asks again, we shall have come to the end of the road in our relationship. Let him go. I don't care. But in her heart she cared so much that the pain of a second parting tore at her unbearably. , After a time he slowed until she caught him up. They were outside the town, in a country lane. During the day, the road was moderately busy with traffic. In the evening, few cars came along it. The entire area had changed very little since they had been away from it.

'I'm cold,' she said in a strangely small voice, following behind him along a footpath which led off the road. 'Are you?' he asked carelessly over his shoulder, and continued walking. He knew the countryside around them as well as she did. He stopped with a suddenness which winded her as her body hit his barring the way. He turned and there was a curious smile on his face, of anticipation and the old slightly malicious intention. 'Would you like me to "warm" you?' he asked. 'I think we know each other well enough, don't you,' he mocked, 'for me to do so without asking permission like a true gentleman?' Before she even knew he had moved, his arms were round her and she was jerked against him. She had been in his arms before, but it had never been like this. There was a lifetime between the young man who had kissed her eight years ago and the experienced, cynical and strangely disillusioned man he was now. Then his kisses had been cajoling and enticing, with a young man's warmth and muted demand. Now there was something savage about them, as though behind them lay a desire to inflict pain. Was he really this furious with her? Or was he using her to purge himself of his anger against the tricks life had played on him, depriving him of his illusions, his hopes and their fulfilment? One arm encircled her waist while the other closed over the back of her head, forcing her mouth on to his, holding it there while he took all the kisses he wanted. He released her head, only to use the freed hand to run it over her back-and mould her body tightly to his. She was conscious of his growing desire as he had never allowed her to be in the past. It was an encounter with a man's passion that was new and frightening, and it turned him into a stranger she had never known before. Such a fear began to rise in her of his ultimate intention that she

began to struggle, managing to tear her mouth from his and cry out to him, 'Stop, please, please stop, Logan!' He released her and they stood apart. His breathing was deep, his eyes revealing his anger at her withdrawal. He ran a hand through his hair. 'What's wrong?' he grated. 'Can't you even bear me to touch you now? I seem to remember you raised no objection in the old days.' 'You—you frightened me, Logan,' she whispered. 'I didn't know whether --' 'I was in control? My darling ex-fiancee,' his sarcasm hurt almost as much as his lovemaking, 'don't you know me better than that? Not once did my desires get the better of me. My powers of reasoning were functioning perfectly, my emotions were entirely under my command,' So it had not been desire that had moved him. It had not been something about her that he had found irresistible and which had aroused his passion sufficiently to induce him to make love to her? They faced each other under the soft light of the rising moon. It whitened their faces and turned them into dark shadows. As Marianne looked up at him, it gave a glint to her eyes. 'So I still leave you cold,' she flung at him, 'just like you said when we were engaged eight years ago.' He frowned. 'When have I ever said that?' 'Moss told me. He said you told him.' Logan still seemed puzzled. 'It was years ago, anyway,' she said carelessly, 'so what does it matter? It's all in the past.. It can't change events. It can't change you, either. You're hard, Logan Tate,' she hit out, 'but then you always were. Time has made you worse. Now you're cold and inhuman, too. You don't

know what tenderness is,' she taunted. 'You don't even know the meaning of love. You never did and never will.' She swung away to scan the darkening fields. If she let him continue to see her eyes, sooner or later her anguish would be revealed to him. 'I'm sorry for the wife you once had,' she stormed, turning back to him. 'I'm sorry for the daughter you've got now. I'm sorry for the woman you'll Eventually persuade to take on the job of becoming her mother—and your life-partner. And here's the answer to your proposal that I should take it on—it won't be me!' She turned and ran from him, heedless of his calls, along the uneven path, down into the dark and empty road and all the way home.

CHAPTER TWO MARIANNE ran straight into the arms of her mother. While she sobbed', Gertrude Conway held her close. 'What is it, love?' she asked. 'What's wrong? What's happened?' The whole story came tumbling out. 'If he's asked you to marry him,' Gertrude said, 'why cry about it? He'll make you a good husband. You were engaged to him once- --' Marianne shook her head. 'I was too young to know what it was all about. It meant nothing, either to me or to him.' 'Have you told him "no"?' Marianne nodded. 'While you were out? But why did you turn him down, dear?' 'Mum, he doesn't love me. I can't marry a man who doesn't love me.' Mrs Conway patted Marianne's shoulder comfortingly, and went to fill the kettle, switching it on. 'How do you know he doesn't love you?' 'When he proposed, he made that clear. He said he had no romantic feelings any more about living with a woman. He's never once said he loves me, either eight years ago or now. You know he married?' 'He did tell me he's a widower,' her mother commented. 'Well, he said he was only thinking of his daughter in asking me to become his wife.' She did not add 'in name only'. The key turned in the lock and Logan let himself in. Marianne, standing in the kitchen doorway, turned to look at him, unsuccessfully trying to hide her feeling of guilt.

'Talking about me?' Logan asked sardonically. 'Tearing my character to pieces, no doubt. Is that true, Mrs Conway?' He came to stand beside Marianne. Gertrude laughed. 'Well, she wasn't exactly being complimentary, Logan.' 'No,' he looked narrowly at the girl beside him. 'Knowing your daughter as I do, I hardly thought she would be.' Mrs Conway laughed again. 'Cup of tea, Logan?' He considered the question, looking down at Marianne. 'M'm, maybe I could do with one. I have a thirst on me.' He considered her lips and her heartbeats quickened at the intimate look in his eyes. 'I'd prefer nectar, but tea will be the next best thing.' Mrs Conway smiled. 'You haven't changed, Logan.' 'I have, you know. If you but knew, I've changed so much you'd hardly recognise me as the same person.' Marianne - turned away. Any woman would quench Logan's thirst, she thought acidly, he's not really seeing me. It's just that to him at this moment I represent the female of the species. / As they drank their tea in the living-room, Logan talked to Mrs Conway of his work in Africa. As a bio-chemist, he told her, he had been engaged on research into diseases which afflicted large areas of the population there, but which in more advanced countries had never been heard of or had been virtually wiped out. As a result of his research, he added as an afterthought, he had obtained a higher degree—a Ph.D. 'So you're really Doctor Tate now?' Gertrude said, impressed. 'Dr Logan Tate?'

Logan smiled at the pride in her voice. He had left his job, he said, mainly for his young daughter's sake. While she might have adapted in time to the climate, it certainly hadn't seemed to suit her lately. She had often been listless and tired and he had been advised by a doctor with whom he had worked to get her into a more temperate climate. v

There was a pause in the conversation and Mrs Conway said, 'Would you like to watch television, Logan?' He rose. 'No, thanks, Mrs Conway. I think I'll go up, look through a few notes, maybe.' At the door, he turned. 'By the way, I'll be off in the morning.' 'So soon, Logan?' 'There's little point,' his eyes strayed momentarily to Marianne's bent head, 'in staying longer. You probably know why by now. Goodnight, both of you.' Mrs Conway replied, Marianne did not. Later, Marianne followed her mother up to bed. It was a small house, with one bathroom. When her mother had finished washing, Marianne went in, emerging some time later wrapped about in a housecoat. She was turning into her bedroom when her name was called from across the landing. Logan stood in the doorway of the spare room. His face was impassive as he asked, 'May I have a word with you?' Marianne hesitated, decided that in the circumstances she could not refuse and nodded. Since he made no move to join her, she went across to stand in his doorway. He invited her in. Still hesitant, she complied and the door swung shut. 'Sit down,' Logan invited, indicating the bed. Since the only chair was covered with his belongings, Marianne complied yet again.

He wandered round the small room like a jungle animal after capture. He had not yet prepared for bed, but his shirt was partially unbuttoned, revealing the dark hair beneath. When he paused in front of her, her eyes lifted automatically and she saw the black stubble already growing round his chin and across his upper lip. His hands were in his pockets, his legs stiffly apart. In her own increased maturity, Marianne was more conscious of his masculinity now than she had ever been in the past. In the old days, his kisses had aroused in her no more than a wish to be kissed yet again. Now she knew there was far more to love than kissing. There was a response that came from deep within a woman's own body to the attractions of the man she loved. The twin desires of wishing to please and be pleased went hand in hand. As she gazed up at the man standing so arrogantly in front of her, she was aware of the stirring of both kinds of desire and it took all her strength of will to overcome them. 'I know you've refused to marry me,' he said, 'but I should like to ask you one favour. It may or it may not help you to come to a final decision.' She protested at once, 'But I've already- --' He held up a hand. 'Please listen. I've bought myself a couple of cottages. I've had them redecorated and a door knocked through. I've had carpets laid, furniture moved in and a couple of garages built.' Marianne frowned. 'I can't see what this has to do with me.' 'All I ask, Marianne, is that you come and see my new home. That's all, just see it. It's not much to ask, surely?'

She lifted her shoulders in a resigned gesture and sighed. 'All right. When?' 'Next weekend? Will you come to London?' She nodded. 'I'll pick you up on Saturday at the station and drive you there.' 'Fine,' she said indifferently, and they arranged a time to meet. 'Good. Thanks, Marianne.' She rose and their eyes met. His face, was so serious she grew afraid. Did his small daughter mean so much to him he was even willing to risk another rebuff in his desire to provide the child with a mother? He had had a daughter by the woman who had been his wife. They had been married—how long? Two and a half years? Did he still love his late wife, did he still yearn for her at nights, long for her warmth and her love? The pain of her thoughts was unbearable. He was no longer the person who, long ago in her teens, she thought she had known. He was a changed man, he had no illusions left. It was plain that no other woman would ever again mean as much to him as the wife who had loved him, given birth to his daughter and then died, leaving him alone. Yet she herself had hardly changed at all. There had been a few boy-friends, but beside Logan—he had been the yardstick by which she had measured them all—they had failed lamentably. Now she had discovered that even the man by whom she had measured other men had changed. She was utterly confused. 'What are you thinking, Marianne?' It was no more than a whisper, like a voice in a dream that was not really there at all. I was thinking that, changed, though you are, I still love you. She did not say the words.

'Only that I'm very tired,' she told him, and left him standing watching her.

On the following Saturday Logan met her in London as arranged. The weather was warm for the time of year and the slimmer dress which Marianne wore was blue and white. It had brief sleeves and a collar which became a scarf tied loosely at her throat. A white belt emphasised her slimness, the white sandals and handbag matching the belt. Her hair sprang soft and corn-coloured into flyaway curls, her pale blue eyes gazed out at the passing scene with an excitement she tried desperately to hide. They drove out of Central London and into the Essex countryside, stopping near Colchester for lunch. The restaurant looked expensive and the food proved excellent. Logan insisted on buying a bottle of wine which Marianne reluctantly agreed to share. He offered no toast, however, either to the past or the future. He had so far made no attempt to persuade her to change her mind about her refusal to marry him. Perversely this had disappointed her, but she told herself she should have known Logan better than that. It surprised her that, in spite of her declining so firmly his offer of marriage, he had still invited her to see the new home he was making for himself and his daughter. Also, of course—why did she still feel a twist of pain?—for the unknown woman he intended to make his second wife in order to look after that daughter. Over lunch she questioned him about his future occupation. Had he found a job yet? she asked him.

He nodded. 'As a member of a team based on a hospital,' he named the nearest large town which was only a few miles from his new home, 'researching a very new field which, in the years to come, may give new hope to many thousands. In other words,' he added, 'helping, we hope- but maybe not until some way into the next century—the blind to see again.' At Marianne's intense interest, he went on, 'The team of which I'm a member has people whose subjects differ quite widely. There are doctors on it—naturally—chemists, physicists and biologists, not to mention myself.' 'You said you're a bio-chemist?' Marianne put in tentatively. He nodded, but qualified his agreement. 'In this case I'm working as a bio-engineer, rather than a bio-chemist.' They resumed their journey, bypassing Ipswich and continuing northwards for a while. As they approached a village, Logan said, 'This is the place—Great Stoneton.' He drove along the quiet street lined with red-roofed cottages-. 'Nearly there,' he commented, and turned the car into a road which was little more than a track. 'Look to your left,' he advised, and Marianne did. Standing some distance back from the road were two picture-postcard cottages, sharing a thatched roof in immaculate condition. The outer walls were half-timbered. The doorways were topped with neat porches, while trellis work supported their minute, tiled roofs. The wooden-framed windows matched each other exactly, as did the red-brick chimneys placed on the apex of the roof and at the back of the building. The pink-washed walls, the flowers adding a brilliant splash of colour in the border which stretched the entire length of the two cottages, the

well-kept lawns joined to form one, delighted Marianne's eyes and excited her senses. But she did not say a word. She had to keep her delight to herself. If she allowed him to guess how much she liked his future home, he would use the knowledge to try to persuade her to change her mind. 'Well?' he asked, after a few minutes' silence. 'Does it meet with your approval?' Marianne kept her eyes on the cottages and forced her - reply to be cool. 'It's extremely pleasant.' 'Will you come in?' It would be ungrateful after the long journey and the excellent lunch he had bought her to refuse. As they approached the two cottages which merged into one building, Marianne's excitement grew. There were curtains at the windows, a glimpse of furniture inside. The key grated in the lock and they were standing together in Logan's new home. There was no entrance hall. They had stepped straight into a living-room. The floorboards had been polished to a high degree of shine and a richly-coloured, fringed carpet covered a large part of the floor area. In the centre of the inner wall an old open red-brick fireplace had been redesigned into a floor-to-ceiling column, this forming the chimney. In the wide grate a fire was laid with logs. The hearth was of red brick, too. Low wooden-framed chairs were arranged round the fire, which acted as a central point. Diamond-paned windows looked out at the side and rear on to a secluded gardenwhose size had been doubled by the removal of a separating fence. There were fruit trees in blossom and flower beds were alight with colour. To the side of the garden stood a

sun chalet, its windows picking up and reflecting back the greens and yellows, and scarlet of the plants. Marianne turned from the window and followed Logan. 'The dining-room,' he said, standing back to allow her to pass him. 'It used to be a store cupboard. I had a window knocked into the wall, the shelves removed, the floor tiled, and so on.' 'It's small,' Marianne commented, but secretly admiring its neatness. 'Nevertheless, better than eating all the time in the kitchen.' Logan walked along a short passage, down two steps and nodded. 'The kitchen.' It was large. The old- fashioned range contained an oven heated by a closed-in, coal-burning fire. Modern equipment had been installed, however, making its use unnecessary. The floor here, too, had been tiled. The window overlooked the garden and a different aspect of it came into view. 'Room enough out there for a swimming pool one day,' Logan commented with a smile. Marianne did not reply. How could she when she was filled with longing to live in such a place, yet was quite unable to express her feelings openly? 'The other cottage?' she asked at last. 'Why didn't you have the inner walls demolished and the two made into one large dwelling?' 'I had my reasons,' was all Logan replied. 'The bedroom's upstairs,! he added, nodding towards the staircase. He led the way outside and into the second cottage. In design it was similar to the other and furnished in almost the same way, with the brick fireplace being the central point of warmth in the living-room.

This time Logan did go upstairs, indicating that Marianne should follow. 'The main bedroom,' he said, throwing open a door. As Marianne entered the room, her eves swung to a door which had obviously been cut into the adjoining wall. Beyond it, she calculated, lay Logan's bedroom. It seemed to be the only point at which the two cottages had been allowed to connect. There was no furniture in the room, not even a bed. Marianne followed Logan out on to the landing. He opened the door of a smaller room and stood back to let her pass. It seemed to her, sensitive as she was to his every reaction, that he held himself stiffly as she went by him, as if he had no wish to touch her in any way. At once she became resentful. Need he make it so obvious, she thought irritably, that he dislikes me so much? The smaller room was, to her surprise, fully furnished. A single bed had been placed against a wall. The carpet was pale pink, as were die curtains. A small wardrobe, an equally small dressing-table, a chest of drawers and a chair had been chosen with taste. There were even pictures of flowers and animals on the walls. Above their heads, the ceiling sloped and nursery animal transfers had been imprinted on to it. 'A child's room?' Marianne asked, her eyes wide. 'My daughter's.' She frowned, motioning to the empty room. 'So who --?' He said, his face blank, 'Her new mother will occupy that.' Her new mother! If she had agreed to his proposal of marriage, that would have been her room. Now that she had refused, he would have

to search for another woman and persuade her to wear his ring and care for his daughter. Marianne Walked to the window, staring out. Why had she said 'no'? Why had she deprived herself of the realisation of a dream, even though, as a marriage, it would have been a sham? She loved the man, didn't she? Wasn't her love, even without his love to reinforce it, sufficient to make an empty shell of a marriage work? As she turned quickly from the window, angrv with her own thoughts, he said, with a half-smile, 'Changed your mind?' 'No!' 'Isn't there even the smallest chink in your armour? \Hasn't my future home wooed you into a more amenable frame of mind? Paid—well-paid—companion of my daughter, an old but beautiful home to offer you security into the distant future? Even if I were, to be unfaithful to you— who knows, I might well be --' she flinched, and hoped he had not noticed, 'or you to me, it would make no difference. You would remain my wife.' 'No!' It was a cry, and she could not hide the pain and the fury in her eyes. 'Daddy?' The soft, questioning voice came from downstairs. 'I'm here, Daddy. Where are you?' Marianne stared at Logan, aghast. 'Surely you haven't --?' she whispered. Logan smiled faintly, but his eyes remained untouched. Then he was on to the landing, looking down the wooden, curving staircase. 'Up

here, poppet,' he said. His hand stretched downwards. 'Come on up, Jilly.' Footsteps seemed to tiptoe upwards. 'Have you got that lady with you?' The words were spoken in a whisper. 'The one you said was going to be my mummy?' 'Hush, darling, not so loud,' her father said, but 'the lady' had heard. In the child's bedroom, she put hands to pale cheeks. She had grown unbearably tense and experienced a frightened trembling inside which she knew must not under any circumstances be allowed to show. 'Where is she?' the young voice whispered. 'Is she as pretty as you said?' Marianne hid behind the door and covered her ears. 'Pretty', Logan had described her. What else had he pretended in his efforts to sell her to his beloved daughter? They entered the room. 'Where is, she, Daddy?' the young voice asked. 'Has she—she hasn't gone already?' The quiver in the voice was more than Marianne could stand. If Logan had intended to reach her at her weakest spot, he had succeeded with a sure hand. He moved and pointed. 'She's here, Jilly, hiding behind the door. I think,' and his voice sank to a whisper, 'I think she's shy, Jilly.' Marianne pulled her hands from her face and clasped them at her waist. If her knuckles showed white, there was nothing she could do. Looking expectantly up at her was Logan's child, his daughter by another woman, the woman he had married and lost in just two years. No, lost was wrong. Not only had she kept her place in his heart, she must surely have been caught and held for eternity—those looks in

front of her would be passed on and on—in the young, eager face gazing up at her. 'Hallo, Jilly,' Marianne said, dismayed to find how hoarse her voice had become. 'Hallo,' said Jilly, clinging to her father's hand. 'Have you got a cold? Because if you have I'll have to look after you.' Marianne shook her head. If she had tried to speak she would have cried. After a few moments' struggle, she regained her composure. 'Hi, Jilly,' she said softly. What else to say? 'You're just like I imagined you.' Jilly smiled at the untruth, accepting it without question. There was not,-Marianne discovered, the remotest resemblance to Logan, unless it was in the shape of the nose or the curve of the chin. 'My daddy said,' Jilly went on, 'your hair was a bit like mine. You're so high up I can't see.' A swift glance at Logan and Marianne said, 'I'll bend down, shall I?' She went down to the child's height. 'Now look.' She bent her head. 'It's a bit like mine. He said your eyes are like mine, too.' She gazed into them.Marianne felt a shiver go through her. The child was searching, groping, looking for something to which to cling. Looking for the mother she so longed to have. If I fail her now, Marianne thought, I'll never forgive myself for the rest of my life. Something made Logan's child waver and back away. Marianne straightened, wondering what she had done. 'Will she stay, Daddy?' Jilly asked, looking all the way up to her father's face. 'Or will she run away like my real mummy did?'

So it had been fear that had come into that young mind, a return of the fear she-had known around four years ago, when her mother had gone out of her life for ever. Before giving her trust completely, she had to know ... 'Well, Marianne,' Logan asked, 'what's the answer? Think carefully before you reply.' Marianne heeded the warning note. The moment of decision had come. She looked from blank, dark eyes down to anxious blue ones, a frown forming on the fair, clear brow. The hair hung long and almost white, the intensely blue but clouded eyes were uplifted, the anxiety in them deepening at the hesitation. Something over which Marianne had no control released all-the build-up of tension, bursting open the floodgates of compassion and tenderness. She crouched down again and wrapped her arms round the child, pressing her cheek to the child's hair. Jilly would never know, she swore to. herself, how much it cost her to speak. 'I'll stay, pet,' she said. 'I won't run ^way. I'll be your mummy if you want me to.' 'Oh, I do, I do!' Her arms hugged Marianne's neck. 'She's staying, Daddy, she's staying!' She released Marianne. 'I want to go and tell Auntie Mina.' 'Where is she, poppet?' Logan asked the retreating form. 'Outside in the car,' Jilly called back from the bottom of the stairs. He returned from the landing to look at Marianne's back as she stared from the window. 'Well?' he said. He spoke softly, winningly, but she was not to be won.

'You set this up, didn't you?' she accused thickly. 'You caught me in a trap. You knew I couldn't resist the bait.' He did not answer her accusations. 'You played on my compassion without compunction, just to get yourself a --' she had to find a hurtful word, 'a nursemaid for your daughter.' There was a movement and he was behind her, his hands on her shoulders, turning her. It was then that he saw the tears that were running down her face. He lifted a finger and touched a teardrop as it welled over. 'What's this for? Will it be so terrible being married, to me? Haven't I told you I shall regard your private life as sacrosanct? As you, in return, will regard mine? We shall live our lives separately, but with one thing in common—my daughter.' His daughter, his daughter! Didn't he know how much it hurt her to hear him say those words? To avoid replying, she searched for a handkerchief. He found his and passed it over. As she used it, he said, 'There will even be a wall between us.' 'Now I see,' she said at last, as he took the handkerchief from her, 'why you didn't have the two cottages knocked into one. To keep your daughter's "mummy" in her place.' He laughed. 'That could be taken in two ways, but we'll let that pass. Now I must ask you again to marry me. Marianne, will you be my wife?' She half lifted her face and looked at him through her lashes. 'Yes, Logan Tate.' In her small, taunting smile there was a flash of the girl she used to be.

He responded at once, moving quickly, catching her in his arms and bending back her head with the pressure of his kiss. 'Provoke me again,' he said at last, against her lips, 'and I'll --' 'Wow, the grand passion between our two lovebirds!' I'll turn round, go back and make another entrance.' A woman stood in the doorway, tall and laughing, her manner easy. 'Hi, Marianne. Logan's told us about you.' Logan answered Marianne's quick, reproachful look with a smile. 'Congratulations,' the newcomer went on, 'to you both on having rediscovered each other.' Pushing her way in, Jilly pointed, her face pink with excitement. 'There she is, Auntie Mina, there's the lady Daddy found just for me. Don't you think she's pretty?' The woman laughed. 'Beautiful, Jilly, absolutely beautiful.' Her hand came out and Marianne took it. 'My name's Mina, Mina Belling,' the woman said. 'Wilhelmina, really, but everyone cuts out the first two syllables. Except my husband when he's annoyed with me, which is quite often. Then he shouts at the top of his voice, usually upstairs when I'm down, "Wilhel!"' The others laughed. 'Honestly, it sounds awful. Don't know what the neighbours think.' 'Neighbours!' said Logan. To Marianne, 'They live in a large house --' 'It needs to be,' Mina interrupted, 'we've got five kids.' 'Standing in its own grounds,' Logan went on, 'miles from their next-door neighbour --' 'A slight exaggeration,' Mina said.

'Ralph, her husband, is the medical member of the team I'm working with,' Logan explained. Mina looked at Marianne's empty hand. 'When's the wedding, Logan? Go on, tell me it's none of my business.' Logan looked at Marianne. 'Soon,' he said, moving to put his arm round her and smiling down into her face as if he could hardly wait to become her husband. 'Can I be bridesmaid?' Jilly asked eagerly. Logan frowned. 'It's—not going to be that sort of wedding, Is it, Marianne?' His voice did not rise, making it into a question. It was a statement. Like it or leave it. No frills, no nonsense, just a formal ceremony joining us legally. Marianne said, 'It's all going to be very simple. I—we prefer it that way.' She saw Jilly's disappointment. 'Sorry, darling. But I expect Daddy will let you have a new dress. How about a long white one?' 'Can I, Daddy?' Jilly asked. Logan looked first at Marianne, then at Mina. 'I'm out of my depth.' . Mina laughed. 'I'll come to your rescue. Jilly, there's a short white dress that Ann,' she named one of her children, 'wore at a wedding. Only been used once. It's got pink flowers embroidered all over the skirt. Will that do?' Jilly clapped her hands. 'Can I try it on?' Mina nodded. 'When we get back.'

With a frown, Jilly said, 'Aren't I going to live here, now, with my new mummy?' Logan said, pretending to be hurt, 'Father's irrelevant now.' Mina patted him commiseratingly on the shoulder. Jilly, who did not understand him, persisted, 'Why can't my——' she pointed, 'my new mummy stay with us now?' Marianne, seeing that Logan was, for once, lost for words, said, 'There's no furniture in my bedroom yet, Jilly? no carpet, no bed. Where would I sleep without a bed?' 'In a sleeping bag,' Jilly said promptly, and was surprised when they all laughed. She hid her face in her father's jacket. Logan picked her up. 'For a little while longer you must go back with Auntie Mina, poppet. Then, before very long, all three of us will be living here in the cottages.' This seemed to satisfy her. Before she left, she indicated that she wanted to kiss Marianne goodbye. Marianne bent down to receive the kiss on the cheek. It was tentative and testing and Marianne kissed her back. Jilly gazed up at her wonderingly, then turned shy and clung to her father's hand. 'Come and see us off,' said Mina. Logan, with Marianne beside him, stood on the doorstep and waved the car into the distance.

On the way back to London, Logan left the main road and drove into Ipswich, where he bought Marianne an engagement ring. It was a diamond cluster and as she looked at it on her finger, she recalled the signet ring he had given her eight years ago. Despite the beauty and the costliness of the ring he had just bought her, their engagement meant no more to him now than it had in the past. At the same time they bought the wedding ring. This he pushed back into its velvet-lined case and put into his pocket. When they arrived at Marianne's London flat, Logan took it for granted that he had right of entry without invitation. He followed her up the stairs and into the living- room. He looked around and commented that her income in the job she had left couldn't have been bad to maintain such a pleasant place. 'Pity circumstances forced you to leave the job. What will you do now for money?' 'Take on agency work until --' She looked at him uncertainly. Until our marriage, she had been going to say, but, even with his ring on her finger, it still seemed so much of a dream that she wondered even now if it was all happening in her mind. For a moment they gazed at each other. With his hands on his hips and speculation in his eyes., he smiled. 'Extraordinary,' he murmured, 'how the colouring matches.' 'Yes,' she said, turning away, 'it was important to get that right, wasn't it?' She faced him, challenging. 'You could have searched around your own circle of acquaintances and picked out any blonde with blue eyes—you must surely know plenty. Why didn't you?' He folded his arms and kept on smiling. 'The personality had to be right, too.'

'You chose me?' with mock surprise. 'Knowing that I'd grown worldly and sophisticated, gone out with man after man --' His eyes narrowed at her provocative tone. 'There's something wrong, isn't there? £)o you want to back out?' 'Back out?' she said, aghast. 'When I've made a promise to a defenceless child? You knew it all along, didn't you? You knew that when I saw her I couldn't resist --' She had to stop to control her voice. 'I remember how I felt when I was six.' Her eyes found his, full of reproof. 'You knew me then. You were fourteen.' 'M'm.' He considered her. 'We've known each other a long time, haven't we?' His hooded eyes still considered her and she grew uncomfortable under his regard. What was he thinking? About the past? About their approaching marriage? Was he feeling sorry now that he had proposed to her? He reached out and caught her hand, lifting it to look at the diamond ring. 'This cost a bit more than the other one I pushed on your finger years ago, didn't it?' She snatched her hand away. 'So I'm after the money now, am I?' 'For God's sake, stop this petty quarrelling. We're going to marry and there's one thing I know—I'm not going to have a nagging, niggling wife. Take warning, this is how I stop it.' He reached out again and caught her wrist, pulling her against him. For the second time that day she found herself in his arms. His lips were hard, forcing hers open. His hands followed her shape, stroking her hips, her thighs, urging a response from her.

It took all the will-power she possessed to resist him, staying rigid in his embrace, giving nothing, yielding none of herself. When he let her go, there was a trace of disgust ia his eyes. 'Stone cold, my darling,' he said derisively. 'It seems I'm marrying a frigid wife.' 'Frigid? It's not true. I --' 'Can prove it? How? By ringing up one of your men friends—a girl like you must have had quite a choice—and asking them to testify on your behalf?' She attacked from another angle. 'You said our marriage would be one of companionship and friendship and nothing else. Yet here you are, making love to me. How can I trust you not to break the bargain we made?' 'Is wanting to kiss the woman I'm going to marry such a crime? Does taking her in my arms make me guilty of transgressing the bounds we set on our married relationship? Or,' as a thought struck him, 'are you really as sexually cold as you would like me to believe?' Marianne managed a shrug and said in a bored, carefully casual tone, 'It's true I've had boy-friends as you implied. They—they had no complaints to make about my' —she paused for greater effect—'sexual responses.' His eyes glittered and she knew she had asked for his , anger, had deliberately goaded and misled him, in fact. All the same she winced when he said savagely, 'If I don't go, I'll do something to you I'll regret. I've never lost control with a woman yet. But,' he went to the door, 'there's always a first time. I want that wedding ring on your finger and a legal hold over you before it happens —not for my sake, you understand, but for my daughter's. Run out on me, if you like, but run out on her and I'll --'

The door slammed behind him.

CHAPTER THREE THE wedding ceremony was over, the reception which had been a great success a pleasant memory. Marianne sat in the car beside Logan and closed her eyes. Restlessly she twisted the wedding ring which, only a short time ago, he had pushed on to her finger. She had abandoned her hat and her hair swung free. Her hat had been blue like her dress. Logan had not thought white would have been appropriate. It had hurt her deeply when he had expressed the opinion, but she knew that if he thought of her with contempt, it was not really his fault. She had said nothing to correct his wrong impression Of her past way of living. She had, by her provocation, encouraged him to think the worst. Now he was her husband. The past and ;the future had met and merged. The man to whom she had been engaged for so short a time eight years before was, for as far into the coming years as she could see, legally permitted to live with her, share his house and his life with her, treat her kindly or otherwise within the bounds of the law—and most of all, make love to her. This last, she knew, he would not, on any occasion that she could foresee, attempt to do. She sighed and he glanced at her. 'Tired?' His hand left the steering wheel and momentarily covered hers. If she had not known him better, she might have mistaken the gesture for tenderness. 'Not really.' She slid lower in the seat and rested her head. 'More emotionally, drained than anything. It's not every day that one gets married.' When he did not reply, she remembered with a shock that for him today had been a repeat performance of the wedding ceremony. 'Of course,' she said, and try as she might she could not keep the bitterness from her voice, 'this is your second time round. In the circumstances, to you today has probably just meant a kind of business appointment. That's what it was, really, wasn't it?'

He smiled at the road ahead. 'You sound so sour I'm beginning to wonder if you want it otherwise.' She asked sharply, 'What do you mean by that?' 'Good heavens, girl, with your experience of—shall we be kind and call it life?—I surely don't have to spell out what I mean?' 'Yes,' she said tiredly, 'I understand. I'm not as naive as I was in my teens.' He whispered some words, but over the noise of the passing traffic she could not clearly identify them. It sounded like 'More's the pity', but she refused to ask him to repeat them. After a while she said, 'Jilly cried when Mina told her she couldn't come with us.' 'I know.' 'I wouldn't have minded. Why didn't you let her?' She guessed she was irritating him, but she didn't care. He replied curtly, 'I thought we needed a few days to get to know each other.' She frowned, fear contracting her muscles. 'Companionship, you said, friendship ...' 'Precisely.' Relief had her sighing again. He smiled without humour. 'Did you think I had a night—or even a week—of bliss in mind. Let me reassure you. I've already spent a honeymoon in another woman's arms, and I don't wish to repeat it now. Honeymoons should be restricted to those who need them—to couples who are deeply in love.'

His cynicism hurt her deeply. She closed her eyes and feigned sleep. She recalled her mother's happiness on hearing of the engagement and her exclamation of delight at the beauty of the ring. At the wedding, everyone had smiled, uttered congratulations and expressed sincere pleasure at the coming together at last of two people whose love had plainly endured, despite all that had passed since they had parted. Logan's parents had flown over from Canada to be at the wedding and the reception, and they welcomed Marianne as a daughter after all these long years. Moss had hovered in the background, alone because his wife had recently left him. He had smiled his knowing smile. It was as if he was trying to tell the bride, Don't fool yourself. Your marriage won't last any more than mine did. Her mother's parting kiss had brought tears to Marianne's eyes. But it had been Jilly's farewell that had threatened to turn the tears into a deluge. 'Goodbye, Mummy,' she had said, throwing her arms round Marianne's neck. 'I won't be very far away from you, will I?' She would be staying with Mina and her husband Ralph just outside the village where Marianne and Logan would be 'honeymooning' in their cottage. Jilly had clung to Mina's hand. With a tremulous smile she had waved them on their way, a tiny, appealing figure among the laughing, well-wishing crowd.

They could have spent the night at a London hotel, but Marianne told Logan that she preferred to go straight to their new home. He seemed amenable enough on the subject, almost as though it was a matter of

little importance to him where they spent the first night of their marriage. It was a long journey after a tiring and emotional day. At least, it had touched her emotions. Whether Logan was stirred in the slightest by being joined to her in wedlock, she had no means of knowing. His manner all day had been relaxed, placidly smiling and casual to the point of unconcern. After all, she told herself severely, he was not taking to himself a wife, but giving shelter, security and status to the woman who had taken on the job of mothering his child.Now and then Marianne took over the driving while Logan rested, stretching out his long legs beside her. He sighed with a false kind of contentment, smiled broadly and said, 'Now I know I've got myself a wife.' He had said it to provoke a reaction which, a few moments later, came his way. 'Wife number two,' Marianne retorted sarcastically. 'Do you think wife number three will be blonde and blue-eyed, too?' His laugh was short and loud. 'The girl still has a bit of her old spirit! It pops out now and then like a rabbit from its burrow, then it disappears as though it never was. I must admit,' he drawled, stuffing his hands into his trouser -pockets and re-crossing his legs, 'that it intrigues me.' Moments later his head came up again. 'Did I hear you mention "wife number three"? Good grief, don't wish a third wedding on me! I couldn't stand it.' His careless, callous attitude to the ceremony, simple though it had been, which only two or three hours ago had made her his wife, bruised her like a well-aimed thrust of a fist. 'If this one doesn't work,' he went on, his eyes closed again, 'then as far as I'm concerned, marriage is out.'

What did he mean, Marianne wondered, 'If this one doesn't work'? Hadn't his first marriage come up to expectations, despite the birth of a child? Or was he fooling? 'If a woman wants me,' he continued, 'she can live with me, full stop. No ring, no ties, no solemn bits of paper.' 'No kids.' Her words hung on the air. He did not answer. He opened his eyes and stared out at the green fields. Marianne said softly, slowing down to negotiate a round-. about, 'Why have you become so bitter about women, Logan?' 'Have I?' He shrugged. 'I've always found women easy prey, even in my twenties, both for myself or any other man. My respect for them nowadays is nil.' She waited a moment, then said lightly, There's something you've forgotten to say.' He looked at her enquiringly. She went on, 'Present company excepted.' 'All right. Because you're my bride of only a few hours, I'll say it—present company excepted.' 'But,' she made a joke of it to hide her hurt at his attitude, 'the truth will come out later, when we've been married long enough for me to bear hearing what you really think of me.' He said nothing, and her pain increased. She sensed by his movement of irritation that he wished to end the discussion. It was evening when they arrived at the cottage. In the small dining-room, the scene was arranged, or so the person who had set the dark polished dining-table had considered, for a romantic first meal in

blissful solitude. Scarlet place- mats held brand new cutlery—a wedding present from one of Logan's friends. Candlelight gave flickering colour to die crystal wine glasses—another wedding present from another of Logan's friends. On plates which were part of a dinner service sent by Moss were choicest cuts of meat and salads, all carefully covered with transparent film. On the sideboard a notice was propped against a flower vase. 'Chocolate and ice cream gateau in the freezer in garage. Coffee in percolator. Wine in fridge. Happy wedding day. Mrs D.' Marianne, bemused by the preparation and care which must have gone into setting the scene and providing the food, asked, 'Who's Mrs D.?' 'Mrs Davenport, my lady help. Obviously,' with a hard smile, 'an incurable romantic.' Marianne surveyed the table. 'It was very kind of her to do all this. How was she to know there would be no— romance?' --' Logan looked at her without speaking. Marianne realised that Mrs Davenport could not have been gone very long, because the candle flames had melted only a little wax. 'Well, shall we eat?' Logan's manner was brisk and no-nonsense, almost as if she were a colleague he had invited for an evening's discussion after dinner. 'Logan, I must wash and—well, tidy up.' She touched her hair. 'It's been a long journey.' 'Sorry,' he felt in his pocket, 'I've been living a bachelor life for so long, I'd forgotten a woman's needs.' He produced a key. 'You'll want this to let yourself into your cottage.'

Your cottage. The separation had already started. She turned the key and opened the door, appreciating at once the mellow, comfortable atmosphere of the place which would, from now on, be her home. There would be one thing missing—the man she loved. But she supposed she would reconcile herself to that in time—wouldn't she? After they had become engaged, Logan had drawn a plan of her bedroom and asked her to choose carpets and furnishings, colour schemes and draperies. She had done so willingly, and the result was more than pleasing. On the bedside table was a porcelain lamp and an electric tea-maker. Against a wall a vanity unit had been fitted. In the bathroom, at her request, a shower cubicle had been installed. The wall-to-wall carpeting in the bedroom was cream- coloured. Beneath it, as she walked, the floorboards creaked. After two hundred and fifty years, she supposed that was to be expected. Cupboards had been built in, the bedhead fixed to the wall contained shelves for books and magazines. In the material sense, she had everything a woman could wish for. But, she told herself a little sadly, as she took a quick shower and dried herself, material possessions were not everything, were they? The dress she lifted from her case had been expensive. As she stepped into it, pulling it upwards and over her, she knew it was the most revealing dress she had ever worn. She had bought it for a party which her recent employer had given at a famous London hotel. It had brought her much attention and a number of 'proposals'—the kind to which Logan had so scathingly referred. She had, of course, declined every single one, as she always did. When she looked at herself in the mirror now, she realised why she had caused such a sensation. The black velvet skirt touched her ankles

in a straight fall of material. The style was the essence of simplicity, its effect being in the way its cunning design, although apparently discreet, left her back bare to the waist. It revealed uncovered shoulders and arms and draped scantily over her breasts to narrow slightly on its way upwards to a white-corded halter neck. The matching corded belt around her waist added another dramatic touch of white. The dress was a hangover from her past. As she walked from her cottage to his, she wondered what its impact would be on her new husband. His first sight of her as she stepped into his living-room was not reassuring. She saw with a shock that he had not even bothered to change from the suit in which he had been married and subsequently travelled. She supposed a little forlornly that since this was a second time for him, it was no different from an ordinary day. Instead of smiling, as he had in her dream-thoughts, instead of registering first surprise, then admiration and after that, desire, he merely said, with a frown, 'You should have told me you were going to dress up. I would have booked a table somewhere.' She shook her head. 'It wouldn't have been appropriate.' He stood with his hands on the back of a dining chair. 'And that dress is?' 'I meant,' she responded, colouring, 'that a meal at a hotel would have been like a celebration.' She made her eyes as expressionless as his. 'There's nothing to celebrate, is there?' She turned. 'I'm sorry the dress offends you. I'll go and change.' He moved quickly and stood in front of her. 'Leave it. It's what my late wife, Gaye, would have worn in similar circumstances. Maybe I still see you deep down as the semi- urchin you used to be in the old days. I must do some in- depth self-analysis and alter that quickly.' He moved

to the table. 'I must say to myself one hundred times a day, "I'm married to a sophisticated, knowledgeable woman, one who is experienced in every sense of the word." ' He followed his words with a cynical smile and motioned to the food. 'Let's eat.' It was, to Marianne, as if three were seated at that long table, Logan at one side, herself opposite him and at the head, seated in glorious if ghostly isolation, the elusive, transparent presence of Logan's first wife. If she imitated the wife whose passing he seemed to continue to mourn, if she behaved as Gaye had done—how had she behaved?—if she dressed in the same way, would he come to love her as he had loved the first woman he had married? Marianne had thought that their conversation during the meal might be spasmodic and strained, but they talked of the reception, of seeing old friends again, of her reunion with Logan's parents. Logan insisted on clearing the dishes away since, he maintained, with an unmistakable touch of irony, she was not dressed for housework. 'Who exactly I am dressed for,' she thought disconsolately, 'I don't really know. Logan's treating me as if I were a guest, not his wife.' After the sweet, he carried in the coffee, refusing even to allow Marianne to pour. 'I became accustomed to looking after myself in Africa,' he said. 'None of this --' Marianne was sure he only just stopped himself from saying 'nonsense', 'these frills and this fancy candlelight when you're straining to live a reasonably civilised life on the edges of the bush.' It was the other side of him, the side she did not know but which his first wife had known intimately ... In a climate like that, had passions run high? Or had he been the cool, remote man he was now?

After the meal, Marianne rose and started clearing away the remaining dishes. Logan helped her to carry them into the kitchen. While she watched, he put away the food and she tried to memorise where things belonged. When she turned to run hot water into the sink, Logan stopped her. 'No dish-washing,' he said, 'not on your—our honeymoon.' The mistake, swiftly corrected, inflicted yet another flick of pain. 'My' honeymoon, She thought dismally, not his ... 'Mrs Davenport will come in tomorrow and attend to all that. Unless you can think of anything better to do, come into my living-room'—there it was again, the possessive 'my', instead of 'our'— 'and listen to some music. Can you bear the classical variety, or do our tastes differ even in that?' She frowned at his use of the word 'even'. How else did their tastes differ? 'I love it,' she said simply. 'Good heavens,' he commented, as they passed through into the other room, 'we have something in common!'. She faced him tensely, feeling the heat on her back from the fire which had. been lit in the grate. 'Can't you drop the sarcasm even on—on my wedding day?' The implication that it was her day and not his, as he had been going out of his way to imply, seemed to register with him. His eyes glinted. 'How do you want me to behave on our wedding day? Didn't we come to a verbal agreement—no lovemaking either before or after marriage? Or,' moving slowly towards her and standing at her side, 'is this the way you're wanting it?' He moved to stand behind her and she felt the breadth and hardness of him against her back. His arm lifted, but instead of putting it around

her as she thought, his hand slipped beneath the material of her dress, coming to rest on the softly rounded shape of her. The contact, the gentfe caressing, like a lift door opening and all the pent-up yearnings spilling out. Of its own accord, her head tilted backwards to rest against his shoulder and her heart began to pound. How long since those hands had touched her thus, brought her to exquisite life? An eternity of time ... Now he was her husband. He was entitled, by the issuing of a piece of paper after a short ceremony, to touch her body where he liked—and she his. If. it had not been for that 'verbal agreement'—to which, it seemed, he was determined to adhere—they might even now be locked in each other's arms -She jerked free, unable to bear the longings and desires his stroking hands' were so knowledgeably bringing to life within her. He moved away, slipping his hands into the pockets of his suit. His eyebrows lifted. 'Turning frigid on me, my darling wife, on our wedding night?' 'You said it yourself,' she accused, her cheeks burning, 'the agreement we made --' He sighed as if the subject bored him and turned towards the record-player. I can't get romantic any more, he'd said, about living with a woman. Her eyes moistened, but she held the tears rigorously in check. Not now, not in front of him, but later, maybe, in the solitude of her bedroom . 'Why did you wear that dress,' he said to the stereo equipment he was adjusting, 'if not to incite me?'

'I didn't realise,' she replied steadily, 'that it had such a devastating effect on a man.' He half turned, smiling sardonically. 'You don't really expect me to believe you're as naive as that?' A retort sprang to her lips, but she suppressed it. She had no wish to engage in a verbal battle with him now. He told her to sit down and she did so. Music came softly into the room, filling it to the very corners. The wooden beams lost their solidity and, in the dancing firelight, became mobile, sinuous and weightless. Logan, having removed his jacket, came to sit beside her. 'Tchaikovsky,' he said, 'the musician to suit the mood.' She wondered, eyes closed, her head back against the settee, to which mood he was referring. Since they had arrived, his mood had fluctuated between sarcasm, insult and a chilling remoteness. His head, too, sank back against the upholstery. Her eyes came open. Cautiously, her head turned until she could judge whether or not his eyes were closed, Yes, they were, as hers had been. Her gaze wandered over him, noting that he had loosened his tie, that his hair was a little ruffled, that there were shadows beneath his eyes as if he had not slept well recently. The firelight flickered over his face, bringing sharply into focus its fascinating bone structure, long nose and sensitive lips. She remembered those lips, from the days when they had kissed her tenderly. Now they had a cynical twist they had not possessed before. Now they did not seem to know the meaning of tenderness, let alone express it in a kiss.

Her gaze shifted and looked upon the leanness of his body, the narrow waist broadening to hard hips and long, muscle-tough legs. Once again she felt her senses stir. She longed for the intervening years to drop away so that she could fling her arms about him, as she had in her teens, and cry out with ingenuous abandon, I love you, Logan! She tore her eyes away and closed them, resting her head again'. Who said that age brought wisdom? How much wiser was she now than she had been then? How wise was it to sit beside the man she loved, yet allow him to believe she hated him? Then she recalled how her youthful and passionate declaration of devodon had, after six unforgettable weeks, been rejected with scorn by the man to whom she had confessed that love. If age did not necessarily bring wisdom,she thought wryly, at least it brought with it caution! Logan moved, proving he was not asleep. What were his thoughts as he sat beside his brand-new wife? Had he been comparing her with the other woman he had married? Had his thoughts been of their first night together as man and wife? Then she reproached herself for being so stupid. Of course he and the woman called Gaye would not have waited for the ceremony and the piece of paper! They would have had no 'verbal agreement' keeping diem apart, either before or after they had been married. With an effort, Marianne turned her mind from the thoughts whichtortured her and dwelt instead and with some pleasure upon her new 'daughter'. She vowed to make the most of her—she would be the only daughter she would ever have ... The excitement, the emotional turmoil of the long, eventful day caught up with her. The music, the heat from the fire, Logan's passive nearness insinuated itself into her body and she drifted into sleep.

When she awoke, the music had stopped. There was darkness and silence—except for the regular deep breathing of the man beside whom she lay. It took her a few moments to get her bearings. Where was she? What time was it? There was a man beside her—no doubt about it. Arms were wrapped around her, legs entangled intimately with hers, a wall of hardness pressed against her breasts. Her heart began to hammer. For the first time in her life, had she --? It was her husband, and the man was Logan! The realisation of what must have happened had her pulsing with shock. The last thing she could remember was the music, the warmth, Logan sitting, head back, eyes closed. And now here he was, cradling her in his arms, alongside her on the settee, as deeply asleep as she had been. Her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and she could perceive the faint glow of the dying embers in the fireplace. This, she recalled with a leap of her heart, was their wedding night. Logan had slept beside her after all! The joy that came sweeping over her was like the return of the sun after a long, ice-cold winter. She moved slightly and discovered that a blanket had been pulled across them. Her movements disturbed and then woke him and. she felt his cheek rub against hers. 'Marianne?' 'Yes?' she whispered as if afraid of waking someone. 'My word, you must have been tired!' She nodded against the hollow of his neck. Her hand lifted to push back her hair and it brushed against his chest. She felt the roughness and realised that he had unfastened the buttons of his shirt, his hands were spread out against her bare back and she knew by the pressure of the halter neck that she still wore the black dress.

'I think,' he said, more kindly than she had ever heard' him speak, 'it's time you went to bed.' Her heart leapt, but she did not ask, 'Whose bed?' He threw aside the blanket, disentangled his legs from hers and swung diem to the floor. With the aid of the glowing embers, he found his way to a standard lamp and switched it on. Marianne closed her eyes against the brightness. Arms lifted her and her head, flopped against his shoulder. They mounted the stairs and he flicked a switch. They were in Login's bedroom. Her pulses raced. Was he, after all, going to break that agreement? It seemed not. He made his way, still holding her, to a door which he opened and which led directly into her own room. She told herself she was not disappointed. How could she be, when she had expected nothing? He was a man of his word, she knew that from past experience. He lowered her feet to the floor and with an arm still round her, pulled back the covers of her bed. Then he lifted her again and put her on the bed. He pulled the bow which fastened the halter neck, freeing it. He untied the corded belt around her waist and threw it aside, then he pulled off her silver sandals. 'Come on,' he said, 'lift up. I'll take your dress off.' She gazed up at him, eyes wide with sleep. 'No, no. You can go—I'll manage. Thank you,' she added, hoping that gratitude would bring an end to the argument. 'I'm going to undress you, Marianne. Then I'm going to put you into this nightdress,' he held up a long, filmy blue nightgown she had unpacked, 'and put you to bed.'

'Please, Logan,' she whispered, shaking her head. 'I'm your husband. We were married,' he consulted his watch, 'yesterday.' With a small smile, 'Remember?' There was no point in refusing. He would have his way whatever she did, so she let him. Tiredness still weighed heavily on her limbs, and blurred her mind. The dress was off, leaving little else to be removed. Then he looked at her as she lay there, gazing worriedly up at him. What are you thinking? she wanted to ask. Do I measure up to the woman you loved and lost? He said softly, 'But beauty's self she is, When all her clothes are gone. The poet says it so much better than I can.' Then, holding her eyes for as long as he was able, he bent down and touched the point of each breast lingeringly with his lips. When he lifted his head at last, her whole body throbbed, her cheeks were flooded with colour. He smiled. 'That was something my teenage fiance would never allow me to do. Now she's my wife, she can't continue to deny me that pleasure.' Again their eyes held, but she could, read nothing in his. They were dark and riveting and giving nothing away. Moments later the nightgown was over her head and he drew the covers into place. Her eyes were fascinated by the black stubble round his cheeks and chin, the dark hair exposed by his open shirt, the muscles revealed by the rolled-up shirt sleeves. For a fleeting second eight years were peeled away and his was the face of the younger Logan whom the passionate teenage girl called Marianne Conway had loved so much. She closed her eyes, opened them and the present returned. The older Logan bent over her, his face serious and withdrawn. 'What time is it?' she asked, hoping that by doing so the - tenderness might return.

'After three o'clock.' No, she had not succeeded. The tone was impersonal. 'Goodnight, Marianne. Sleep well.' Almost before the door had closed behind him, she was asleep again.

CHAPTER FOUR WHEN she awoke, it took her a few moments to establish her exact whereabouts. With realisation came remembrance and her face grew warm as she remembered what had happened when Logan had carried her up to bed. She closed her eyes again and heard the birdsong, frantic and loud in the morning sunshine. Her watch told her it was after nine o'clock. Although she listened carefully, there was no sound from the other side of the communicating door. Either Logan was downstairs, or he had slept longer than she had. She threw aside the covers and found her clothes in a pile where Logan had dropped them. The black dress was creased—but, she thought, what did it matter? It would be a long time before she wore it again. She decided against a shower and opted instead for a quick wash. If Logan was in fact up and waiting for her to cook his breakfast, she must not keep him waiting on their first morning. In one of the suitcases which she still had not unpacked was a dress which was sleeveless, cool-looking and neat. Its cleverness of cut made it appear more costly than it actually was. In a jewel case was a pearl necklace which she wound round her neck choker-style, fitting earrings to match. For once her honey-coloured hair behaved as she wished, springing smoothly from the centre parting. With speed and care she applied make-up. When she had finished she hoped she looked like a bride who had been made radiantly happy after her first night spent with her bridegroom. Uncertain as to what was expected of her, she went down the curving wooden staircase, opened the front door and closed it behind her. Her elegant white sandals failed to grip on the pebbled path which led to the front door of Logan's cottage and she was forced to walk with care.

As soon as she arrived, she remembered the keys Logan had given her, one of which was the key to his cottage. Should she go back for it or knock hoping he was up and about? Her knock was quiet, but he must have heard it, because the door was opened and he stood back to let her in. He looked her over, but if she had expected a warm greeting after his intimate kisses in the early hours, she was disappointed. There was not even a smile to welcome her. Marianne smiled at him, however. 'Sorry to have kept you waiting for your breakfast. What do you usually have?' 'I've eaten,' he said shortly. He motioned towards the kitchen. 'Help yourself. I don't know whether you've noticed, but the fridge in your own kitchen is filled with food. And there's a freezer in the garage for us both to use.' 'I'm sorry,' she said stiffly. 'I didn't realise you wanted me to keep to my own territory on our honeymoon.' 'You keep calling it a honeymoon.' He lifted his shoulders. 'I suppose, if it pleases you to think of it as such, you can go ahead. In the eyes of the world—and yours—all right, it's our honeymoon. As far as I'm concerned, it's , simply an irritating interruption of my work.' Marianne took a tight hold on her temper, turned and made for the front door, but he moved quickly and caught her arm. His gripping fingers, ungentle and commanding, wrecked her carefully assumed composure and created in her an urge to revert to adolescence and throw everything —his rings, his cottage, his name—back in his face. Why . the touch of him should stir in her such sensations of mutiny, defiance and a craving for vengeance, she did not know, but she did know that she would not stay one more minute in his cottage.

She twisted and struggled and, as he shifted his hold in order to tighten it, she escaped, wrenched open the door and ran, slipping and sliding on the pebbles, to her own cottage. Inside, she slammed the door and leant against it, partly to get back her breath and partly to add extra weight to keep Logan from forcing the door open. He did not come, however, and she soon relaxed, disappointed—foolishly so, she told herself. She hadn't wanted him to come after her, had she, otherwise what was the point of running from him? Upstairs she jerked the dress over her head and threw it across a chair. With a gesture of self-disgust—what crazy, primitive impulse had made her decide that by putting on jewellery she would arouse his interest?—she removed the pearl necklace and earrings. She rummaged feverishly in a suitcase and from underneath the contents pulled a pair of white clinging pants and a short-sleeved scarlet and white striped top. In a moment the pants were on, the striped top pulled into place. A glance in the mirror told her the girl she had once been—and, she now discovered, had never really left her—was looking back at her again, challenging, defying the world—and Logan Tate—to knock her down and trample on her, and just see what she would do in return! She went to the window and gazed out unseeingly at the garden below. Like the neat, conforming dress she had just discarded, she had shed at last the misery and regret of the past eight years. The man she had loved all that time, and whom she had never ceased to love, had married her. He was her husband, and she was his wife! It was necessary to repeat die fact time and again, so that it became absorbed into every part of her.

The rings she wore were his rings. His name was now hers. No longer was she Marianne Conway, but Marianne Tate. Even if Logan did not love her—and she knew he did not—he had made her his wife. The door between the bedrooms opened and Logan stood eyeing her. She turned, putting her back to the sill and gripping it as if its very solidity offered her some protection from the man who approached, taking his time, and stood a few paces away. 'My God,' he said softly, 'she's back!' Who was back? Marianne wondered in dismay. Was it his late wife he was seeing? Did he still long for her so much he had thought for a few incredible seconds she had returned? 'Who's back?' Marianne whispered. His hands rested on his hips and his sardonic eyes raked her from top to toe. 'The girl who, nearly a decade ago, threw her arms around my neck and declared she loved me —then, six weeks later, screamed at me in the darkness that she hated me instead and hurled my ring at my back.' Marianne sagged with relief. So his late wife had not been in his mind at that moment. Instead, it had been the naive, trusting young girl whose heart he had broken. But as he spoke again, her relief was overtaken by despair. 'Last night,' he said, his smile speculative, 'a woman sat beside me in a dress which might have come from the pages of the most exclusive women's magazine. If I'd half- closed my eyes and used my imagination, I could almost have fooled myself into believing that that woman was Gaye, my late wife.

'The same woman who sat next to me last night came back into the cottage this morning. She was remote and untouchable, and wearing yet another dress which any model girl—and also my late wife—might have worn, not to mention pearls which must have been purchased from a very high-class jeweller indeed.' He turned and with a nod indicated the communicating door. 'I came through there just now expecting to find that woman. The one,' with mockery, 'I married yesterday. Instead, I found the girl I left behind me years ago and thought had gone for ever.'His eyes grew thoughtful, his hands found the pockets of his tight-fitting jeans. They eyed each other and the atmosphere was electric. His gaze followed faithfully the enticing curves of her body, revealed so clearly by the clothes she wore. Was he remembering how he had put her to bed last night? As he scrutinised her, so she looked at him. Maturity had broadened his shoulders, firmed his muscles, added considerably to his forceful masculinity. His brown shirt was short-sleeved, revealing his tanned arms. The buttons were unfastened, hinting at a browned body beneath. There was no doubt about it, Marianne thought with both apprehension and a treacherous sense of longing, his power to draw and hold her had not lessened. On the contrary, it had grown so much that he had only to look at her, eyes asking Yes or No? and she would go running to him willingly and adoringly as she had in the past. He smiled. Had he guessed her thoughts? To her intense embarrassment, it seemed he had. 'No, my little chick,' he said softly, 'there's to be none of that between us.' His smile grew cynical as he watched her colour flare. 'I'm having no more emotional entanglements with women,' he went on. 'An affair, maybe, or the odd willing woman to satisfy my—requirements, but no more nights of passion in the marriage bed. Given the chance

and the encouragement, you'd cling as hard and as selfishly as any other woman with a wedding ring on her finger. Friendship and companionship, I said, didn't I? Let's leave it at that.' Her indignation seemed to amuse him and his amusement added fuel to her anger. Her eyes blazed. 'What makes you think I want to sleep with you?' she hit back. 'If you want the truth,' she introduced a note of distaste into her voice, 'I just don't fancy you.' His eyes narrowed to slits, but she persisted, 'I'm fastidious that way, always have been. But I don't suppose for one moment you'll believe it.' 'You're so right. You're stretching my credulity just too far, especially as you've already pointed out to me how out of date I am about the ways and morals of the women of today.' He folded his arms and smiled spitefully. 'Sorry, chick.' 'Don't call me that!' It had been his pet name for her when they had been engaged before. Even if it hadn't meant anything to him, it had delighted her, warmed her and coaxed her into thinking he loved her—just a little bit. 'Why not?' he taunted. 'Does it bring back memories?' 'Ones I'd rather forget.' He shielded his eyes. It was a mocking gesture. 'The compliments you're paying me are going to my head.' He strolled nearer and she forced herself to show no reaction. If she tensed or retaliated, it would provide him with ammunition for continuing their battle. It would tell him how aware of him she really was. 'Had your breakfast?' he asked.

'I don't want any.' 'Please yourself.' His eyes shifted to the window. 'I thought that as it's a fine day and also that it's our honeymoon, as you keep reminding me, we might go out. Does a trip to the coast appeal?' Anything, Marianne thought, rather than stay there alone with him. 'Yes,' she replied, 'it does.' 'Good. Be ready in five minutes.' He brushed his fist under her chin in the old way. Before she could remonstrate, he had returned to his room, only to reappear immediately and say, 'Bring a swimsuit.' The sun shone with fervour, the sea was as blue as the sky. It was early and the stretch of gold sand almost empty. In the distance was the pier. Some way behind them was the promenade where people strolled, walking their dogs. Hotels stretched in a long line in both directions. The sand was soft and silky to the skin as Marianne walked barefooted across it, her sandals swinging from her fingers. Logan carried a bag containing the swimsuits and towels. 'We'll sit here,' he said, and Marianne, filled with a surge of pleasure, obeyed his wishes as unthinkingly as she had in the past. By the time he had removed his jacket, she had dropped to the sand. 'Sit on this,' he said, but she shook her head. 'The-sand flies will bite you,' he commented, smiling, 'in awkward places.' She gazed up at him, hugging her knees. 'I don't care. I'll just have to scratch, won't I?' 'By heaven,' he said softly, sitting beside her, 'have eight plus years really rolled by since we last held hands, kissed, made love? You're still a child at heart, aren't you? The child I once knew --' 'But never loved,' she interrupted.

He frowned, gazing out to sea, then shrugged. It was his casualness that hurt. 'No doubt,' he went on, leaning back to rest on his elbows, 'after your experiences of men in the years between, you look on my petting of those days as amateur and bungling.' She felt the anger stirring. 'Experiences of men? How much more insulting are you going to get? Because if you've got nothing else to talk about --' She made as if to rise, but he put out a hand and gripped her arm. 'Behave, chattel.' 'What does that mean?' 'Slave.' 'I'm not your slave!' 'You are,' he taunted, grinning. 'I own you now. I'm your hus --' She was on to him, beating him wherever she could reach him. He tolerated it for a few seconds, then twisted, caught her wrists, jerked her round and thrust her flat on her back. He gathered her wrists easily into one hand, forced them up and above her head and said, 'Go on, hit me now.' 'I can't,' she wailed, 'you know I can't.' 'Right. When we've got it straight who's master here, I'll let you go.' He was half over her, gazing down at her, eyes narrowed, lips hard. 'You admit it?' he said. 'That I'm in charge?' She nodded. Her eyes were mesmerised by his and she was lost in him. Her look grew searching, softening, melting.

'Logan,' she murmured, her lips dry. She wanted his kisses, his arms about her, to be possessed by him entirely. Not even the past had she felt such a flood of longing engulf her, filling her with desire ... As if he could sense the road her thoughts were taking, he let her go. The action told her more plainly than words that she had not stirred his desires at all, and that the barrier he had erected between them, barring all intimacies, was even higher than before. If she ever dared to try to overcome them, she had the feeling that he would throw her bodily from him. He shifted to lie stretched out, arm over his eyes, ankles crossed. Marianne sat up, the blood still coursing through her body, her cheeks hot with something near to humiliation. He had as good as told her he did not want her as husbands normally wanted their wives. 'I'd like to swim,' she said, her voice flat. 'Who's stopping you swimming?' ,, 'I'd have to change.' His head lifted and he looked about them. 'Hardly anyone about. Go ahead.' She knew it sounded silly, but she had to say it. 'There's you.' He half-opened his eyes and smiled. 'Lucky me.' There was nothing for it—she would have to manage somehow without revealing to him too much of herself . She asked, 'Please will you give me a towel from the bag?' When he did not move, she dived across him and seized the bag, which was just beyond her easy reach. If the weight of her body took his breath away she did not care. Her action brought from him nothing

more than a deep, satisfied smile. He had told her yet again, without words, that he was not his bride's to command as many bridegrooms were at that stage of the honeymoon, Marianne draped the towel round her shoulders and lifted the striped top to pull it over her head. The towel fell away. She twisted round to find it and as she did, two hands came up and unhooked the lacy bra she wore. Seconds later, that too fell away and she hugged the towel tightly to her. Her breathing was fast, her eyes stormy as she turned her head to look at his curving lips. 'This gets more interesting by the minute,' he drawled. 'What's your next move in your efforts to hide your body from me?' She said, exasperated, looking at his recumbent figure, 'If you'd just turn your head, I could put on my swimming top.' 'Turn my head? When there's a mini strip show going on at my side? What do you take me for?' 'Logan,' she could not stop the quiver, 'you said no --' 'Am I touching you?' 'No, but—' 'Good grief, girl, from your actions, anyone—let alone me—could be forgiven for thinking you were inviolate, untouched, when I know very well that the opposite is true. So why the reluctance to let me, your husband, see your womanly beauty? I saw it last night.' Softly he added, 'Remember?' 'That was different. I was tired and --' 'Now you're full of vigour and animation and the joys of living. So I must keep my distance.' He sat up. 'I've never heard such nonsense!' When she did not move, he said, growing irritated, 'For heaven's sake,

girl, I've been married before. I know almost everything there is to know about a woman.' Her eyes clouded, a frown pleated her forehead. Did he have to remind her so forcibly of what she so wanted to forget? 'Now come on, relax,' he coaxed. 'Put that swimming . top on—unless,' with a slow smile, 'you'd rather I did it for you?' She grabbed the top and with the towel around her shoulders again, fitted the top round her. The back fastener, however, eluded her hasty fingers and she felt the hooks being taken from her and clipped together by hard, experienced hands. 'Thank you,' she said stiffly. 'Don't mention it,' he responded with a grin. Then he returned to his former position, eyes closed, hands linked behind his head. Somehow she wriggled free of her jeans and with the use of the towel, pulled on the swimming briefs. She pushed off her sandals and looked down at him. 'I'm going in. Aren't you coming?' He gave one brief shake of the head. 'Too lazy.' His answer disappointed her, but then he never had reacted in the way she had anticipated, even in the past. When she had shrieked at him and thrown his ring at his retreating back all those years ago, she had thought he would relent and turn back, taking her in his arms. Instead, only a short time later, he had taken another woman in his arms and, what was worse, married her. The pebbles among the sand on the way to the water were uncomfortable to her bare feet. Once she turned, hoping Logan might have changed his mind. Instead, he was sitting up, watching her through dark glasses which he must have carried in his pocket.

Her heart flicked at the sight of him sitting there, dark- haired, his shirt and pants dark also; so familiar yet, in his maturity, so strange, she had to tell herself repeatedly that she was now his wife. A tremulous smile curved her mouth, but he did not return it. Annoyed by his lack of response—she supposed that even now, eight years later, she still 'left him cold'— she waded into the water and leapt forward, catching her breath at the low temperature which hit her warm body. As she struck out from the shore, the laughter, the cries of happy people out for the day receded. Then she turned and floated, head back, hair spreading on the water, revelling in the cloudless sky, the lift and fall of the waves, the exhilarating exercise. 'Lovely day.' The voice was masculine, but higher pitched than Logan's. The head of hair nearby was red, the man in his middle twenties. 'It's great,' Marianne replied. 'Just right for swimming.' 'You don't get many days like this,' the young man said. Marianne continued to drift. 'Staying hereon holiday?' the young man persisted. 'No. Just for the day.' 'Oh.' He sounded disappointed. 'You don't mind me talking, do you?' he went on. Now was her chance to object, but instead she shook her head, turned on to her front and swam a little farther out. He swam with her. When she returned to floating, so did he. 'All alone?' he probed. Alter a moment's hesitation, she answered, 'Yes.' Well, it was true, because Logan wouldn't join her in the water. The young man swam a little closer. 'Care for a drink after your swim?'

Hands gripped her around her armpits and dragged her backwards through the water. Marianne shrieked, twisting and turning. 'Hey,' said the young man, turning on to his front, 'what's going on?' 'If my wife has any drinks after her swim, I'll do the buying, thanks,' Logan grated. 'Your wife?' the young man spluttered. 'She might have told me. She said she was alone.' He swam away towards the shore. 'Alone, were you?' Logan gritted. 'I'll show you how alone you are.' One hand gripped her throat, the other grasped a handful of her floating hair. He hauled himself forward, lifted his head and swooped towards her mouth, covering it with his. The kiss was possessive and relentless and she could do nothing to stop him while her hands were occupied in keeping herself afloat. When he lifted his head, his eyes were angry, his face running with water. 'Perhaps that will teach you, you promiscuous little baggage, that the next time you want to encourage a man, you shouldn't do it under your husband's very nose.' 'Please let me go,' she gasped. The hand on her throat lingered. 'Tell me one good reason why I should.' 'Because—because --' It was no use, she could not bring herself to say it. 'I'm in charge?' he prompted softly. 'Yes, yes,' she gasped.

'Good.' He lowered his head again, but this time his kiss was light. 'Remember that for as long as our marriage lasts.' He released her and she struck out slowly for the shore. Her heart had stopped singing. The day was no longer golden. So he foresaw an end to their marriage? How long did he give it? she wondered miserably. Until his daughter Jilly was old enough to do without a mother-figure in her life? Would he then dismiss her, send her packing and find someone else—a woman with beauty and poise and as similar as possible to his late wife—to take into his household—and his bed?

That evening, after a meal which once again Mrs Davenport had left for them, Logan told Marianne that he had bought a television set and a car for her own private use. Theywould, he -said, make her entirely independent of him. Marianne's heart sank. So he had really meant what he had said when he had proposed marriage—that they would live separate lives. It must have been her imagination,- she decided, which had made it appear that, during the past two days, they had in a tentative, cautious way drawn closer together. The coming separation seethed strangely to be the end of something—which was wrong, she argued, because it was in reality a beginning. They were seated opposite each other in the living-room. In the wide brick fireplace a log fire burned, throwing out its warmth like maternal arms opened wide. The woody smell teased the nostrils, while the reflected light of the flames gleaming golden on the wall brasses and the polished wooden surfaces pleased the eyes.

Marianne had changed into a dress. In removing her jeans and top she had somehow shed the curious exuberance which had carried her through the day. Her old self had been put away with the clothes. The assumed sophistication of the past eight years had pushed it out of sight like an older sister dismissing a more youthful member of a family. Logan's eyes had flickered over her more formal outfit, but she doubted whether her change of clothes had registered greatly with him. His manner, too, had altered. On the beach in the sunshine, and in the cafe where they had eaten their midday meal, the old Logan had made a brief appearance, maybe to match the temporary reversion of her own personality to its former gaiety. Her hope that his more indulgent attitude might persist was dashed on the journey home. He had relapsed more and more into silence and preoccupation. What he said now confirmed that the occasional playfulness he had shown towards her, and .the softening in his manner, had been purely and simply the consequences of the holiday atmosphere which had prevailed between them for the duration of their outing. 'I assume you realise,' he said, running his fingertips absently over the smoothness of the 'glass in his hand, 'that after this week which,' with a swift ironic glance at her, 'in the eyes of the world passes as our honeymoon, our lives will divide?' He waited for a response which was not forthcoming. 'I,' he went on, 'will occupy this cottage, while you and Jilly live in the other.' Still she did not reply. 'You do understand that, Marianne?' 'Yes, Logan,' she said at last, 'I understand.' There was a brittle silence. 'I also understand,' her voice was so sharp he looked at her, 'that in

separating us, you're divesting yourself of all moral responsibility for two-thirds of the family.' He frowned and said quietly, 'I object to that statement.' 'Object as much as you like,' she persisted, telling her- , self she was a fool but continuing nevertheless, 'but it's true. Of course you'll pay for my and Jilly's material needs. Your generosity money-wise isn't in doubt. After all, haven't you just told me I'm to have a car and a television set all to myself? But it will be for me, part of my well-paid job,' she said sarcastically, 'to provide die intangibles—the affection, warmth and encouragement which Jilly will need to carry her through to adolescence. He leant forward, knees apart, palms supporting the bulbous glass. In his eyes was a dangerous light. It did not come from the flames in the hearth, but from a glowing, if damped-down, fire within. 'You'll be. the one to provide my daughter with those things? Time, my dear Marianne, will prove how wrong you are. If you think I intend to opt out of my emotional responsibilities as a father, then think again.' Only as a husband, she thought bitterly. The words were so nearly spoken! 'Let me assure you,' Logan went on, 'that where Jilly is concerned, I shall do all that is required of me and more.' It was the way that, even in his thoughts, he excluded her from his life, the way he made her feel that his daughter was far more important to him than his wife, that brought her to her feet, saying thickly, 'If you'll excuse me, I'll...' She was at the door and felt no need to finish the sentence. There was no doubt that her action displeased him by the way he frowned, but she did not care. She had to get away from him.

There was still some daylight left and she put on a coat and wandered round the large garden which, unlike the cottages, had been joined into one. Shaped flowerbeds were massed with plants coming into bloom. Fruit trees, established and sturdy, would give shade from the warm summer sun. In the autumn, the fruit they would yield would be abundant. Sanded paths branched into two to join again round rose beds and fruit bushes. Stone steps led to a higher level where bushes grew. Nearby, placed so as to catch the sun for most of the day, was a cedarwood sun chalet. At the end of the garden was a vegetable patch where the previous owner had grown lettuces and carrots and other foods to feed a hungry, happy family. They must have been happy, Marianne decided, because the place had a feel about it of past laughter and shared love. It was a pity, she thought dully, that it would not be, so any longer, that it was her presence there that would prevent that aura of contentment from being maintained. But, she reflected, hadn't Logan chosen her to take charge of his child, gone out of his way to contact her, not any other-Woman? It was the colouring, he had said, the colouring that had to be right. For his daughter's sake again, of course, so that when she introduced her as 'my mother', it would seem to strangers' eyes to be true. As she turned towards the cottages, Marianne saw Logan staring out. Whether he looked at her or past her, she did not wait to discover. In the living-room of the cottage there was a telephone. She would use it to indulge the sudden urge which had come upon her to contact her own mother. It took no more than a few minutes to get through to the family house in Gloucestershire. Her mother was delighted to hear from her. How was she, how were they both? Was she glad now that she had married Logan? No more un- happiness, eh? No more sadness and tears?

How could she pretend to her mother? 'He—he doesn't love me, Mum,' she said, her voice thick, her eyes filling. 'I was right. I—I didn't tell you it wouldn't be a real marriage. Yes, I knew it would be that way when I accepted him, that he would only be marrying me to give a mother to his little girl. But it hurts, Mum, it hurts all the same. He—he just can't seem to forget his first wife.' Her mother was shocked, she could tell from her voice, but she said, soothingly, 'Don't cry,, love. It'll come all right. One of these days, he'll see you as you really are—a lovable, warm-hearted girl, everything a man could want in a wife.' 'He won't, Mum,' she sobbed. 'This is his second marriage, don't forget. Losing his first wife seems to have embittered him. He'll never get over it, he'll never accept me or any other woman in her place.' 'Oh, dear me,' said Mrs Conway. Thad no idea ... Marianne, love, you'll just have to make the best of it. It's the little girl you must think of now, isn't it? Perhaps she'll bring you together, who knows?' By the end of the conversation, Mrs Conway had calmed her daughter, offering her comfort until the tears were dry. When Marianne put down the phone, she found a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. A key turned in the door, startling her. Logan closed it and lounged back, arms folded. 'Who were you phoning?' She frowned, pretending not to understand. How could he have heard? 'Phoning?' she asked. 'Don't prevaricate. Not only are you standing next tothe telephone, I heard you talking. I know you've been speaking to someone.' 'All right, so I did phone someone. And you eavesdropped.'

'Wrong. I did not,' he answered calmly. 'But you've proved me right. You did use the phone.' 'So what if I did? If you're worried about the cost of the call, I'll pay the bill out of my own allowance. Anyway, even if I did make a call, it was my business.' 'Which means it was probably a man you were calling.' She lifted her shoulders, pretending nonchalance. 'It's my private life, isn't it? Remember the terms of our marriage? We were both to respect each other's separate lives.' His eyes were hard as they looked her over, 'Judging by the tears, it must have been someone who meant a hell of a lot to you.' 'You're right—a very great deal indeed.' As he slammed the door behind him, she sighed. No, she hadn't provoked him to jealousy, any more than she had that morning when the young man had swum with her. Logan was angry because her action had affirmed her continuing independency from him and also served to demon- state that his joking assertion that she was his 'chattel' had no basis. She wandered about the living-room, but although she was restless, there was nothing else to do but go to bed. The day had seemed a long one. The drive to the coast, which had started so pleasantly, had ended in a silent drive back. She could not understand why Logan had been so withdrawn. The shower refreshed her and she stood for a long time in her nightdress, gazing out of the window which, like Logan's room, overlooked the back garden.

The door from Logan's bedroom opened and the sight of him stripped to the waist had her heart pounding. He folded his arms and leant with his shoulder against the door frame. He was dressed as he must have dressed many times during his years in Africa. The sun that must have blazed down had been caught and held by his muscular body, tanning it brown even to the wrists and hands. 'What's wrong?' he jeered. 'Never seen a man half- clothed before? That's one I won't swallow from you. To you,' he looked down at his tight-fitting pants, the belted waistband resting on his hips, 'I must surely be overdressed.' He smiled, scanning her from head to bare feet. 'Which can hardly be said of you.' If only she had thought that Logan might come through that door! Then she would have pulled on a wrap. As it was, her see-through nightgown hid nothing from his interested gaze. She could not remember why she had bought the gown. She had known from the start that theirs was to be a sham marriage. Had a frail hope taken root, like a fragile flower in a desert, that Logan might change his mind? From his sardonic gaze, she knew he would not. 'What do you want?' she challenged. 'Merely to tell you that your television set will be delivered in the morning and the car later in the day.' Before she could thank him, he asked, 'Do you want Mrs Davenport to clean for you as well as for me?' 'No, thanks, I'll do it. It will give me something to do besides looking after Jilly.' He lifted his shoulders as though the matter was of little concern to him. 'I'd intended to ask you earlier but wasn't able to, owing to your

somewhat precipitate departure from my cottage. You went out so fast anyone would have thought I'd pulled a gun on you.' 'I just got fed up with—our pointless conversation,' she improvised. His eyes narrowed. 'Accept my apologies for boring you. No doubt in the past you've been conditioned to action from men, not intelligent conversation.' 'I don't know how you think I've been living these past few years,' she retorted. 'I admit I've experienced life --' 'And love,' he broke in, 'the love of other men.' 'You're just hoping you'll trick me into telling you something you could use against me in the future! If I told you there had been no 'other men' you wouldn't believe me, would you?' 'I'd have a hard time trying to. I'm basing my assumptions about you largely on my experience of you last night. You made no move to repel me, you displayed no first-time signs of embarrassment or recoil prompted by outraged virtue.' He covered the distance between them and she wished the windowsill was not behind her, barring retreat. 'On the contrary,' he persisted, 'you showed every sign of wanting more.' He thrust .his hands into his trouser pockets and the muscles in his arms stood out, his powerful shoulders pushed forward. 'Tell me, is it hard living without love?' he taunted. 'Was that why you encouraged that man as you swam this morning? Is that why you phoned one of your male acquaintances this evening?' .'That was my mother,' she blurted out, 'not a man,' but her words merely produced a cynical, unbelieving smile. 'You're hardly a convincing liar, my sweet,' he said, his voice hard.

If only his attitude would soften! More than anything she wanted to be taken in his arms and experience his love —but not with brutality mixed with it. Against her will her eyes grew pleading. 'Even if I had lived as you imagine—and I repeat, your assumptions about me are wrong—haven't you got it in you to be a—a bit kinder? I just can't understand --' Her words seemed to have deepened his anger, not lessened it. His hands reached out and took possession of her shoulders, moving slowly to her throat, then sliding upwards to her cheeks. 'It seems I'm being invited to have an affair with my wife, no holds barred, and afterwards, when it's over, no regrets.' He moved until their bodies touched then, with his palms pressing against the sides of her head, he turned it so that his mouth could settle on hers, parting her lips and possessing them with a harshness which weakened her legs and sapped her energy. When at last he eased her head away, the eyes that scanned her features were unforgiving and ruthless. 'Afraid?' He moved, releasing her at last. 'What of? Don't worry, I won't follow up my advantage and carry you into my bed.' His cynicism was more than she could bear. She covered her cheeks where his hands had pressed and cried, 'There are some ways you haven't changed, Logan Tate. You're as conceited and selfish and unfeeling as you ever were. You're rotten to the core!' Her criticism had stung him so deeply the resulting anger which darkened his face filled her with fear. His breathing became as ragged as hers and he gripped her arms so roughly a cry was wrenched from her. But he checked himself and pushed her from him as if he had had enough.

'Go on,' he grated, 'try throwing my rings at me as you did once before, and see what happens this time!' Goaded beyond endurance, her hands met and she felt for her marriage finger, pulling at the rings. Then in her mind she heard her mother's voice; It's the little girl you must think of now. The tension drained away and with it, the anger. She hugged herself to stop the shaking. 'All right, Logan Tate, you win. But not for your sake, or for mine. Only for Jilly's.' For a long time he considered her coldly. Then he turned, went to the door and said, without expression, 'Thank you for coming to that decision.' The door clicked sharply behind him.

CHAPTER FIVE WHEN Marianne awoke next morning, there was no lightness in her heart. She dressed in an old shirt and jeans. However she dressed, it did not seem to make any difference to Logan's attitude towards her. She might, in the eyes of the world, bear his name and be his lover and devoted companion, but in reality—it was a fact of which she must constantly remind herself—she was his wife only because he had a daughter who needed a mother-like companion and guide to see her through to her maturer years. Marianne breakfasted on toast and coffee. Then she wondered what she was supposed to do. Would Logan want to go out for the day again? Did he want her to call on him or wait in her cottage until she received his summons? It was this last thought that stirred her to rebellion. As she opened her front door, she noticed a bicycle propped against Logan's cottage. It must, she decided, belong to Mrs Davenport, which meant that going to Logan's cottage would serve two purposes. First, she would be able to meet his domestic help. Second, she would discover how he intended them to spend the day. Logan's front door was on the catch. Marianne entered and found Mrs Davenport in action, dusting, polishing, tidying and running from job to job. She was short, grey- haired and unbelievably thin. Where, Marianne thought, smiling to herself, the woman got her energy from she couldn't guess. 'Mrs Davenport?' Marianne asked. The woman nodded, continuing with her work as if she had only another five minutes in which to clean the place from top to bottom. '

'Morning, Mrs Tate. It is you, isn't it? Seen a picture of you among Mr Tate's papers when I was dusting.' Marianne frowned. 'A picture—of me?' Mrs Davenport nodded. 'Must have been taken when you were a lot younger.' She allowed her eyes to linger momentarily on Marianne's clothes. 'Though you don't look a lot different now.' Surely, Marianne thought, bewildered, Logan hadn't kept an old photograph of the girl he had rejected so many years ago! Then she remembered. 'Among his papers,' Mrs Davenport had said. No doubt Logan had never got round to going through them and throwing out the rubbish. 'Thank you for leaving all that lovely food,' Marianne said. 'You're a wonderful cook.' 'Think nothing of it,' said Mrs Davenport, rushing out of the room to the kitchen. 'Do you want me to clean for you?' she called over her shoulder. --' Marianne followed. 'Thanks for offering,' she said, 'but. I've got so little to do at present, I think I'll do my own for the moment.' 'That's all right,! Mrs Davenport said, rushing past with a damp cloth and rubbing at an almost invisible mark on a glass-topped table. 'Where's my—Dr Tate, Mrs Davenport?' Marianne asked, hoping the woman would not consider it strange that she didn't know where her own husband was. 'Don't you know, dear? He's gone off to the hospital. Had an urgent call from someone he's working with. A woman, k was—I answered the phone. He said he'd be back for lunch. I'll get a little something ready if you like,' Mrs Davenport offered.

'Would you? Yes, please,' said Marianne, going to the door. 'I'll stop interrupting you.' 'Oh, nothing interrupts me, Mrs Tate,' said Mrs Davenport with a smile, and Marianne could well believe her. In her own cottage, Marianne stared out of the front window. So Logan had gone off to his work without letting her know. And on his honeymoon! A woman, Mrs Davenport had said. Marianne's heart sank, then she told herself not to be a fool. Of course there would be women as well as men in the research team. A blue van drew up outside with the name of a television rental firm on the side. A man got out, went to the back of the van and lifted out a television set. Marianne hurried to let him in. Yes, said the man, he knew there was already an aerial socket installed in the cottage and an aerial on the thatched roof. The gentleman had told him. All he had to do was install the set and adjust it. Fifteen minutes later, the man wished her 'good morning' and drove away. Like a child, Marianne turned on the set and tried out the different channels. As she switched off there was a knock on the door. The second caller of the morning had arrived. Outside, in the semi-circular drive, stood a gleaming blue Mini. It was brand new. Would she please sign the delivery note? the man asked. It had all been paid for, he assured her. It was taxed and insured—by her husband, he assumed. Dr Tate, the man's name was. Marianne nodded, in a daze. The man invited her to sit in the car while he explained the controls. She had driven one before, she told him, but it had been an older model. He told her it contained an almost full tank of petrol. These little cars, he said, pushing his pen into, his pocket, were easy on the petrol.

He walked down the drive to the road and got into another car in which a man was waiting to give him a lift back to the garage. Once, twice, three times Marianne circled the blue Mini. Mine, she thought, brand new. Logan had bought it for her—she corrected herself, for Jilly's benefit, not for hers. The phone ringing had her running into the cottage. Was it Logan, explaining his sudden absence? 'Marianne? Mina here, Mina Belling.' Marianne swallowed her disappointment. 'Sorry to interrupt your idyllic state, but I have a little girl here who couldn't wait another moment to speak to her new mummy. Ask Logan if he minds having a word with his daughter first, will you, Marianne, then I'll pass her over to you.' 'Logan's not here, Mina. He's—er—he's been called to the hospital unexpectedly. Didn't you know?' 'Hospital?' Mina-sounded puzzled. 'Ralph said nothing about needing Logan today, especially when he's on his honeymoon. Officially—as I expect you know—Logan's on vacation. Oh well, that's the way of it with research. Something often crops up when you're least expecting it.' She brightened. 'They won't keep him long, dear. I expect he cursed when the call came, didn't he? You probably had to push him out of bed!' What a romantic idea Mina had of her relationship with her new husband! 'In that case,' Mina went on, 'you'd better have a word with your new daughter. Incidentally, she's been an angel, compared with my brood!' 'It was very good of you to take on another one, Mina,' Marianne said, with complete honesty.

'Nonsense, dear, I didn't even notice! It's given you and Logan a few days to yourselves. Not that you needed to get to know each other—in the friendly sense, that is. I understand your families knew each other years ago?' 'Practically grew up together,' Marianne said, managing a laugh. There was a whispering pause, and a voice said, 'Mummy? Is that you?' 'Darling,' said Marianne, unable to restrain the tears at the name and the eager young voice, 'how are you getting on?' 'All right. I want to come home, Mummy.' 'But, Jilly, I—-' How could she put it? 'Your—your daddy isn't here. I'd—well, I'd have to ask him, wouldn't I?" 'But he'd say yes, I know he would!' There was a whisper and Mina's voice said, 'Sorry about that, Marianne. I didn't intend it to happen.' 'Look, Mina,' Marianne thought quickly, 'I've just had a television set delivered, and a new car. How about bringing Jilly over to have a look at them? It might satisfy her to let her see we're still here, and then she'll go back with you till the end of the week.' 'If that's what you want, dear,' Mina said, good-naturedly. 'It might do the trick. Give me about fifteen minutes.' She rang off. Marianne ran upstairs and put on a touch of make-up, changed her shirt for an attractive low-cut top and hoped she looked like a radiant bride on her honeymoon. She made a face at herself in the mirror. She had never felt less 'radiant' in her life!

Mina was less than the promised fifteen minutes. There was a hammering on the door which echoed the pounding of Marianne's heart. Had shy started something she wouldn't be able to stop? 'Mummy!' The word was squealed by a fair-haired bundle who threw herself through the open door into Marianne's arms. She crouched down and a head burrowed into her neck. 'I did so want to see you!' Last night Marianne remembered how she had longed to make contact with her own mother. Across the room over-'there she had stood and cried out her troubles to sympathetic ears. Yes, she knew how Jilly was feeling ... Marianne looked up and saw Mina's smile. It held sympathy but also a touch of detachment. Mina was a mother five times over. If she gave out emotionally to each one of her children, as Marianne was now doing with Jilly, she would be worn out by the end of each day. At last Jilly released her. 'I've seen the car,' she said. 'Auntie Mina said it wouldn't be any use to her!' 'Just imagine,' said Mina, 'trying to get five kids in a Mini, all fighting to get in the front seat, then all fighting to get in the back seat!' They laughed at the idea, then Marianne held Jilly's hand. 'Come and see the television. It's just for us, for you and me.' A small frown, then, "What about Daddy?' 'Oh,' now Marianne frowned, 'he's got his own, hasn't he?' 'Why can't we share his?' Marianne looked at Mina, but she was no help. Her marriage to Ralph, despite the five offspring—or, Marianne thought with a flash of envy, perhaps because of them—was, very close. Mina did not know about,

nor would she understand, the arrangement Logan had come to with Marianne. 'You --' Marianne corrected herself quickly, 'we will sometimes, poppet. But when he wants to see a different programme, we can use our own set.' 'Take me for a drive in your new car, Mummy!' 'Why not?' said Mina. 'How about you going for a ride in it, then when your daddy comes home and you've said a quick "hallo", Marianne can bring you back to me?' Jilly frowned, but Marianne agreed quickly. There must be some carrot to get Logan's daughter away from him for another few days. --1 Mina returned home and Marianne took Jilly for a ride round the village. 'Not too far,' she said, 'because I don't know my way around the place yet. We don't want to get lost, do we?' Logan did not return for lunch. There was no word from him and as the hours passed, Marianne's distress at his neglect of her increased. It was vital, however, to hide her feelings from Jilly, who insisted on staying until he came home. Marianne had not had the heart to take her back to Mina's against her will. Since Mrs Davenport had left a cold lunch for two, Marianne and Jilly shared it. Marianne assumed that Logan would have had his meal at his place of work. Jilly spent the afternoon following Marianne around. It was almost time for the evening meal when Marianne heard Logan's car crunch over the drive and up to the cottages. As if she had committed some crime, her heart began to pound. Jilly heard the car, too. She opened the door and raced outside. 'Daddy, Daddy!' she shouted. As he stepped from the car, casting a bewildered

look at Marianne, he went down on his haunches and took his daughter into his arms. 'Oh, Daddy, Daddy!' she said again, hiding her face in his jacket. He kissed the top of her head, frowned up at .his wife and said to his daughter, 'What goes, poppet?' 'Mummy said I could come home,' she answered. 'Only --' Marianne swallowed, aware of Logan's controlled irritation, 'only to see the car and television. Then she was going back to Mina's, but she waited on just to see you.' 'Oh, is that it?' said Logan, his brow clearing. 'I wanted to see my new mummy,' the muffled voice told him against his shoulder. Then she whispered in his ear, 'To make sure she hadn't gone away like my real mummy did.' Marianne turned and went into the cottage. This was a private time between father and child—a reminder of his late wife—and she could not spoil it with her presence. She busied herself in the kitchen, preparing for the evening meal. Since it was so near the time when they usually had it, she decided that Jilly might as well stay. Then her father could return her to Mina's for the rest of the week. It was not until the meal was almost cooked jhat it occurred to her to wonder whether or not Logan wanted to share his meal with them. The door into the living-room opened and closed. 'Jilly?' she called. But it was not Jilly. It was Logan, frowning and irritable. He stood in the doorway, almost filling it. 'What made you think fit to tell Jilly she

could stay home now? Were you in such a hurry to end our honeymoon?' His attitude so infuriated her she turned on him, throwing the oven gloves on to the kitchen table. 'Honeymoon?' she snapped. 'Is that what you call it? You could have fooled me!' He moved towards her, eyes narrowed, hands on hips, and stood a few paces away. In his suit, with his tie just a little awry and his dark hair falling over his forehead, he looked unbearably attractive. Marianne wanted to copy Jilly and run into his arms. 'It's not coming up to your expectations, is that it?' he sneered. 'Maybe you want the full works? Maybe it's that you're missing and it's making you sour?' 'I mean—I don't mean——' She stopped, furious at the way he was confusing her. Attack, they said, was often the best form of defence. 'You went off. this morning without a word, leaving Mrs Davenport, to let me know where you'd gone. Is it usual to work on one's honeymoon? You tell me.' She tried to sneer, too, but failed badly. 'You should know. This is your second. It's only my first.' 'It was an emergency at the lab,' he replied levelly otherwise I would have refused to go in. I'm the only bio- engineer on the team. They had to have my advice on an urgent matter. How could I refuse?' 'All right,' she conceded, but with triumph, 'so you couldn't say "no". When Jilly asked me if she could come over, I couldn't refuse, either. And as I told you, she's going back to Mina's tonight.' He pushed aside his jacket and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. The smile on his face Was cynical. 'You think you've got all the answers, don't you? You think you've got yourself out of a tight corner by using my action to justify yours. Well,' with a swift movement his arms were round her and she was pinned against him, 'you've , miscalculated. A week to ourselves, I said, and I meant it.'

She urged her body away from his, but it was useless. Hip arms were too strong, his hold too firm. Her flushed face lifted to his. 'Are you going to work tomorrow?' 'If I'm needed I shall have to.' 'All right,' her eyes flashed, 'if you can start your work on your honeymoon, I can start my work on mine.' He pulled her against him again. 'And what precisely is your work, my lady?' 'Looking after your daughter. That's what you're paying me for, isn't it?' His eyes glittered. 'I'll pay you for something else, if you're not careful. And I'm sure, with your knowledge of the ways of men, you know what that means.' She froze. 'Let me go!' 'Kiss me first.' She struggled, twisting and turning, but he held her easily. 'Fight me as much as you like, but I'm not letting you go until you do.' 'I c-can't reach,' she whispered. His head lowered, his fine-shaped mouth waiting. She reached up with her lips, but he shook his head. 'Put your arms around my neck.' After a moment's fight with herself, she concurred. Her arms lifted, crossed behind his neck and her mouth found his, settling lightly, prepared to make a quick getaway. But he was having none of it. His hand found the back of her head and he pressed her mouth against his so hard her lips went numb.

'Daddy? Mummy?' A quavering voice made them pull apart. 'What are you doing?' Logan laughed, his eyes lighting up, and the years fell away. He was the Logan the girl called Marianne Conway used to know, whose ring she had worn with such pride and whom she had loved with all her heart. 'We're not fighting, poppet, that's for sure.' Jilly relaxed visibly. Marianne frowned. Why had she been frightened? Had she thought they were quarrelling? How long had she been in the cottage? Jilly answered Marianne's unasked question. 'I've just come in. I've been watching Daddy's television.' 'Where do you want to eat, Logan?' Marianne turned a smile on him and his smile bounced back at her. Only she could discern the mockery deep within it. Let's both put on a show of happiness, it said, for Jilly's sake. 'In my dining-room, darling,' he replied, smiling broadly at her reaction of surprise, followed by irritation at the false use of the endearment. He looked round the kitchen. 'I can see we'll have to have another door knocked through, otherwise the food will get cold on its way from one cottage to the other.' Jilly skipped away, into her father's cottage. 'You can't mean that,' Marianne challenged him. 'The agreement we made was to live separate lives. Jilly and I are to live in here, you in there,' indicating his cottage. He smiled enigmatically. 'I don't like cold food. So come on, woman, let's carry it in.'

The meal was the happiest Marianne had known for years. Logan's good humour persisted—it could not be otherwise, Marianne supposed, with his daughter sitting next to him. Jilly's chatter and laughter filled the room. After clearing away the dishes, with Jilly's help, they watched television. Then Logan looked at his watch. 'Time to go back to Mina's, poppet,' he said firmly. Jilly stood up and ran to the door. 'I want to get some things from my bedroom, Daddy.' 'The door's on the catch, darling,' Marianne said. 'Don't be long, Jilly,' Logan told her. 'I'll phone Auntie Mina and let her know I'm bringing you back.' Logan made the call, then switched the television on again, inviting Marianne to sit next to him. She hesitated, having considered returning to her own cottage, but in the end complied, knowing that in a few moments Logan would be going to Mina's with Jilly. They became engrossed in the film and it was not until about fifteen minutes later that Marianne realised Jilly had not returned. 'Go through my bedroom,' Logan said, 'and see how much she's taking back with her. She's only there for a few more days;' Marianne went through Logan's room calling, 'Jilly, your daddy's waiting. How ever many things are you taking with you, pet?' There was no reply. Concerned now, Marianne hurried into Jilly's room. The little girl had undressed and got into bed. Her clothes lay, neatly folded, on a chair. '

'I've washed and cleaned my teeth,' the slight, still form whispered. 'I'm ready to go to sleep now.' 'Jilly!' was all Marianne could manage to say. 'I don't want to go back to Auntie Mina's, Mummy, so,' the small voice quavered slightly, 'I'm going to stay here.' Marianne put a hand to her head. 'I'll—I'll get Daddy, darling,' she said at last, and sped back to Logan. She could only guess at his reaction and she hoped that somehow she could persuade him to be reasonable. 'Logan, Jilly's gone to bed.' He stood. 'She's what?' Marianne repeated the statement. 'We'll see about that!' He was almost up the stairs when Marianne called out, 'Logan, be gentle. Don't—don't make her cry.' He answered furiously, 'What sort of a father do you think I am?' Marianne followed more slowly. As she emerged from her bedroom on to the landing, she heard Jilly ask plaintively, 'Why do you want me to go back? Please, Daddy, let me stay. It's so lovely to have a mummy as well as a daddy. If I go back to Auntie Mina's, Mummy might—go away.' The bedroom door stood half open and Marianne saw two small arms wind winningly round Logan's neck. She looked with longing on that very private scene, then closed her eyes. There was no place for her in that room. She could not interrupt those few precious moments between father and daughter. On tiptoe she crept away, hack to Logan's living- room as though she had never left it.

Logan entered by the front door, went across to the television set and switched it off. Marianne looked at him reproachfully. 'I was watching that.' Which was partially true—she had been, but only with her eyes. Her mind had been in the small girl's bedroom, seeing the love that flowed back and forth between father and daughter. 'Too bad,' was the unsympathetic reply. He came across to stand in front of her. His mood, she saw with dread, was belligerent. 'You knew this would happen didn't you, when you said Jilly could come to see the car?' Marianne stood, and immediately wished she had remained seated. His face, so much nearer now, showed her how angry he was. 'I did not know,' she answered. 'It was just one of those things. Surely you understand what I mean? Something happens, then something else follows on, leading to circumstances over which one has no control.' As he began to speak, she said, 'Logan, if you're going to quarrel with me - again, I'm sorry, but I just can't take it.' He gazed at her for a few moments, reached out, lifted her chin and scanned her face. 'You look pale. Marriage doesn't seem to suit-you. Maybe I should have left you free to flit from man to man as you were doing when I found you again.' She wrenched her chin away and stood out of reach. 'I'm going back to my own cottage.' 'What if I tell you to stay? What if I say I want to talk to you?'She frowned. Was there a deeper meaning, or was her heart being foolishly optimistic? 'What about?' 'About Jilly, about my work, the things a husband usually discusses with an intelligent wife.'

Was he mocking her, or was he offering an olive branch? If only she knew what was really in his mind! 'I'm --' She hesitated, feeling her resistance weakening. Then her determination to withstand his persuasion returned. 'It's my job to look after Jilly's needs, not-play the devoted little wife and hold your hand.' He smiled, closing the gap between them. 'Hold my hand. Yes, it's a long, long time since we did that, isn't it?' He moved to her side and his left hand found her right one. He forced her fingers apart, entwining them with his own. 'Stay with me, chick. I feel like a woman's company.' He lifted their hands and studied them locked together. A woman, she thought with bitterness. It was irrelevant whether or not that woman was his wife. Slowly he impelled her round until she faced him. With their hands still entwined, he put his free hand round her waist, pulling her against him so that she had to bend her head back to look into his face. What she saw there set her heart beating faster. His lids had lowered, half-hiding his eyes as they slid over her. 'No doubt about it,' he said softly, his mouth hovering over hers, 'celibacy doesn't suit me. It's becoming an intolerable strain ...' His lips lowered, opening hers with his and possessing her mouth. She had no will to fight him. The desire to succumb was overwhelming, but she did not, could not allow herself to surrender to it. He had married her without love, assuming that she also had no love for him. But his lovemaking was proving irresistible, destroying all her defences. His mouth lifted but came back at once, touching her, now light, now bruising, growing even more persuasive and increasingly possessive ...

The phone rang, like an alarm clock tearing apart an exquisite dream. Marianne's instinct was to answer it at once. Her past training as a secretary came into play, overriding all other reactions. She stirred restlessly in Logan's embrace. 'I must see who it is,' she whispered, and Logan released her reluctantly. Marianne sighed. The process of readjustment from ecstasy to reality was painful. 'It's probably Mina wondering why you haven't taken Jilly back,' she said, lifting the receiver. 'No. I phoned her from the other cottage.' The voice in Marianne's ear said, 'Logan darling, we've come up against the most awful snag. You'll have to come in tomorrow, honey, to help us sort it out.' Logan must have heard the husky, seductive voice because he took the phone from Marianne's hand and motioned her away. 'Coral, you spoke to my wife.' 'Oh, I'm so sorry, Logan. I hope I haven't made trouble for you ...' Logan covered the mouthpiece and said, 'If you want to go back to your own cottage, as far as I'm concerned, you're free to do so.' So he was politely but firmly dismissing her so that he could speak in private to his girl-friend—what else could she be, speaking to him in such an intimate way? Marianne swung from him, jerked open the front door and closed it behind her. Now he had the 'woman's company' he had craved, even if it was only a voice. He could imagine the rest. In her own cottage, Marianne wandered restlessly from room to room. There was a distant call of 'Mummy!' It took Marianne a few seconds to react, then she called out that she was coming and climbed the stairs.

Jilly lay with the blankets up to her chin. Her fair hair was strewn over the pillow, her blue eyes open wide. If Logan's first wife had been as beautiful, if she lived on and on in the looks of her little daughter, how could he ever forget her? There was a touch of fear in the child's eyes as she asked, 'Was Daddy angry with me for staying?' 'A little bit, darling.' Marianne felt she must be truthful. She smoothed the silver-fair hair from the soft brow. 'But he soon forgave you.'' 'I heard the telephone ring. Was it Auntie Mina?' 'No, another lady. Someone called Coral.' 'Oh,' Jilly sat up, 'Coral Morland. She came back with us from Africa.' Marianne sat on the bed. 'You know her, then?' Jilly nodded solemnly. 'She's very clever, like Daddy. She worked with him there.' 'And is she working with him here?' 'I think so. She's beautiful. She has lovely long black hair. I wish I had black hair.' Marianne laughed, knowing that one day the child would recognise her own beauty and have no wish to exchange it. 'I think Coral likes Daddy,' Jilly went on. 'I heard her say once that she loved him.' 'Darling,' Marianne was shocked and tried, to stop her, 'even if you did hear, they're secrets.' Jilly shook her head. 'Coral knew I was just outside playing with my doll, so it couldn't be a secret.'

'And,' Marianne said, annoyed with herself for prying but determined to ask the question, 'what did your daddy say?' 'I'm not sure.' She frowned, hugging her knees under the bedclothes. 'I think he said something like she could like him -if she wanted, but it was no good loving him because he'd had enough of that. He could never love any other woman.' She looked up, puzzled. 'That's what he said.' Then, as a thought came to her, she smiled. 'He said he wouldn't ever get married again. He was wrong, wasn't he? He married you. I went to your wedding!' Marianne smiled. 'Come along now, settle down.' Jilly nodded. 'I'll be asleep in two minutes.' She blew Marianne a kiss. 'It's so lovely having a mummy.' She sighed and closed her eyes. Marianne crept out.

For the rest of the evening, Marianne could think only of what Jilly had told her. So Coral Morland was not just Logan's colleague, she loved him so much she had defied convention and told .him of that love. The fact that he had callously dismissed it had obviously not deterred her. It was also plain, judging by her tone of voice on the phone this evening, and the endearment she had used, that she had every intention of pursuing Logan despite the fact that he was married, until she had caught him and inveigled him into loving her in return. No doubt Logan had told Coral the truth about his marriage. What puzzled Marianne, as she looked forlornly in the dressing-table mirror, was why he had not asked Coral to marry him instead of herself. After all, the woman was his colleague, shared his work and his interests and was, so Jilly had said, beautiful, with long black hair ...

That was it—the colouring was not right! She herself could be presented to a stranger as Jilly's real mother, knowing that it would probably be accepted unquestioningly. Coral, with black hair and probably the colouring to go with it, would not under any circumstances be able to masquerade as a true maternal parent. The mirror was ruthless in reflecting back her own fair- skinned image. Why wasn't she as beautiful as Coral Morland? Why wasn't she as intelligent and gifted and cultured' as Logan's black-haired female colleague? Then he would have loved her and wanted her, instead of insulting her by offering her a loveless marriage. As she prepared for bed, Marianne's anger increased. He had, she fumed silently, married her while he was almost certainly in the middle of a love affair, an affair interrupted only temporarily by their so-called honeymoon. Hadn't hetold her bluntly how irritated he was at having his work broken into by these few days alone with her? And worse, had he not said this evening, just before Coral phoned, that celibacy did not suit him? The blue filmy nightgown slipped over her head and cascaded down to her ankles. As she ran a comb through her hair, she noticed abstractedly that her hand shook a little. Why shouldn't he love her—or at least feel attracted enough to desire her? Why did he feel the need to go to another woman for the fulfilment which she, as his wife, would so willingly give? She remembered clearly how he had warned her, the first time he had brought her here to see his new home, that even after she married him they would both feel free to live their own lives, and that he might one day be unfaithful to her. Now she knew of Coral's existence, the way was clear for him to resume his affair with her. As he had said at the time, it would make no difference to her position—she, Marianne, would remain his wife. -

Resentment surged through her, making her pulses pound and her cheeks flame. Already she was feeling like a neglected, downtrodden wife, coming second to the woman who really mattered in her husband's life—his mistress. The communicating door opened. There had been no knock to warn of his entry. Already Logan took it for granted that he had right of access to her room at all times, whereas she, diffident as she was, had. assumed no such right where he was concerned. His shoulder rested against the door frame. His shirt was unbuttoned and freed from the waistband of his jeans. His hair was untidy as though he had showered and only half-dried it. A lock of hair fell forward. This he pushed back impatiently. Marianne stared at' him, her eyes stripped of welcome. He looked tired, but she firmly refused to allow the fact to arouse her compassion. 'What do you want?' she demanded. 'Just to let you know I'm needed at the lab tomorrow, which means I won't be around for most of the day.' Sorry about it, but --' 'Yes,' she snapped, her eyes wide with anger, 'you are sorry, aren't you?' Slowly his arms folded, his long legs crossed as he stayed propped against the doorway. 'Surely I don't detect sarcasm in my brand-new little wife?' Maddened by his cynicism, she responded acidly, 'Isn't "needed at the lab" a scientist's version of the business man's "late at the office" routine? Why,' she accused, her voice rising, 'aren't you honest? Why don't you tell me the truth—that it's not the lab that needs you, it's Coral Mor- land, your woman? I object,' she stormed, 'to being

cuckolded—or whatever the feminine equivalent of that expression is—so early in my marriage. I refuse, during my honeymoon, to be supplanted by a black-haired, beautiful creature who, Jilly informs me, has brazenly told you she loves you. She works with you by day, doesn't she, and I have no doubt at all takes every opportunity of sleeping with you at night!' He was across the room in a few strides and clapping a hand over her mouth. She twisted and writhed and even tried to bite his palm. With his free hand he gripped her arm and dragged her towards his bedroom. 'If we're going to fight like cat and dog,' he grated, 'we'll do it where my daughter won't be disturbed,' he slammed the communicating door, 'here in my bedroom.' He released her with an action of throwing her from him, then folded his arms again and, with his legs slightly apart, surveyed her. 'Carry on with your tirade, my luscious little peach. I'm enjoying myself just looking at you, It's not often I get the chance to watch a beautiful woman with scarcely anything to cover her nakedness raging at me like . a tigress.' She thought, conscious of her pounding heart and burning cheeks, I'll take that smile from his..face, those jeering words from his lips. She tugged at her rings, but they wouldn't move. 'I want to end the marriage. I want to end it before it's begun, before Jilly gets to rely on me too much. I want a divorce.' His only response was to allow his eyebrows to rise. Otherwise he-appeared unmoved. 'You said earlier this evening,' she raged, 'that marriage doesn't suit me. Maybe you're right. I was trapped into it, anyway. You played on

my sympathies by producing Jilly at the vital moment. Well, it's-over now, you've lost. This time I'm. going to be the one who's walking out—on you!' He stayed where he was, a lean, dark-eyed figure, formidable in his height and disciplined strength, but remaining unstirred to action by her rebellion. 'So you want a divorce?' he said at length. 'On what grounds?' 'It's quite simple. An annulment.' 'Well, well,' he responded, 'she's playing on the non-consummation of our marriage, is she? How do you think you can do that? Especially taking into account your past lovers; especially taking into account my denial of your allegation of non-consummation. Just try it.' 'All right,' she shrieked, goaded beyond control, 'you've been asking for this!' Once again she tugged at her rings and this time they moved. With all her strength she flung the rings at him. They hit his face just below an eye and he flinched involuntarily. The light that leapt, tiger-like into his eyes, filled her with fear. 'I told you before,' he snarled, 'that if you threw my rings back at me a second time in your life, you'd have to take the consequences. You've done it now, my little ..termagant. There's one way, and one way only, you can make amends for that adolescent behaviour.' He walked slowly towards her, hands spread on hips, head menacingly forward. 'An annulment, is it? Well, you ferocious little temptress,' his eyes raked her, seeing the enticement beneath the transparency of her gown, 'that's just too bad. Didn't I say earlier this evening that celibacy didn't suit me?'

She trembled now at what she had done, at the rising fury in his eyes. 'What—what about our agreement?' she faltered. 'You can't break that. You promised --' 'To hell with our agreement. You've said and done enough to force me to break any agreement. You're behaving like a child, but by God, I'm going to treat you like a woman.' He had reached her. They were face to face. 'You should know by now what happens when you goad a man to his limits. I said once before that I wanted us to be married before I let my feelings run riot. Well, my pet, we're married now, aren't we?' It was eight years back and Logan Tate was angry again. But this was no indulgent twenty-five-year-old half tolerating the adolescent tantrum of a teenager. This was a man she had never known, a man consumed by a burning rage, a determination to get even—and something else she could not pinpoint, a ruthless pursuit of revenge. Even in the few seconds of fear which petrified her before he swooped, she sensed it must have been triggered off by something from his past. He swept her into his arms and strode towards the bed, throwing her down. He tore off his shirt and hurled it across the room. His hands loosened the belt around his waist, then, seconds later, he dropped on to the bed beside her, grasping her shivering body and pulling her to face him. The fury in his eyes increased the shaking of her limbs, draining her face of colour and moistening her forehead. For one pulsing moment he looked at her—yet did he see her? Was it, instead, his late wife he visualised lying beside him? 'Logan,' she whispered hoarsely, 'oh God, Logan, please, please understand. I'm—not what you think. Logan,' she reached out and held his bare shoulders, 'listen to me, please!' But her touch seemed to bring him to life, to give greater impetus to his determination to satisfy his desires and to wreak vengeance for her

actions. He dragged her across the bed until she was crushed beneath him, caught at her face with both his hands and forced back her head. Then his lips fastened on hers and the kiss he took from her was almost her undoing. But she had to free her mouth, talk to him, coax him into listening, hearing her side of the story ... He released her mouth to let his lips wander all over her and she struggled through the mists of desire he was arousing to say,, 'Logan, Logan, it's the first time for me. Logan! ...' as he moved .to crush her with his body. 'The first time, Logan,' she whispered as his face poised above hers, seconds before the swoop of his lips, 'the first time,' she repeated hopelessly, knowing he was almost beyond reach, beyond reason. As his body went slack, she knew she had succeeded. He had heard and she had reached him. He gazed down at her, seeing at last her pale cheeks, the dampness of her forehead, the fear in her eyes. His hand lifted and a strange gentleness crept into his look as he stroked back her hair. 'All right,' he said softly, 'so now I know. I'm the first. But you won't stop me now, chick. We've come this far. There's no going back.' Hard, fingers caught at her chin, forcing back her head again—but there was no brutality in his action this time. Her arms crept round his neck and her fingers entwined with his hair, curling it stiffly now and then at the ecstasy he was arousing in her. His lips, probing and urgent, prised hers apart and she was lost in his ardour. She wanted nothing more than to please him, giving whatever he wanted, seeking nothing for herself, but in giving, she gained; in striving to please, she found an unexplored and rapturous world. Soon there was nothing to form a barrier, no nightgown in the way. Gently he relaxed and caressed, trailed her body and her breasts with

kisses, touched and stroked her to radiance and desire until at last, with a cry—then a sigh— she was his.

CHAPTER SIX WHEN Marianne awoke next morning, the rings were on her wedding finger. Logan must have pushed them into place while she slept. A note lay on his pillow. 'Marianne,' it said, 'Have gone to the lab. Logan.' No love, no affection, not even in the form of the written word. He had gone to Coral Morland. Despite everything that had happened between, them, in spite of the fact that she was now truly his wife, he had risen, breakfasted and gone—to the woman who called him 'darling', who worked at his side and had told him she loved him. Marianne remembered Jilly and pushed aside the covers of Logan's bed. When she looked down and saw herself as Logan had seen her, she grew pink and all the memories of his lovemaking came crowding back. Somewhere there must be a wrap, she thought. Yes, there on the back of the door was Logan's silk robe. Marianne ran to it and pulled it on, winding it round her. Before Jilly missed her, she must return to her own room and dress. On the floor in a filmy heap lay her discarded nightgown. With a skip of her pulse, she remembered how impatiently Logan had removed it and cast it aside? She retrieved it, taking it with her. It seemed that Jilly must have' slept late, because Marianne had showered and pulled on her jeans and top before the door was pushed open and a tousled fair head came round it. The delighted smile on the young, eager face caught at Marianne's heart. She remembered how near she had come the night before to breaking her promise and leaving this delightful child of Logan's. Now she would stay. Logan, in breaking so remorselessly through every single barrier she had built against him, had made sure of that.

Jilly ran into the room, looking clean and neat in her short-sleeved pale blue dress. She flung her arms round Marianne's hips and gazed up at her. 'I've washed myself and dressed myself, so what shall we do today, Mummy?' The Easter holiday stretched before them. Why, Marianne thought, did she feel so happy this morning? Surely it couldn't be that, after more than eight long years of waiting, she and Logan had—irrevocably—come together at last? She remembered his words the day she had finally accepted his proposal of marriage. Even if I were to be unfaithful to you—and who knows, I might be ... Irrevocably? she thought sadly. She, Marianne, might now belong to him, but Logan Tate most certainly did not belong to her ... 'You look different today,' Jilly said. 'Prettier, pinker!' She laughed, skipping around the room. 'Come and have breakfast, pet,' said Marianne, holding out her hand, and together they went down to the kitchen. They were washing the dishes when the door knocker sounded. 'Daddy?' asked Jilly, looking over her shoulder. 'No, poppet. He's gone to work.' Marianne unbolted die door and opened it. Mina stood there with two of her children. 'Hi,' she said easily, and stepped into the living-room. 'Where's the happy bridegroom?' Marianne could not prevent the deepening of her colour, which Mina saw with interest. 'At the hospital,' Marianne said. Mina frowned. 'Not back at work again?' Marianne nodded. 'Last night a woman rang --' she began, and Jilly broke in,

'It was Coral, that's who!' Mina looked enquiringly at Marianne, who nodded again. 'I answered the phone. It was urgent, she said.' Mina's frown deepened. 'As far as I know, no emergency's cropped up. Ralph would have told me.' She tutted. 'Trust Coral!' Jilly said brightly, 'Coral loves Daddy. I heard her tell him in Nigeria.' Mina gave Marianne a penetrating glance. 'Take no notice,' she said sharply. - Marianne shook her head. 'It's all right, Mina. I'm not —I mean, I know—Well, Logan and I...' Mina looked round, noted that Jilly was playing contentedly with her two children and said, 'For pity's sake, Marianne, don't play the 'understanding wife' at this—or any—stage of your marriage. What you have you damn well hold! Fight for him with all you've got. Don't let that b ---' She glanced at the children. 'Sorry. Like my husband's, my language at times isn't all it should be, and this is one of those times. I was going to say, but a little less politely, don't let that predatory creature sink her fangs into your husband. She makes a catch and then devours it bit by bit If you don't take—appropriate action, if you know what I mean, by the time she's finished with him, there won't be much left for you.' 'I'm not worried, Mina,' said Marianne, her smile falsely bright. Mina gave her a penetrating look but made no comment. 'What I came to tell you,' she said, after calling one of her children to order, 'was that we—that is, a group of villagers—run a charity shop in the village. I wondered if, once you'd recovered from your golden glow,' she glanced around and said, 'with new husband missing, this

seems an appropriate time—you'd like to help us out by serving behind the counter now and then.' Marianne brightened at once. 'I'd love to,' she said. 'I was wondering what I could do with myself during the long, empty hours.' When she saw Mina's puzzled frown, she coloured, realising she had said too much. If she was not more guarded, it would not take someone of Mina's quick intelligence long to guess at the true relationship between Logan and herself. 'I'll take you to have a look at the shop,' Mina said. 'That is, as long as there's nothing else you want to do?' Marianne glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece—a wedding present from a distant cousin. 'As long as we're home by lunchtime.' 'Why, expecting Logan?' How could she tell Mina she didn't know whether or not her husband would be returning for lunch? As if she had read her thoughts, Mina said, 'Logan usually stays at the lab all day. If he takes a break at all, it'll only be a sandwich. I know, because Ralph's the same. They all are; including our dear friend Coral. Which is probably how she keeps her superb figure.' Marianne winced inwardly. Not only was Coral Morland beautiful, clever and black-haired, but she also possessed a 'superb' figure! Fight for him, Mina had said. Against such opposition, how could she hope to win? They went in Mina's car to the charity shop. Jilly stayed behind in the car with Mina's two children while Mina introduced Marianne to her friend behind the counter.

'Marianne, Janie Claybury. Janie, Marianne's a newly- wed. Wife of Logan Tate. Be kind to her, won't you? At the moment she's treading on cloud! Wait until she's got a brood of kids like mine, then she'll come down to earth!' 'Come to help?' Janie asked, when the laughter was over. Janie was short, plump and brown-haired and wore a wedding ring. 'We could do with some. Mina, Quentin phoned to say he's got a couple of candlesticks we might like. He's bringing them over.' 'Good.' To Marianne, 'You'll like Quentin. He's fair, not fat and around forty. He says he's a bachelor, but ., rumour has it that deep in his past there was once an unhappy marriage. Incidentally, he runs an antiques business in a beautiful old cottage at the other end of the village. Now,' she motioned to the goods on display, 'look around. See the kind of things we sell.' On trestle tables were hand-made items like aprons, baby clothes and scarves. There were embroidered belts, others made of plaited leather, while a few were excellent examples of macrame work. Near the window were old silver vases and miniature salvers donated, Mina said, by the wealthier inhabitants of the village. 'How often do you want me to help?' Marianne asked, picking up a purse and appreciating the suppleness and aroma of the leather. 'We're only open mornings,' said Janie. 'One of our helpers has moved away, so shall we say one morning a week?' 'I'd have Jilly when it's not my turn,' Mina offered. 'Want to ask Logan?' Marianne hesitated before answering, feeling uncomfortable. She knew very well that Logan didn't care enough about her to be concerned with how she spent her time. As long as she looked after

his—no, she thought, correcting herself and feeling a sense of shock—our daughter ... 'No,' she replied, forcing a bright smile. 'He'll understand. After all, it's for charity, isn't it?' This was accepted with a nod by her companions, then Janie said, 'Here's Quentin. He said he'd come in time for coffee. I'll go and make some. Mina, you do die introductions.' The man who entered was tall, thin and with greying hair; In his hands was a box, in his eyes as they rested on Marianne, smiling interest. He put the box down and held out his hand. 'We haven't met before?' Marianne liked his voice, which was kindly and quiet. She put her hand in his and shook her head. 'Marianne,' Mina said, 'meet Quentin Royle of Royle's Antiques. Quentin, this is Marianne, Logan Tate's wife— bride,' she added with a smile. Quentin Royle frowned. 'But Logan has a daughter. Surely he's --?' He stopped, colouring slightly, as if aware of having made a blunder. 'His first wife died,' Mina said bluntly. 'Marianne's his second wife.' Still Quentin held Marianne's hand and squeezed it slightly as if in an attempt to make amends. 'I beg your pardon, Mrs Tate. Please excuse a crusty old bachelor's mistake. I could easily have mistaken you for Jilly's real mother—your colouring is so similar.' Marianne smiled and gently disengaged her hand. That colouring again! How it had influenced her life, changing the course of it, even ...

'May I?' asked Mina, unwrapping the box. 'The candlesticks, I presume?' Quentin nodded. 'They're a gift.' Mina lifted out two silver candle-holders and inspected them. 'These are worth quite a bit, Quentin,' she remarked. 'Are you sure --?' 'Quite. One's slightly dented, and as they're a pair, from my point of view the damage diminishes, their worth somewhat. But you should get a fair price for them.' He mentioned a sum of money. 'Well,' said Mina, packing them away, 'every little helps, and that amount can't be called "little". Ah, here's Janie with the coffee.' Quentin Royle and Janie exchanged greetings. 'How's Thomas?' Quentin asked. 'Still coping well with the village's output of children?' 'Very well, Quentin.' Janie explained to Marianne, 'My husband's the head teacher of the local primary school.' Quentin looked at Marianne. 'Any connection with teaching yourself, Mrs Tate? You look as though you could have?'Marianne laughed. 'Do I really look the teacher type? No, that was not my line. Before my marriage I was a secretary, Mr Royle.' 'Look,' said Mina, 'he's Quentin, she's Marianne. Don't be so formal. Okay?' Everyone laughed and there was an invasion of children from Mina's car. They were pacified with biscuits and while Mina's two small girls wandered round looking at the goods on display, Jilly clung to Marianne's arm. She smiled shyly at Quentin, who murmured to Marianne, 'No problems there. She's taken to you like a cat to cream. Having met you,' with a quick smile, 'I'm not surprised.'

Marianne coloured. He was showing the same interest in her as all the other men she had met in the past—apart, ironically, from her own husband. Looking secretly at Quentin's profile as he talked to Mina, Marianne decided that there was something different about the man. He seemed to possess an inner serenity which in a curious way communicated itself to those around him. It probably explained his ability to enjoy life despite his solitude. 'Know anything about antiques, Marianne?' Quentin asked, his interest in her returning. Marianne shook her head. 'They've always intrigued me, though.' Mina laughed. 'He's after custom, Marianne. He's guessed you're just setting up home.' 'Not true at all,' Quentin rebuked good-humouredly. To Marianne, 'If you'd care to make your way to my place— po-shop, the stuff's displayed in my cottage—I'd be glad to show you round.' He looked at Jilly, who had rejoined her young friends. 'With or without small daughter.' It still gave Marianne a shock to hear Jilly referred to as her daughter, but it was a pleasant one. Jilly was half Logan's after all, so it followed automatically that whatever was part of Logan she, Marianne, loved. The coffee cups were cleared and Quentin said, on his way to the door, 'I may have one or two other things for you, Mina—a plate or two, slightly chipped maybe, but you'd get something for them.' Mina raised a hand both-in thanks and farewell. Quentin took his leave, with a special smile at Marianne. Mina looked at her when he had gone. 'Methinks the man is smitten,' she murmured.

Marianne coloured uncomfortably and shook her head. 'He wouldn't be so stupid, would he,' Janie put in, 'as to fall for a newly-married woman—a bride?' Mina gave a short laugh. 'Where the female of the species is. concerned, Janie, men are stupid! Kings, statesmen and men of high standing have lost their heads—and their status, not to mention the world's respect—for the illicit love of a woman.' Janie propped her elbow on the counter and pretended to look enraptured. 'Do go on, Mina. This sounds interesting.' Mina put a hand to her head. 'Why didn't someone stop me? I was talking like a pompous idiot!' 'No, you weren't,' Marianne defended her, 'what you were saying is perfectly true—:—' A customer came in. 'That's good,' Mina murmured. 'At least it's put a stop to my nonsense. 'Bye, Janie. My turn tomorrow morning. You the day after, Marianne?' 'Right,' said Marianne, 'I'll look forward to it.' Mina rounded up the children and they all packed into her car. On the way back to Logan's cottage, Mina said, 'Take Quentin up on his invitation, Marianne. He's got a load of interesting stuff there. You might even want to buy one or two things for yourself. Just present Logan with the bill!' For a moment Marianne was silent, then she said, 'He's made me a generous allowance. There's no need for me to go to him for money.' Mina pulled up on the gravel outside the cottage. Jilly scrambled out. 'Just remember what I said, dear,' Mina murmured as Marianne opened

the car door, 'about holding on to what's yours. Your rival's got everything going for her, even brains. But she hasn't got him—yet.' With a cheerful wave, she drove away.

'There's Daddy,' said Jilly, as Logan's car drew up outside his cottage that evening. She went flying out of the front door to greet him. Marianne, feeling extraordinarily shy after the events of the night, held back. Time went by and she prepared the evening meal. Expecting Logan to return with Jilly,' she decided to wait until then to ask if he wanted to eat with them or have his meal alone. Jilly returned, eyes bright, grasping a bar of chocolate. Marianne's heart dived. It was plain that Logan preferred his solitude to her company, despite the intimacy of the dark hours. Holding up the chocolate, Jilly asked, 'Can I eat it now?' 'After tea, pet,' Marianne replied. 'Everything's ready. Is your --' she knew it was the coward's way out, 'is your daddy coming in for his tea?' Jilly shook her head. 'Mrs Davenport's got it ready for him. It's on the table. It looks lovely. I asked him if we could come in, too, but he said no. He had a problem to think about and lots of work to do, so he didn't want company. Mummy, what's "company"?' 'Us,' said Marianne shortly, then bent down and kissed Jilly's cheeks to soften the sharpness of her tone. 'I don't mind,' said Jilly cheerfully. 'I've got .you now.'

It was when Jilly was in bed that the hours began to drag. The television was no substitute for the company of the man she loved—loved more now, in fact, than she had ever thought possible. Leaving the television on, she closed her eyes and rested her head on the chair back. Memories of Logan's lovemaking returned with greater clarity and intensity of colour than any television picture. She recalled the blaze of passion in his eyes, the expert caresses of his hands slowly, surely and with great tenderness, taking possession of her, coaxing her into a state of complete surrender so as to help her at the supreme moment of becoming one, for the first time, with a man—her husband. If only she could express her gratitude at his consideration after his initial outburst of anger. If only she felt secure enough to go to him and thank him with words and deeds for being so gentle with her ... All the evening he did not come. As the hours passed, concentration on the films and plays unfolding in front of her eyes became increasingly difficult. 'I've got a problem to think about,' he had told Jilly. 'I've got work to do.' At the time, it had seemed reasonable to assume that the 'problem' had been connected with work. Now, with fatigue dulling her common sense and leaving her emotions bare, her imagination played havoc with her thoughts. Could not the 'problem' have been herself? Might he have phoned Coral, explaining how involved he was becoming with his wife, and how in heaven's name could he get out of it? At last she went up to bed. At least she would be nearer to him, even if there was a door between them. But although she lay still, listening for the slightest noise to tell her he, too, had come upstairs, no sound crept through.

It was not until two o'clock, when Marianne still lay sleepless, that she heard Logan walking round his bedroom. The creaking floorboards told her that he had at last given in to fatigue and was about to allow himself a few hours' rest. Next morning, Marianne awoke to more sounds from Logan's bedroom. Immediately she became alert—would he come through? But it was not Logan she could hear, it was Mrs Davenport making his bed and dusting and tidying the room. A head came round the door from the landing. 'Daddy's gone to work again,' Jilly said brightly. 'I heard him start the car and looked out of my bedroom window. He called up to me to tell you he wouldn't be home until tonight.' 'So he won't be home for lunch again?' Marianne said, frowning. 'Or tea. He said so. He said he might be very late.' What, Marianne thought miserably, was the point of getting up, inflicting on herself another day of interminable waiting? But, a voice asked inside her head, why keep on waiting when the person for whom she was waiting would not come? She would start living and getting something out of life. There was Jilly, wasn't there? There was the shop, Mina and Janie. And Quentin. Soon she would take him up on his invitation and visit his antiques showroom. As she washed the breakfast dishes, the phone, rang. Her heart, as usual, leapt with hope. Her imagination conjured up a deep, loving voice asking her how she was. And she would say, I love you, Logan, it's years and years—nearly thirty hours—since I saw you, touched you, kissed you ... 'Marianne?' It was Mina. 'Be a love and do me a favour. It's my turn at the shop this morning and Ralph's rung to ask me to take a pile of

reference books in to him at the research lab at the hospital: Could you oblige and do it for me?' She would see Logan! It was Marianne's first thought, even before she agreed. 'I'll drop them in on my way to the shop,' Mina said. 'Five minutes.' Ten minutes later Mina dumped the books on the doorstep, pounded on the door knocker and fled to her car, waving as Marianne rescued the books and watched her drive away. 'Come on, poppet,' she said to Jilly. 'We're going out. Auntie Mina's husband --' 'Uncle Ralph,' Jilly prompted. '—Wants some books. We're taking them.' Jilly skipped about. 'To the hospital? We'll see Daddy?' She clapped her hands. 'Come on, hurry!' When they drove through the hospital gates, Jilly directed Marianne to the appropriate parking place. 'Not where the patients go. Over there, outside where Daddy works.' She pointed to a single-storey red-brick building. Research laboratories, it announced in large letters. 'Have you been here before?' Marianne asked, surprised. 'Once Daddy brought me. Just after he came to work here and we stayed with Auntie Mina while he found a cottage to live in.' Jilly had led Marianne by the hand through the swing doors and into a long corridor. Helplessly Marianne looked left, then right. Under her arm she clutched the books. 'Which way?' she asked. Jilly knew the exact door and with supreme self-confidence opened it, pulling Marianne behind her. The first person Marianne's eyes

alighted on was the tall, white- coated, unsmiling and somewhat remote figure of her husband. He leant against a bench top, watching a piece of laboratory equipment through narrowed, concentrating eyes. 'Daddy!' Jilly's voice rang out, bringing those narrowed eyes to rest first on herself, then on his wife. 'What the hell are you two doing here?' was his greeting as he moved, hands in white coat pockets, towards them. On the lapel was a name tab in black and white—Dr Logan Tate. Marianne, wishing that under her husband's irritated scrutiny she could crawl under one of the benches, thought, Of course, he's a Ph.D.! 'Hallo, Logan,' she said, a strained smile giving away to an interested onlooker the state of her nerves. 'I haven't come to see you.' There was general laughter which made her look round, seeing for the first time how many people there were in the laboratory. 'That's right,' said a tall, red-haired man who approached, 'put him in his place.' On the man's lapel was the name Dr Ralph Belling. 'Ah, books. Mine.' With an interested glance, 'I take it I'm the one you've come to see. Logan's wife, no doubt, although he's damned slow in laying claim to you.' His hand came out. 'Glad to see you. Logan, my compliments on your taste. Take good care of this girl. She'd be a lot of other men's taste, too.' Marianne thought, How much has Mina told him about Logan and me? She handed over the books. 'Jilly, darling!' The sultry voice sounded familiar to Marianne. It had called Logan 'darling' on the phone. It belonged to a black-haired beauty with 'a superb figure'.

'Hallo, Coral.' Jilly's voice lacked enthusiasm.^ Coral Morland was all that Marianne had been led to believe—and more. The description had left out the deep brown eyes, their lazy, come-to-me look which few men, in the right circumstances, could resist. Coral's hand came out. 'I'm Coral Morland, Mrs Tate. I'm happy to make your acquaintance.' So her manners, as well as her face, figure and brain, were perfect, too. Predatory creature, Mina had called her. 'Fight for him with all you've got,' Mina had urged. In comparison with this beautiful specimen of womanhood, Marianne felt she had very few weapons with which to do so. Ralph's hand rested on Marianne's arm. 'Let me show you round, Marianne. You don't mind if I call you by your first name, do you?' Gently but with determination, he propelled her away from Logan. In a moment they were surrounded by intrigued, alert male faces, smilingly inspecting, summing up—and liking—the femininity of Logan's wife. They crowded round, introducing themselves. 'I'm David, I'm John, "I'm --' 'Get away, you lecherous lot,' said Ralph Belling. 'I shall take this visitor on a conducted tour. Her husband's busy-;—' 'Not too busy,' said Logan, thrusting determinedly through the crowd to Marianne's side. 'Thanks, Ralph, but I can look after my own.' Marianne's heart flipped like a tossed coin. 'His own', he'd called her! Had he said it to annoy his beautiful assistant? A quick glance at Coral Morland gave the answer. The woman's eyes smouldered with jealousy.

'Daddy,' said Jilly, clinging to his free hand— the other held firmly on to Marianne's waist—'show us the things in here, like Uncle Ralph said.' The phone rang. 'You wouldn't understand, poppet,' Logan was saying, when someone said, 'Dr Tate, for you.' 'Damn,' said Logan. 'It'll be that long-distance call.' He looked expressionlessly at Marianne. She knew him well enough to read the message behind the look. Please go. At this time of the day, my work comes before everything else, especially you. Marianne glanced at the clock high on the wall, inventing an excuse. 'We've got shopping to do anyway.' Taking Jilly's hand, she pushed her way through the interested and disappointed young men. 'Sorry, and thanks for the welcome.' She did not look at her husband. "Bye, Daddy. Will you still be late tonight?' Jilly's innocent face gazed across the laboratory. There was a burst of laughter from the others. Logan was already speaking on the phone, so Coral answered for him. 'Yes, Jilly, your father will be late tonight.' With a quick glance at Marianne, she added, so quietly that only Jilly and Marianne could hear, 'We have a lot of—work to do, your father and I.' There was triumph, and a hint of spite, in her eyes as she moved them to Marianne and asked, 'You do understand, Mrs Tate, don't you?' 'Very well indeed, Miss Morland,' Marianne replied. 'I know how important Logan's work is to him. However late he is, though, when he comes to bed, he'll almost certainly,' she paused, then smiled, 'wake me up.'

She swept to the door amidst more laughter, glancing back once to see if Logan had heard. By the faint smile and lifted eyebrow as he returned her glance, he had.

Coral won after all. For most of the night, Marianne lay in bed listening for a sound—any sound from Logan's room which would tell her he was there. He did not come home. In the morning, in the vain hope of proving herself wrong, she took a deep breath and tapped on the communicating door. Receiving no response, she turned the handle and walked in. Logan's bed had not been slept in. Dismayed, she retreated, closing the door behind her. But who, she agonised, could blame a man—especially one who had taken care to warn his wife he might at any time be unfaithful—if he could not resist the warmth offered by two outstretched, loving arms? There was no doubt in Marianne's mind that Logan had spent the night with Coral Morland, the woman who, when they had lived and worked side by side in Africa, had professed to love him. What did it matter if he had not, as Jilly claimed, told Coral that he returned her love? She had everything, in the way of attractions, that a woman could possibly wish for. She Was clever, she would learn before very long how to set a match to Logan's love as well as his deSire. While Marianne and Jilly were at breakfast, the phone rang. It was not difficult to guess who was calling. Half afraid to answer it, Marianne let Jilly go. 'It's Daddy,' she shouted from the living-room. 'He wants to talk to you. Hurry up, Mummy! He doesn't sound very happy.'

Deliberately slowly, Marianne covered the space between the dining-room and the telephone. She took the receiver from Jilly, who returned to her breakfast. 'Yes?'Marianne answered tiredly. 'It's taken you long enough coming.' Marianne pressed her lips together. 'I thought,' Logan went on, 'I'd better let you know that I stayed at the lab all night.' 'Really?' The underlying sarcasm appeared to anger him. 'Yes, really. My darling wife,' his mockery grated so much she winced—why did she bother, she asked herself miserably, to fight him with his own weapons? 'you surely don't suspect me of having committed adultery ?' The word conjured up such passionate scenes between Logan and his beautiful assistant she could not contain her anger. 'Go to bed with your wonderful lady colleague as many times as you like, Logan Tate,' she spat, plunging back to the fiery teenager she used to be. 'You warned me the day you proposed that you might well be unfaithful to me. But don't forget—it works both ways. Just don't condemn me if I should ever indulge!' She reached out to replace the receiver, changed her mind and said into it, in her most sweedy official, 'secretary' voice, 'Thank you for calling, Dr Tate.' She had not reached her seat at the table when the phone rang again. If that was Logan spoiling for a fight, he'd get one .... 'What do you want?' she snapped into the phone. 'What have I done to deserve that?' came Mina's plaintive voice.

Marianne clapped a hand to her head. 'Sorry, Mina, but —well, I thought it was Logan again --' Mina's loud laughter broke in. 'Wow, was he going to get an earful, if you'll pardon the expression. Had a row with him?' Marianne said dully, 'He didn't come home all night.' 'Ah, I see. I warned you about that black-haired beauty, dear. If she fights with her claws unfurled, you'll have to sharpen yours. No doubt about it.' 'He said he stayed at the lab. He didn't say alone. 'No, he wouldn't, of course. Ralph did say he left him there. With the lovely Coral to give him,' she cleared her throat noisily, 'moral support. What I really phoned you about was to tell you I've got the keys to the shop. Want me to have Jilly?' 'It's kind of you, Mina, but I'll take her with me—if that's allowed?' 'Certainly. We're open from, nine to twelve-thirty. Okay? Jilly won't mind popping out of the car to get the keys when you come.. Don't forget to bring them back after closing-time. The prices are all marked on the goods.' 'Right,' Marianne acknowledged. 'See you in about twenty minutes.' Business was brisk. Tourists, passing through in cars on their way to the Norfolk Broads, stopped at the village, intrigued by its quiet mellowness, by the uncluttered expanse of the village green, round which rows of old houses stood, their red-tiled roofs sinking here and there with age. They admired the pink-washed, thatched cottages, the half- timbered houses, a few of them dating from Tudor times. Shops had been built into the interior of the ground floor of some of the houses. There was a butcher's shop across the green, its red and white

striped blind pulled down to protect the meat displayed in the windows from the sun's rays. Nearby, a baker's shop revealed to eager eyes cakes and pastries filled with dairy cream, Great interest was shown in the charity shop and foreign tourists exclaimed at the reasonable prices asked. 'Are you sure,' they queried, 'that this price is right?' Marianne would smile and assure them that it was. Sometimes Marianne would allow Jilly to take the money, counting out the change and giving it to Jilly to hand over the counter. The visitors were delighted with the child's beauty, openly admiring her fair hair and intensely blue eyes. Only half understanding, Jilly would smile, then turn impulsively to hide her face against Marianne. 'Is she yours?' the visitors would ask. When the question came her way, Marianne was startled. Her hesitation lasted only a few seconds before she replied, 'Yes, she belongs to me.' 'This is my mummy,' Jilly would say, repeating, 'my mummy.' It was the visitors' turn to smile without complete comprehension, then go on their way. Towards the end of the morning the phone in the small office rang. Jilly ran to answer it and called out, 'It's for you, Mummy. Mr Royle.' Marianne took over from Jilly. 'Mr Royle?' she said. 'No, it's Quentin,' was the answer, and Marianne laughed. 'I've been trying all morning to get those two plates I promised over to you, but trade's been so brisk I haven't managed it. And this afternoon I'm expecting an important client. Any chance of someone coming to pick

them up? You, for instance? I should very much like to show you my collection.' She hesitated, and he laughed, saying, 'I can assure you that's it's not at all the same as showing you my etchings!' Marianne laughed with him and hastened to say, 'That wasn't worrying me. It's just --'Why, she thought, should she not go to his house? If Logan could spend all night with another woman, why shouldn't she make friends of her own, even if they were of the opposite sex? Live their own lives, Logan had said, form their own friendships, even, she remembered with a spurt of anger, be unfaithful.. .. 'I should like to very much, Quentin, but——' 'You're busy during the day, as it's the school holidays. But could you make it one evening? I'd be free of customers and able to give you as long a guided tour as you wanted. You never know, I might even be able to show you something you like and do a deal!' She laughed. 'Well, I-—' Did she have to keep hesitating? When would she come to acknowledge that she had a life to lead which was separate from Logan's? That to find any happiness she must go her own way, make her own friends? 'One evening?' Marianne said. 'I suppose I could. I'd have to find a baby-sitter, although Mina will probably know one.' He did not ask, What about your husband? 'Tomorrow evening?' Marianne suggested. 'Would that suit you? I could pick up the plates at the same time.' 'Oh, don't worry about those,' Quentin, responded. 'I'll drop them in on Mina myself. By the way, I shall pick you up tomorrow evening and bring you here, then I can return you home safe and sound.'

'Please don't bother, Quentin. I have my own car --' 'No bother at all. I'll look forward to your visit.' They agreed on a time and rang off. Marianne put a hand to her warm cheeks. The man seemed embarrassingly friendly, but might it not have been her imagination? Although she enjoyed her morning at the shop, she did not enjoy the rest of the day. There was no message from Logan, nothing to tell her whether he wbuld come home or stay yet another night with Coral Morland. As she cleared away the dishes after the evening meal, Marianne thought bitterly that it had not taken Logan long to forget the legal ties that bound them. Within a week of their marriage, and while still officially on their honeymoon, her husband had strayed into another woman's arms. She knew she was torturing herself by thinking such thoughts, but these were not incidents manufactured by the overactive imagination of a neglected bride. This was the truth which, however unpalatable, had to be faced. It was not far from Jilly's bedtime when the crunch on the gravel outside brought Jilly's head up and a shine to her eyes. 'Daddy's home!' she exclaimed, and was out of the cottage before Marianne could say a word. She heard squeals and laughter and knew that Logan must have picked her up and swung her high. Then a door closed and there was silence. When it was so long after Jilly's bedtime that Marianne began to fret, she knew she would have to go to Logan's cottage and bring the child back. With immense reluctance, she took his key from the hook and walked along to his front door. It was slightly open, so Marianne entered, stepping over the threshold into the living-room;

Jilly was on the floor playing with a doll. 'Look, Mummy,' she held up the doll, 'see what Daddy's bought me!' Marianne gave a strained smile, keeping her eyes averted from the relaxed, sprawling figure of her husband in an armchair. His jacket had been removed, his tie loosened, and there was a sardonic gleam in his eyes. /It's lovely, pet,' she said. 'But you must come to bed now.' With a sigh, Jilly gathered up the doll's clothes and placed them reverently round the doll which she had lowered into its box. 'What have you got for Mummy, Daddy?' she asked. Involuntarily, Marianne's eyes moved to Logan's face. She found a lazy smile and hooded eyes. 'Not a doll, that's for sure,' he said. --. Marianne, to her mortification, coloured uncomfortably. All the same, her expectations stirred, her heart beat faster. What had he brought her? --^ 'Well, what have you got?' Jilly insisted. 'Nothing,' was the answer. 'How can a man possibly compensate his wife for a night spent in adulterous lechery?' Marianne sent him a burning glance and hated die cynical smile that played around his mouth. "What do you mean, Daddy?' Jilly asked, not really interested in such big, incomprehensible words. 'He's talking nonsense,' said Marianne, refusing to acknowledge the disappointment that had welled up at his words. Something for his beloved daughter, nothing for his nuisance of a wife ... 'Come along, Jilly,' she said, unable to eliminate the sharpness from her voice.

Jilly hugged the box containing the doll and came like a lamb. She was surprised at her new mother's show of irritation and as she put her hand into Marianne's she frowned. Marianne hated herself for turning her anger on to an innocent child, but that child possessed more perception than she had given her credit for. 'Mummy's disappointed, Daddy, because you didn't buy her a present, too.' Logan rose lazily, pushing his hands into his pockets. 'Is that true, Jilly's mummy?' his amused voice asked. Marianne's hand gripped the door handle. Logan had wandered across the room and now he stood immediately behind her. His hands, coming to rest on- her shoulders, turned her to face him. She saw the lifted eyebrow, the smile curving the full-lipped mouth. His shirt was blue, which suited his colouring, his tie subdued, unlike his eyes, which mocked. 'Is it true?' he repeated. Her eyes flashed as they held his. Of course it was true, but nothing would persuade her to admit it. 'No, it's not,' she retorted. 'I'd have given it right back to you.' As she walked away, Jilly tugged at her hand, saying, 'Why, Mummy, why?' Marianne bent down and kissed the top of the fair head. How could she explain the stupidities and complexities of adult emotions so that the mind of a child, with its simplicity and logic, could grasp them? 'Time for bed, pet,' was all she said.

The evening was warm. To fend off the sense of loneliness, Marianne took up a book and wandered into the garden.

She made for the wooden chalet which occupied an area some distance from Logan's cottage and placed the lounger so that it faced the evening sun. For a while she managed to keep her mind on the book, but inevitably it strayed, wondering what Logan was doing. Deep down, she had cherished a vain hope that he might see her and join her in the chalet, but he did not do so. — At last, when the sun had set, withdrawing its light and warmth, Marianne closed the book and fastened the doors of the chalet. As she walked across the lawn, her eyes lifted and looked into Logan's living-room. His head was bent over papers strewn all over the unit suite and coffee table. Even now, at this hour of the evening, instead of relaxing, he worked! Although it was still comparatively early she went to bed. The long sleepless hours she had spent the night before listening for a husband who never came had taken their toll of her energies. All the same, sleep did not come easily. She found herself listening yet again for signs of Logan's presence in his room. At last, when the creaking of the floorboards told her he had finally given in and was preparing for bed, she slept. The shock of the communicating door coming open awoke her into frightened awareness. She fought through the mists of disturbed sleep to peer dazedly at the half- clothed figure in the doorway. Behind him the light from his room shone clearly. He wore only his pyjama trousers and as he came to stand beside her bed, with his arms folded across his hair-darkened chest, she saw the muscularity and toughness a man would need in order to withstand for a prolonged period the demands of an African climate. His face was in shadow, but the gleam in his eyes came through, making her nervous. A lock of black hair, falling across his forehead, gave him a devil-may-care look, a rough, primitive air which was in complete contrast to the brilliant intricacies of his brain. It was the

Logan her mind cried out for, to whom her body yearned to submit, with whom her whole being longed to merge. He was the husband of her dreams, yet even now, in her bedroom in the middle of the night, there was an aloofness about him which intimidated yet drew like a magnet. 'What do you want?' she whispered, half sitting up and pushing the hair from her eyes. 'A woman.' Just like that, uncompromisingly, unemotionally, without love or feeling. 'I've come,' he went on with a mocking smile, 'to wake you up. You expected it, didn't you? You told Coral Morland, you told the whole damned research lab that that was what I'd do, no matter how late I went to bed. So here I am. I've been to bed. I can't sleep, so the reason's obvious. I need company in my bed—you.' She lay back on the pillow, pulling up the bedclothes. 'The agreement we made—you must remember.' Could she humour him sufficiently, appeal to his reason? 'I know the other night we broke it, but it—just happened, didn't it? Things went out of control. Tonight we're --she moistened her lips, 'we're reasonable, no quarrel, no anger...' Logan was not listening. He pushed back the bedclothes and scooped her protesting body into his arms. He swung towards the light in his room and Marianne could see the stubble starting to grow around his chin. She smelt the soap he had used in showering, felt the hard muscles in his neck as her arm curled round it for support. 'Please, Logan, please,' she whispered, 'not like this, not without love ...'

'Look, honey, shall I tell you something?' He carried her resolutely across the room towards his bed. 'I'm tired, weary beyond words. I want a woman to hold, to give me comfort and rest, that's all. No demands, no lovemaking. I spent last night in the lab. I got precious little sleep --' With Coral Morland in your arms, you couldn't expect to sleep. She so nearly spoke the words. He lowered her to the bed, got in beside her and pulled the covers over them. 'Come here,' he said softly. Without hesitation, she went to him. His arms pulled her closer and her body beneath the thin nightgown came alive at the pressure of him against her. He muttered into her hair, 'You're wearing too many clothes.' --. 'But I've only got a nightdress on!' 'That, honey, is what I mean. Come on, kiss me goodnight.' , His mouth sought for hers and found it. His lips were gentle, but even so they lingered Hungrily. However, they lifted at last and he murmured, 'Turn around. Let me hold you.' She turned and he pulled her close again, moulding her against him. His arms crossed in front of her, pressing against her softness with an undemanding intimacy. 'Now I shall sleep,' he murmured, and moments later she heard his deep, regular breathing. Then, although she was aware of him with every particle of her being, she slept, too.

The room was filled with daylight when she awoke. She stirred sleepily and discovered that she was lying on her back. A smiling man with provocative eyes and a dark growth of stubble around his cheeks and neck was propped on his elbow gazing down at her. 'Hi, honey,' he said sofdy. 'Haven't we met somewhere before?' He lifted her hand which lay outside the covers and made a wry face. 'Rings on her finger. She's married. Some lucky guy found her before I did!' Marianne laughed. 'You're an idiot, Logan Tate, but I——' She drew a sharp breath and closed her eyes. She had so nearly said it. I love you! Eight years ago shehad told him, and all he had said was, I know, Moss told me. Coral had told him, I love you, and he had said it was no use loving him, he'd had enough of that. Had his first wife made it impossible for him to feel anything for a woman ever again but a driving, masculine desire? He had not appeared to notice the unfinished sentence. 'You're beautiful even first thing in the morning.' His eyes narrowed—was he drifting back in time to his first marriage? 'Fair hair, blue eyes, skin like silk ...' His forefinger ran down her profile to her chin, skimmed her throat and slipped downwards to move intimately, disturbingly, between her breasts. Who, in his thoughts, was' he caressing? Marianne wondered sadly. To whom was he really addressing his compliments—the wife by his side or . the wife he had lost and had never erased to mourn? Determinedly she pushed the tormenting thoughts to the back of her mind. She smiled and lifted her hand, stroking his chest. 'And you, Logan Tate, are hairy, bristly,' rubbing his chin with the tips of her fingers, 'and— and --' 'Well? And --?' He smiled down k her.

'And sexy, I was going to say,' she whispered, and dodged under the bedclothes. He hauled her out and his mouth homed in on hers. He said against her lips, 'You're tempting me, chick, by heaven, you're tempting me.' His own words, the words he had used eight years before ... 'Daddy!' There was a scream from Marianne's bedroom. 'Da-addy!' A terror-stricken face appeared round the communicating door. 'Mummy's gone! She's not in her room, she's not downstairs, she's not anywhere ... She's --' 'Jilly, Jilly darling,' Marianne pulled herself into a sitting position beside Logan, tugging the bedclothes high to her neck, 'I'm here, pet, I'm here.' 'I thought,' Jilly whispered, wide-eyed and speaking hoarsely, 'you'd gone away. I thought you wouldn't ever come back.' She looked at Logan, she looked at Marianne and the colour slowly returned to her cheeks. 'What are you doing in my daddy's bed?' Dismayed, Marianne answered, 'I—we—your daddy I --Floundering hopelessly, she looked to Logan for help.

and

He ran a hand through his hair and before he could speak, Jilly went on, 'That's where my mummy used to sleep. Sometimes I used to get in between them, in the middle.- My mummy used to tell me to go because she wanted my daddy all to herself.' The glow in Marianne's face died away. The happiness which had held her high on a cloud since Logan had carried her into his room the night before drifted beyond recall. She was haunted by a ghost—of the woman whom he had loved so deeply she had taken with her his ability to love any other woman.

'My mummy died,' Jilly said sadly. 'Darling,' Marianne tried to reassure her, 'I'm your mummy now.' 'But only a pretend one.' Depression swept away the hope that had been gathering substance in Marianne's mind. Was there really any place for her in this family? Pretend mother, pretend wife. The cards were stacked against her. Not only was she haunted by a beautiful ghost who had taken with her Logan's heart, she was tormented by a beautiful woman who worked each day by Logan's side and who had even confessed to loving him. What chance did she have of ever giving to him everything a true wife could give a husband who sincerely and passionately loved her? He had rejected her in her teens and had only married her now for his own purpose. Logan got out of bed and Jilly eyed the bareness above his waist. 'You used to dress like that in Africa. Mummy used to say she liked you better with no- --' He swung her high and carried her to the door. 'That's enough now.' She recognised the firmness and did not pursue the subject. 'Marianne, I'll take Jilly back to her room to dress.' He looked mockingly at the way she hugged the bedclothes to her chin, hiding herself from Jilly's too perceptive eyes. 'You'd better make your getaway,' he said mockingly, 'while the audience is otherwise engaged.' As soon as they had gone, Marianne swung off the bed and made a dash for her own room, grabbing her robe and pulling it on. The few hours behind her had been an Interlude, something delightful on which to look back and which she was sure would never be repeated. Now it was over and she must accept the fact.

It would, she knew, take her a long time to forget the terror on Jilly's face when she thought her 'new mummy' had gone, or to banish from her mind Jilly's words telling of her real mother's desire to have Jilly's father 'all to herself'. Logan did not call in to say goodbye before he drove to work. Marianne told herself resignedly that there was no reason why sleeping beside him in his bed should make any difference to their relationship. , During the morning, Logan rang. 'I'm having a couple of guests to dine this evening,' he said. 'Patrick here, one of my colleagues, and Goral. I've asked Mrs Davenport to cook an appropriate meal.' He paused for a comment that did not come. 'I'd like you to join us.' Another pause. 'That is, if you don't mind.' Marianne did not answer at once. It took her a few seconds to overcome the emotions his words had aroused. One of his guests was to be Coral Morland—that in itself was bad enough. Worst of all, it was plain that he was inviting his wife merely as an afterthought. What, he must have reasoned, would his other colleague, Patrick, think if Logan's wife was not present? And wouldn't it then go all round the laboratory? At last she said, 'Without me, there would be three. Which means I would make a fourth.' 'The girl can do arithmetic,' was the dry comment, 'and moreover, get her sums right!' 'So you want me to make up the numbers?' There was a sigh from the caller. 'If you insist on looking at it that way, I suppose the answer's yes.'

'Sorry,' Marianne said promptly, and as airily as she could manage, 'I'm otherwise engaged this evening. I've got a date.' 'What do you mean,' he responded sharply, 'you've got a date? Who with?' 'A man.' No response. Now he was playing her game. She went on, deliberately goading him, 'He's not in his first youth, but he's got a—certain something. He lives alone, being either a divorcee of a widower.' 'Don't the time,' Logan commented sarcastically, 'I'll tell you. He's around seventy, lie's got arthritis and he talks incessantly about his youth.' 'Wrong. He's tall, fair to greying, and thin. And he's forty years old.' 'What's been going on behind my back?' Logan snapped. 'How the hell do you know all this?' 'Nothing's been going on behind your back—yet.' Marianne smiled at the deep breathing from the other end. 'He came to the charity shop. He gives Mina things for it. He's an antique dealer—very successful, too.' 'Go on, say it,' the cynicism was heavy in his voice. 'I've heard it all before. He's lonely and you're sorry for him.' 'Lonely?' she said lightly; pleased that she seemed to be niggling him. 'I doubt it. He seems to be very self-contained, personality-wise. Sorry for him? I don't think so. I don't know him well enough yet to feel either compassion or admiration for the man.' ' "Yet"?' Logan repeated her word. 'So you intend to become better acquainted?'

'I don't see,' she returned angrily, 'why you should be the only one to take advantage of the .conditions on which our marriage is based—freedom to do as we wish. Why should you,' she went on, her voice rising, 'expect me to sit tamely at home watching television while you carry on an affair as if you hadn't got a wife? Why should I go to bed alone while you spend a night of passion in the arms of --' 'Spare me the melodrama!' he cut in curtly. 'So you're refusing my invitation to dine with my colleagues and myself?' 'Thanks for asking,' she answered, controlling her temper with difficulty, 'but I have to refuse. I can't let a lonely man down, can I? But don't worry—to misquote a famous quotation, I shall be faithful to thee, Logan Tate, in my fashion!' She flung the receiver down. Let him make what he liked of that, she thought. But as she walked away from the telephone, her defiance turned to despondency. Fight her, Mina had urged, fight for what is yours ... Fight Coral Morland? She might as well tell the sun to stop shining!

CHAPTER SEVEN MARIANNE phoned the baby-sitter Mina had recommended. The girl, a student, agreed to come. She was eager to earn extra money to supplement her grant, she said. At tea-time, Marianne told Jilly, 'I'm going out this evening, pet. But there's a girl coming that Auntie Mina knows --' 'I know her, too,' said Jilly brightly. 'Her name's Angie. She's nice.' 'That's good, darling,' Marianne said, relieved that she need have no anxiety on that score. While Jilly got ready for bed, Marianne changed to go out. It took her a few minutes to decide what to wear. There were a number of summer dresses in her wardrobe, even one or two left over from the old days. In the end she chose a sleeveless, lavender-patterned button-through which drew attention to her fair colouring and took enough years from her age to make her look as though she had not left her teens behind. With the dress spread carefully on the bed, she seized the edge of the summer top she wore and peeled it upwards over her head. The communicating door opened while her arms were fully extended and her head covered. Swift steps brought the newcomer towards her and two masculine arms wrapped about her body, twisting her and crushing her against him. 'Stop it,' she shrieked, her voice muffled by the material over her head, 'let me go!' She was at his mercy and his caressing hands let her know it. In spite of her frenzied struggles to free herself, she was powerless in his rough embrace. Bruising lips moved over her throat and down to the cleft between her breasts. His hands moved and ripped off the top

that imprisoned her arms. Thus Logan could gaze his fill at the flushed face and eyes that did their best to look indignant, but failed lamentably as the longing to surrender which he had aroused in her replaced the indignation. Her arms having been released, she made a bid for freedom, but he reached out and caught her wrist, jerking her towards him. There was no warmth in his eyes as there had been that morning. It was as though the coming Ice Age had staked its claim in advance within him and his emotions had already frosted over. 'So you've got a date?' Logan said coldly. 'You're intending to spend the evening with a lone wolf on the prowl?' 'Logan,' she looked down at her imprisoned wrist, 'you're hurting!' His hold did not relax. 'Anyway, you've got it wrong. If you'd met Quentin you'd know what I mean. It will be an evening of intellectual discussion, not—anything else. Quentin's very pleasant, he's quiet, he's gentlemanly, he's not like——' she swallowed, remembering the interest in his eyes as he had looked at her, 'that,' she finished lamely. 'He's normal?' her husband queried. Marianne nodded, 'Then let me assure you, he is like that.' He eyed her sparsely-clad figure. 'Even if he weren't "like that",' his voice had softened sensually, 'with you in his house for the evening, honey-girl, he'd become "like it". By heaven, just the sight of you in, those two little apologies for clothes you're wearing makes me --' He broke off, pulling her to him, encasing her in his arms and bearing down on her mouth with his. There was no gentleness in his kiss and it was as though he had already branded her as wanton, merely because she was going to spend a perfectly innocent evening with a male acquaintance. The thought riled her so much that she fought and writhed until he let her go. She ran for the robe which hung on the door and pulled it on. 'You made the conditions on which our marriage is based, so don't

blame me if I decide to take advantage of them. I'm only following your example, after all. You're just about to entertain your colleague and girl-friend. Why shouldn't I have a friend of my own?' She pressed the back of her hand softly against her bruised lips. 'Anyway, if it's your masculine appetite that needs satisfying, why don't you go to your female guest? She must be used to your demands by now. After all,' it hurt her to say the words, 'she loves you, she's already told you that, whereas I—I only married you to look after your daughter ...' 'So,' his hands found his pockets, 'I'm being told—told— by my own wife to "commit adultery.' He gave a mocking bow. 'When the circumstances are right, and knowing that I have your permission,' his eyes glittered like ice, 'I shall bear that permission in mind. Enjoy your evening, as I intend to enjoy mine.' He slammed the door behind him.

Angie came on her bicycle, bringing a rucksack full of books. She was small and slim and looked capable of dealing with any emergency: As Marianne closed the door, inviting her to sit down,' Angie said, The man next door saw me arrive and came out. He asked me if I was the baby-sitter and I said yes. He said had I got references and I told him I knew Mrs Wilhelmina Belling and he seemed satisfied.' She frowned. 'Why should your neighbour be interested, Mrs Tate?' Marianne coloured uncomfortably. So Logan had been checking up on the girl's—and her own—efficiency! 'He's —he's my husband, Angie. We—well, kind of live next door.'

'Ah, I see,' said Angie. 'It's a sort of liberated marriage, is it?' She seemed genuinely amused. 'You learn something new every day, don't you?' ' Marianne endeavoured to match her smile. 'So if Jilly wants her daddy,' Angie went on, getting out her books in a businesslike manner, 'I know where to find him.' Marianne nodded, saw a car draw up outside and guessed it was Quentin's. 'My friend's arrived,' she said. 'I'll just pop up and say goodnight to Jilly.' Jilly stretched out her arms and flung them round Marianne's neck. 'Mr Royle's nice, isn't he?' she asked, plainly wanting to be reassured. 'Very,' said Marianne with a smile. 'You --' Jilly lowered her voice as if telling a secret, 'you will come back, Mummy, won't you?' Marianne's heart missed a beat. 'But of course, darling.' 'My—my real mummy,' the whisper continued, 'sometimes she would go out and—and not come back all night.' Marianne's heart began to thump. What strange new piece of information was she hearing now? 'Darling,' she kissed Jilly's cheeks, 'Mr Royle is waiting in his car.' Jilly released her. 'Will you look round the door at me when you come home?' she asked, an earnest frown pleating her brow. Marianne promised to do so and left her. She wished she had had more time to dwell on what Jilly had said, to rationalise and find an answer ... As she called goodbye to Angie and ran out to join Quentin, another car approached and drew up outside Logan's cottage. It contained three people. In the front passenger seat was Coral Morland, in the back a

young, brown-haired woman. The driver of the car Marianne recognised, in the fleeting glimpse she had of him, as one of the young research workers to whom she had been introduced at the hospital. He was no doubt the young man Logan had referred to as Patrick. Altogether there would be four at Logan's dinner party, which meant that he really had only invited her to make up the numbers, and for no other reason. It revealed, she thought unhappily, just how dispensable she was to her husband. In no time at all he had found someone else to take her place. Quentin greeted her with a quiet, pleased smile. As they drove past Logan's cottage, he came outside to greet his guests. His eyes met those of his wife and it was impossible for her to miss the hard glint in the look he directed at her. It was plain that he was still angry. It was even plainer that he had not forgiven her for her allegations about his association with Coral Morland. Judging by the way he pulled Coral towards him and kissed her cheek in greeting at the precise moment at which his wife had driven past; it seemed that he had every intention of carrying out his threat and giving Marianne, should she require them, grounds for divorce. If his aim had been to ruin her evening before it had even begun, Marianne reflected miserably, he could not have chosen a better way. Quentin's cottage was large and rambling. He showed her first into the living, area with its polished, shining table and armchairs upholstered in dark red velvet which, in both fabric and colour, matched the floor-length curtains. Around the walls hung miniature copies of Vermeer paintings, while over the wide fireplace was a large, gilt-framed painting of the East Anglian countryside. On a silver salver glasses and bottles stood ready, together with a dish of nuts. Quentin might call himself 'a crusty old bachelor', but he seemed to possess none of such a person's sometimes careless habits.

Like his personality and appearance, his home was meticulously clean, neat and completely unpretentious. There was also a look in his eyes which revealed to Marianne that he appreciated and welcomed her presence. She experienced no apprehension at being alone with him. He was, she was convinced, a man to be trusted. He offered her a drink which she accepted and they talked for a while of everyday things. After a pause, he said, gazing into his glass, 'From some of the things Mina has said, I've come to the conclusion that your marriage to Dr Logan Tate is not a—conventional one.' By the way his eyes lifted, it was a question. Marianne's voice was toneless as she replied, 'Your conclusion was correct. I agreed to marry him because his child needed a mother. We also agreed that neither would stop the other from going his or her own way. The only stipulation was that we would remain husband and wife.' 'For the child's sake?' Quentin queried kindly. Marianne nodded. 'The arrangement suits you?' Marianne lifted noncommittal shoulders. She could not admit to a stranger that she loved her husband when her husband himself did not know. 'If,' Quentin went on, 'your marriage had been based on —well, the usual ingredient,' with a smile, 'I wouldn't have dreamt of inviting you here without him.' 'He's giving a dinner party in his own cottage tonight,' she said dully. Quentin began to speak, changed his mind and said, 'Come and see my antiques? It makes a change from etchings!'

Marianne laughed and followed him from the room. They crossed the large entrance hall and made their way to the rear of the house. In a large room which, in the century in which the house was built, must have been designated the parlour, was a display of furniture tastefully and attractively arranged to simulate as far as possible a living place of mixed eras. The effect was both enchanting and enticing, creating in the viewer the desire to pounce and buy before someone else came along with the same idea. Quentin pointed to a set of six upright chairs with carved, polished backs. 'Chippendale,' he said. He pointed again. 'Semi-circular eighteenth-century card, table. Eighteenth- century corner cupboard with front panel of Chinese lacquer.' On a tall, many-shelved dresser stood figures of porcelain and glass, On a table were exquisitely conceived glass paperweights. An antique sideboard held examples of silver tankards, teapots and salt cellars. Marianne turned wide eyes to her host. 'The value of all this must be enormous!' 'It is. I go for the best, consequently my clientele can hardly be described as poverty-stricken!' He smiled. 'Needless to say I have a series of elaborate alarm systems throughout this house. 'All this,' Marianne gestured, 'yet you're so generous to the people running the charity shop.' 'I do my best,' he said modestly. 'Is there,' with a smile, 'anything that takes your fancy?' Marianne laughed. 'Many things, but even one item from this collection would be far beyond my means. I—my husband makes me

an allowance,' she explained hastily, 'a generous one, but hardly enough to furnish my cottage with even one piece of antique furniture.' 'I'll give you something,' Quentin said. Marianne coloured deeply. 'I—please—you can't- --' She swallowed. 'I didn't mean what I said to be a hint --' 'My dear, I'm well aware of that. But I should like to be allowed to give you something—however small—from my collection. I'll tell you what I'll do—what about something of my own, something that isn't for sale? Come with me,' his hand on her arm guided her through the door and into another, smaller room. It contained a desk holding a typewriter and strewn with typewritten pages. On shelves along one wall were small items—jugs, plates and silver cutlery. Quentin came to a stop in front of a miniature and as he went to pick it up, Marianne gasped. 'Not that,.I can't accept that!' 'I don't see why not. It's an apprentice piece, a miniature of a bureau-bookcase made in the early seventeen-hundreds. As you see, it's inlaid and is a perfect working model' He demonstrated, opening drawers and pulling down the flap of the 'desk'. 'It even possesses a tiny key.' He pulled open a drawer and showed her the key. He thrust the miniature into her hands. 'Please accept it from me. It's a gift. It has a certain value. I'm not prepared to tell you what that value is, although there's nothing to stop you asking another antiques expert if you wish. Now,' as if the matter were closed, 'having done the, rounds of my exhibits --' Marianne stopped him. 'But Quentin, suppose Logan --•' 'Objects? Considering the circumstances of your marriage, do you really think he will?' He saw her hesitation and immediately changed

the subject. 'This is my study where I work, in between serving customers. I'm a two- finger typist, so my progress is slow.' Marianne frowned. 'Progress in what?' 'Writing a book. About antiques, of course. I'm working in collaboration with a friend who's an expert photographer. When it's finished, the book will be one of those expensive- looking glossy productions, but the price won't be as high as many books are on the subject.' 'You're typing it yourself?' Marianne looked down, at his gift, its minuteness catching at her heart as much as his generosity had done. 'Look, I can type, Quentin. I'm a •trained'-secretary. In exchange for this, since I know you won't accept money, can I help you with your book instead?' He seemed overwhelmed. 'My dear, I expect no reward for that .at all. I can't take your precious time——' 'But when Jilly goes back to school after the holiday, I'll have nothing to do except serve at the shop one morning a week. Please let me help you—even if it's only for a few weeks.' 'I'd insist on paying you for the work,' he said, beginning to capitulate. She held out the gift. 'This is payment, Quentin. I mean that.' For a few moments he was lost in thought, then he smiled. 'I accept gladly. It wouldn't be top copy work—I farm that out to a young married woman with a baby—but it would involve typing my handwritten notes so that I can correct or alter them.' He held out his hand. 'Let's seal the bargain.' Gladly she shook his hand.

'Now I'll find some food. My housekeeper made savouries before she went home. She comes in daily as she lives nearby. And I'll make the/ coffee. Please go into my living- room, Marianne. I won't be long.' All the time she waited, Marianne examined the miniature bureau. By the time she remembered to call out, 'Can I help?' Quentin was pushing in the laden trolley. The evening passed swiftly after that and when Quentin took her home, they arranged that as soon as the school holidays were over, he would contact her. As he drew up in front of the two linked cottages, Marianne-noticed with surprise that the car which had brought Logan's guests had gone. Maybe, she thought, and-her heart sank, only two guests had left and the third had stayed behind ..." She thanked Quentin again for entertaining her, but most of all for the gift he had made to her. As he drove away, lifting his hand, and Marianne opened the door of her cottage, she looked around expectantly for Angie, the baby-sitter. She was not there. What had happened? Why had she gone? 'Marianne?' Logan's voice called from the kitchen. Had he sent the girl home, perhaps not trusting her te look after his daughter efficiently? Marianne realised that she was clutching Quentin's gift to her as if to protect it from an angry hand—her husband's. The wooden dresser near the door—she would hide the gift in there until she could explain its presence in less difficult circumstances ... She was just straightening from pushing it into the lower cupboard when Logan came in. He looked with suspicion at her flushed,-guilty face and her bright, surprised eyes. He strolled towards her, hand in pocket. His tie had been removed and the top buttons of his shirt undone. He looked as if he had been in the cottage some time.

'Why are you here?' Marianne asked, trying to control the tremor in her voice. His eyes accused now, as if she had. done wrong. What was he thinking? 'It was somewhat difficult,' he said tardy, 'trying to entertain guests when an anxious young woman kept coming to my front door and hammering on it because her charge wouldn't stop crying for her father—not to mention her mother. I tried to quieten Jilly, who refused resolutely to do as I urged, so I had no alternative but to explain the position to my guests, who thoughtfully removed themselves home. I paid the overwrought baby-sitter the full amount instead of the half she asked for and took over the job myself. How's that,' he went on sarcastically, 'for an understanding—or I should say unbelievably stupid—husband? To look after his daughter while his wife spends the evening with another man?' Marianne ignored the challenge and asked, 'Jilly's been crying? Why?' 'Why do you think?' was the caustic reply. 'Because she thought her new mother would never come back.' Marianne felt a twist of pain around her ribs. 'But I told her I would.' 'So did my late wife, her real mother. You see,' his eyes narrowed, 'she doesn't trust "mothers" any more. Nor do I.' What was he getting at? 'Daddy,' a timid voice called, 'is that really Mummy?' Marianne could hardly stand the sob in the young voice. She threw down her handbag and ran up the stairs. Jilly, who had scrambled back into bed, reached up and threw her arms chokingly round Marianne's neck. 'I thought you wouldn't come,' she whispered, her wet face making Marianne's damp, too. 'I wouldn't let myself go to sleep until you

came. I kept asking Daddy would you come home? He said you would, because you'd once made a promise. But my other mummy said she'd come home, but one day she never did. So I thought ...' The tired voice trailed away. Marianne found a clean handkerchief and dried Jilly's tears. 'I'm home now, pet. I won't go out and leave you again for a long, long time.' Jilly lay back and sighed. 'You smell nice, Mummy. And you look so pretty.' Her eyes drooped. She forced them open, pulled down Marianne's head and whispered in her ear, 'I love yoG, Mummy. Don't run away and leave me— ever, will you?' 'Darling,' Marianne said, moved to her depths, 'how could I ever do that?' Jilly smiled, reassured. 'Settle down now, poppet.' The fair head nodded obediently and before Marianne had reached the door, Jilly slept.

'Well,' Logan demanded as he lingered in her living-room, which was a replica of his in furniture and drapery, 'did you enjoy your evening of "intellectual discussion"? Did you gaze enraptured into each other's eyes with half the room between you? Or did you close the gap and discover you both possessed ordinary human emotions?' 'Don't judge everyone by your own standards,' she snapped. His eyes iced over. 'Was he "sexy", as you described me this morning? Did he come up to expectations?' 'You're talking nonsense, Logan, and you know it. I'm a, married woman.'

'Don't let that fact inhibit you with the opposite sex,' he said cynically. 'After all, you gave me permission this evening to have an extra-marital affair with my colleague. You never know, I may take up the option some time.' 'If you haven't already.' The words did not provoke the reaction she had hoped for. He was giving nothing away. She went on, endeavouring to cut all emotion from her voice, 'Don't you know me well enough by now to accept that in that respect you can trust me completely?' I'm sorry,' Logan responded, 'but I have no faith any more in the integrity of women.' 'I can't follow your train of thought,' she hit back. 'First you tell me you can't get romantic over living with a woman —the day you proposed, remember? Now you dismiss their integrity. I'm coming to the conclusion that for some strange reason—outside the use of them for your own selfish ends—you have an ineradicable hatred for women. Except one, of course,' she finished sarcastically. He smiled. 'Except one.' She swung away to hide the slight tremble of her lip. 'If I were black-haired, beautiful and an honours graduate in bio-chemistry, maybe you'd stop hating me.' He came to stand behind her and, although he did not touch her, she felt, as if it were tangible, the magnetic pull of his body. 'Maybe I would,' he said softly. 'Maybe I'd even get to liking you. Go to evening classes, honey, pass all your exams, show me evidence of your qualifications, and then put my feelings for you to the test.' Marianne knew by the sound of his voice that he was smiling.

'It will be a long, hard road,' he went on, 'but,' he paused, lifted her hair and brushed the back of her neck with his lips, 'it would be worth the effort, wouldn't it, to gain the love of your husband?' She turned swiftly, rubbing her neck to rid it of the desire he had stirred. 'The love of my husband—you've got the arrogance to speak of it as if it were something I had to work for! You know what you are, Logan Tate? You're big-headed, conceited and unbelievably self-centred. And --' she had to hurt him as deeply as he had hurt her, 'and I hate every inch of your body!' His lips thinned and the coldness in his eyes made her afraid. He went to the door and closed it behind him, leaving her words suspended tormentingly in the air.

That night she found it impossible to sleep. She had said some unforgivable things to her husband. In the early hours the floorboards creaked beneath her tired feet as she paced to and fro. Her conscience—and her love for the man she had abused—would not let her rest. Only his forgiveness, or even a word of reassurance, 'would allow her aching muscles to relax and her mind drift . into unconsciousness. There was, she knew, only one way in which to make contact with Logan and hear the words she wanted him to say. This was to go unhesitatingly through that door into his bedroom. If he slept she would have to wake him. If he was still downstairs she would be forced to descend his staircase and confront him. The third alternative—that he might have left the house to find solace in the arms of another woman—she would not even consider..

Sheer necessity drove her to grip the handle of the door. A need for his clemency and understanding forced her to turn it and enter the room. The light from a full moon revealed him to be lying on his back under the covers. His arms were upraised and his head cushioned on his hands. When she tried to discover whether or not he slept, a shock ran through her. He was staring straight at the ceiling. He was as wakeful as she was! The look on his face was so serious and hard, it frightened her to imagine what he might be thinking. Of an end to their marriage? Of a new beginning with another woman, another mother for his young daughter? His head had not turned at her entry. He must have heard it all—the creaking floorboards, the turning handle, the door opening, the uncertain entrance. Yet none of it seemed to have registered on his silent, unmoving form. 'Logan?' 'Yes?' His voice was flat as he responded to the whispered word. Marianne ventured nearer, seeing his bareness to the waist, the hard muscles in his arms, the dark patch of hair on his chest emphasising his uncompromising masculinity. 'I want to say I'm sorry.' No response. 'For what I said.' The silence prevailed. 'The awful things I called you—I didn't mean them, Logan.' 'Didn't you?' His voice remained lifeless. Her apology had not touched him. Time moved backwards and he had become the unreachable young man in his mid-twenties, she the adoring teenager, overwhelmed at being noticed by an older man ... Being given a signet ring as a token of their 'engagement', a few weeks of lovemaking in which her adolescent self had revelled because she had loved so much the man who had so casually invited her to become engaged to him.

Being rejected, coldly and angrily, seeing the retreating back, a man unmoved by her cries for his return and, when he had gone, for whom she had wept for hours in the darkness, prostrate on the sweet-smelling grass ... 'Please, Logan,' she said, covering her eyes momentarily to brush away the past, 'I've said I'm sorry.' He stayed exactly as he was. 'All right, so you're sorry. I forgive you.' But his voice had not softened, and there was harshness in the words. Don't you realise, she wanted to cry, that I need love just as much as Jilly needs love? I need reassurance that the man who is my husband feels tender enough towards me to overlook what I might say in a desire for revenge for pain which he himself inflicted? She had his forgiveness—or so he had said—so what more did she want? Words alone were not enough to assuage the guilt feelings, nor to meet and satisfy the longing for his tenderness and warmth, if not his love. Her bare feet took her flimsily-clad form to stand beside his bed. • His eyes shifted from the patch of moonlight on the ceiling to look her over. Not a flicker of response registered in his cool, detached appraisal. If it had been Coral Morland standing thus beside him, would he, Marianne asked herself in anguish, have looked at her so impassively? Would he have been as indifferent to his girl-friend's feminine attractions as he was to his wife's? She wanted to reach out and touch him, to bend and put her lips on his. But that, even though she was his wife, was barred to her. Then she thought, with a surge of defiance, Yes, I am his wife. I have a right to touch him, as he has a right to touch me. Thrusting aside the inhibitions which had piled layer on layer through the years, she walked round the foot of his bed, pulled back the covers

and got in the other side. He did not change his position as she hoped he would. He merely lay where he was, watching her. Now she was there, what should she do? Throw her arms round him and say, as Jilly had done to her a few hours earlier, I love you. Don't leave me ever, will you? Marianne drew up her knees, wrapped her arms around them and rested her cheek on them. She was tired to her very bones, but the long cold night still stretched before her. Of their own accord, tears gathered and ran down her cheeks. It was hopeless. She had taken the plunge, only to find the waters closing over her head. She shivered and slid down under the covers, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. Her shivering form lay curled beside him. He moved at last, turning on to his side, and she basked in the warmth that emanated from his body. With a shock she realised he wore no night-clothes. He lay, propped on his elbow, looking down at her in the moonlight. He did not touch her. 'Logan?' she whispered, looking up into his shadowed eyes. He remained like a statue. 'Oh, Logan,' she said brokenly, and moved towards him, drawn by his maleness, the security and strength he represented, but most of all by her love for him and her need for his love. Their bodies touched and he moved at last, although his arms still did not go round her. 'You're crying and I don't know why. You're here and I don't know why. But I do know what effect your body is having on mine. Are you aware of what you're doing?' 'Yes, Logan,' she whispered, gazing at him wide-eyed.

His hand came out and fondled her breast. 'In marriage as in life, you reap what you sow. You realise that?' She nodded. 'And you're prepared to accept the consequences, whatever they may be?' Again she nodded, her longing for him intensifying with every caressing movement of his hand. He moved and the pressure of his body aroused her like fuel thrown on to flames. His hps left a burning trail round her throat and from her neck to her shoulders. Raising his head, he asked, 'Is this what you want?' Her shining eyes gave him his answer. Their legs entwined, his ardent mouth found secret places that brought her to vital, radiant life. At last their Hps met and her arms wrapped around him, holding him to her. Memories from the past came back, of his kissing, of the touch of. his hands—now so much more experienced—on her eager young body. There was now, as then, the overwhelming feeling of wanting to be loved with a deep, unselfish, yet demanding love, with a passion that sprang not simply from desire, but a mutual wish to merge and become one with the object of that love. One day, she thought, in a golden haze, one day he would—he must surely— come to feel deeply enough for her for that to happen ... Later, they lay, arms about each other, infinitely content. There were no barriers left between them, no embargo on whispered endearments, no need for reserve. 'Logan,' she whispered, as she had whispered over eight years ago the first time he had taken her out, 'I love you.' He responded slowly, 'A few hours ago you said you hated me.' She shook her head. 'So now you love me?' There was silence for a few moments, then he spoke drowsily, his arms around her relaxing slowly. 'That's what they all say when I've taken them to heaven and back.'

The golden glow began to fade. Already, although their bodies still entwined, they were drifting away from each other. Logan said indistinctly, slipping into sleep, 'Gaye—she said, when we made love, "I love you".' He gave a fleeting smile. 'And look what happened.' 'What did happen, Logan?' But Marianne received no answer. Logan was asleep.

CHAPTER EIGHT WHEN the holiday was over, Jilly returned to school. Mina phoned to say she would take the children in the car in the mornings if Marianne would collect them in the afternoons. Marianne readily agreed to this arrangement. Since the night of the lovemaking, her life with Logan had returned to normal. Every night the door between them stayed closed. Every night Marianne would hear Logan walking about his room—as he could surely hear her—and be forced to quell a surge of disappointment. But why, she would try to reason with herself, should they come together permanently? It was not part of the verbal contract they had made when Logan had proposed marriage. When they had—so pleasurably—shared the same bed, it had been she, not Logan, who had made the first move. He had responded with ardour as any man would with an eager woman by his side. He had, however, remained cool enough to warn her distinctly that if there had been any consequences as a result of their intimacies, she would have to accept and bear the responsibility. There had been no 'consequences', so he need not have worried, she thought despondently. Marianne took charge of the shop one morning a week. Now and then Quentin would call in. He would talk of everyday events, ask if things were still the same—meaning, of course, her marriage—and when she told him 'yes', he would make no comment. Very soon, he said, he would be ready for her help in typing his book. She still had not found the courage to bring his gift from its hiding place. Often Logan would stay late at work, never telling her in advance, never coming into her cottage to explain. When he did return at the

normal time, Jilly would run to greet him and stay in his cottage for a while. She seemed to have accepted that, although her father and mother stayed 'married', it did not necessarily mean that they wanted to be together at every possible moment. When Marianne delivered three of Mina's children to their doorstep one afternoon Mina invited her in for a cup of tea. Marianne accepted gladly. 'I hear,' Mina said, 'you're going to do some work for Quentin.' Marianne nodded. 'Does Logan mind?' Marianne frowned. 'I haven't told him yet. But I will, of course.' 'Well, he is your husband,' said Mina. 'He should be told, although of course, I don't know what goes on between you.' Marianne was silent, drinking her tea as though it absorbed her entire concentration. 'Okay,' said Mina, laughing, 'I get the message. But if Ralph showed signs of straying, I know one thing—he'd have a hell of a struggle to get me to let go. I'd play all my cards, every single one,' she laughed loudly and uninhibitedly, 'even, if you'll pardon the expression, to the point of exhausting him!' Marianne laughed with her, then sobered. 'You said, "showed signs of straying". Does --' it took some courage to. ask, 'does Logan show those signs at—at work? I mean, Ralph's one of his colleagues. When Ralph talks about work, Mina, does he mention Logan—and Coral?' 'Well, dear, if you must know the truth, Logan and Coral lunch together every day—Coral sees to that. They take every tea and coffee break together—Coral again sees to that. If Logan stays late, which according to Ralph is quite often and, or so Ralph thinks, quite

unnecessarily, Coral stays late.' At Marianne's dismayed expression, Mina finished, 'That's the way it is. That's exactly what you're up against. What they do when they're alone in the lab, as they often are, is, I suppose, their business. Not to mention yours, as his wife.' Mina changed her tone. 'Cling, my dear,' she said urgently, pushing her brown hair back from her firm, plump cheeks, 'cling and never let go.' Jilly came running in, looked at Marianne and ran out. Mina smiled with an experienced mother's smile. 'Just checking you're still here.' Marianne managed a smile, too. 'It's her one dread—that one day I'll disappear out of her life. Mina, I --' Her hands went to her face. She struggled with her emotions and finally won. Mina had not moved, did not say a word. 'Sorry,' said Marianne. 'I had to tell you.' Mina poured them both another cup. 'You've got a trump card to play.' At Marianne's puzzlement, she went on, 'Quentin Royle. Use him, dear, use him blatantly. All's fair, and so on. He won't mind. He's a wonderful man, don't think he doesn't know what's going on between you and Logan.' Marianne nodded in agreement. 'He won't mind being used. I know the man too well.' 'It wouldn't be fair, Mina.' 'He's the salt of the earth as men go,' Mina persisted. 'He's completely altruistic, he gives and gives where others are concerned. He's a member of the Samaritans. He'll never remarry. His wife divorced him—not because he's impervious to women—he isn't,' Marianne smiled, acknowledging the truth of Mina's statement, 'but because he's completely self-contained. He's just one of those people. Maybe that's why his wife left him. Who knows? But I do know that if it's within his

power, he'll do anything he can to bring you happiness. So carry on, type for him. Let Logan think what he likes.' Marianne nodded. 'I made a promise to Quentin, anyway, and I'm determined to keep it.' 'Good. Now I'll tell you something else which, I hope, will get you out of the land of rut you seem to have settled yourself into socially. In three weeks' time, there's a charity dance at the Windsor Towers Hotel at the other end of the village. Ralph and I are going and Ralph's persuaded most of the crowd from the lab to come, too.' 'Oh,' Marianne said, after a pause. 'Including—-?' 'Logan? No. Consequently no Coral, either. See what you're up against, dear.' Marianne sighed and lifted a shoulder. She rose to go and thanked Mina for the tea—and the advice. Mina called Jilly, who came skipping in and seized Marianne's hand, at the same time looking adoringly into her face. Mina smiled. 'You're the answer to the daughter's dream, if not the father's.' The truth in the words bit deep, but Marianne managed an answering smile. 'I was the answer to the father's problem—right colouring, right credentials, a known quantity having been once, briefly, his fiancee and also a friend of the family. My face fitted.' 'And figure, dear,' Mina said jokingly, 'never forget the figure.' Marianne shrugged. 'Either way, I was in. Wife in name - to Dr Logan Tate. Loving mother to aforementioned man's offspring.'

'Now I know it all,' Mina said dryly. 'But don't you realise the advantages you have over your rival? You've got it made, my girl. You hold a handful of aces. You could, if only you'd use a woman's age-old tactics, scoop the board, win the jackpot—you know what I mean.' 'I wish that were true,' Marianne sighed, remembering the two or three nights they had spent together and which had added nothing to their relationship. Jilly jumped up and down impatiently at her side. Mina smiled at-Marianne. 'To use yet another old cliche, "If at first you don't succeed, make sure you do at the second, third or fourth attempts"! Anyway, tell your darling husband I told you about the dance and that you want him to take you. Brook no arguments, as they say. Tell him that either he takes you or --' She paused, looked down at the young, interested, upturned face and said, 'Why doesn't someone tell me to hold my tongue more often? 'Bye, both of you.' She waved them off.

When Marianne put Jilly to bed that evening, she told her she was going in to see her daddy for a little while. 'To tell him about the dance Auntie Mina told you about?' Marianne laughed. 'Yes, big ears,' she said, hugging the child whose arms were chokingly around her neck. 'I'll leave the door open between the bedrooms, shall I? Then you'll know I'm not far away.' Jilly nodded and snuggled down contentedly. How little satisfies her, Marianne thought. If only I could make do with a smile from Logan, a few minutes now and then in his arms ... But she knew that would never be enough. She wanted to belong to him wholly, to mean

everything- to him, to be the wife he returned to eagerly every evening after a hard day's work. When she opened the communicating door, it was with a beating heart that she crossed his bedroom and gazed down the staircase of his cottage, listening for a sound indicating that he was there. Silence greeted her straining ears. As usual, she thought unhappily, as she descended the curving staircase, he was 'working late'. In his living-room, she gazed around just a little guiltily, then checked the feeling. So silly, when she belonged there. Once she would have acknowledged no barriers, whoever had tried to impose them. Once she would have rebelled with all. her being against the remoteness of the man she loved, the cold determination of any woman who might make a play for him. Now she was older she knew that a man's indifference was one of the hardest things to overcome. The door of his study stood open. He was not there, so why should she not go in? Neatness greeted her; not the tidiness of a domestic help but the order imposed on a working place by a trained, methodical mind. The writing of his notes was as neat as it had ever been, the phrase as precise, the paragraphs carefully measured so as to be almost equal with each other. This, Marianne thought as she turned the pages, was the work of a person accustomed to writing reports with meticulous care, someone whose work led him to search for the truth, ferret out the facts and report his findings fearlessly and honestly, without regard to the reactions, good or bad, which might be aroused in the mind of the reader. It was the work of a scientist who carried over the training he had received in his academic days to life in general —cool detachment, an

uninvolved observation of the subject matter, whether it be a micro-organism he was studying, or the quivering lips and overflowing eyes of the girl he had professed once to love. Eight years ago he had taken back his proposal of marriage only a month after he had pushed his own signet ring on to her engagement finger. She sighed and wandered back into his living-room—to be confronted with the man who had just entered. 'What were you doing in my study?' Yes, she was right. The detachment with which he regarded his work still clung, even though he had left the laboratory behind. And yes, she thought as his eyes roved over her, noting the tight, buttoned shirt and old jeans she wore, he was carrying out a cool observation of the subject matter—herself. Her lips turned upwards in a smile. Use all your weapons, Mina had advised. All right, her clothes did not carry an expensive label, but neither did they hide her enticing shapeliness. The figure, Mina had said, never forget the figure ... It seemed Ms eyes were caught by the way the shirt did not quite meet between the buttons. It seemed that the resulting gaps caught and teased his eyes. No emotion, however, showed on his face. 'Just looking at your work,' she said, answering his question, 'and admiring it.' 'You know nothing about it.' Her smile held. 'Unlike your gifted and brilliant colleague, Coral Morland.' His eyes remained unreadable. 'Of course, I remember now. You told me to attend evening classes, get degrees and diplomas and things, and then you might love me as you love her.' The merest flicker passed across his eyes, then they were as still and deep as a pool in a

forest. 'However,' Marianne went on, 'I can still admire something I don't understand, can't I? The neatness, the order, the control you display in all your activities, even your --' she moistened her lips, she was treading on dangerous ground, 'your approaches to me.' His eyes sparked and they dwelt again on the gaps left by the failure of her shirt to cover completely her straining breasts. 'If you're trying a bit of verbal seduction, if you're mentally curling up beside me in a kitten-like ball as you did in my bed on a memorable occasion --' Memorable? she thought. 'Then, my darling, you've chosen the wrong time.' The hardness of his tone cancelled out the love inbuilt into the endearment. 'I'm hungry, admittedly, but for food, not for lovemaking.' She steeled herself not to flinch at the sarcasm. 'All right, I'll tell you why I came,' she said. 'To tell you Mina told me about the charity dance. And,' she stared at him as if 1 daring him to refuse, 'to ask you to take me to the dance.' There was a short silence. 'I'd like to go,' she added, almost defeated by his failure to answer. With a tormenting smile he said, 'I'll think about it.' She swung away, making for the stairs. 'When you've eaten yourself into a pleasanter, more polite mood,' she called over her shoulder, 'I'll return for your answer.' She raced two at a time up the stairs. 'Hey, you little spitfire, come back!' This, she thought, her heart singing, was themselves eight years ago. He'll come after me, she rejoiced. But she had miscalculated. He was indeed hungry. His need for food was, at this hour, paramount. She should have known better.

Having forced herself to watch a television programme she did not want to see, and having spent most of it listening in vain for his footsteps bringing him to her cottage, she went upstairs and applied a little make-up. She covered her well-shaped lips with a light layer of lipstick, sprayed a mist of perfume around her and emphasised her eyebrows with a dark colour. When at last she had found the necessary courage to invade her husband's privacy again, she went down his staircase to hear music which she recognised as being Beethoven's Violin Concerto. When she crossed the room and took her place beside him as though she had every right to do so—which, she told herself, as his wife she had —his eyebrow lifted and a small smile played around his mouth. He did not speak, however. It was as though he did not wish to interrupt his enjoyment of the music which filled the darkening room. After a while he rose to switch on a floor-standing light covered by a large deep red shade. Then he resumed his seat, lowering his head to the seat back and closing his eyes. The music swamped her, too, but she could not, as Logan obviously did, listen to it with the intellect. The chords and cadences, the sounds that had come from the depths of the composer's mind penetrated to her depths, too, and she responded with her emotions to the melodic phrasing and changing musical patterns. All of her longings clamoured to be listened to, yearned to be expressed in action. Wakened to life by the beauty of the music, they allowed suppressed demands to surface. If only, she thought again, I could do as I did when I was younger, if only I could put my arms round him and whisper, I love you. But hadn't she done that the night she had crept into his bed, and hadn't he thrown the words back in her face? How often could a woman tell a man she loved him, only to be repulsed every time? For ever,

something whispered in her head, if you loved him enough. Isn't true love unselfish and giving, wanting nothing in return? Under the stirring influence of the music, and almost of its own volition, her hand moved sideways across the small space which divided them, and encountered his hand resting there. Hers slid over his until their fingers made contact then, realising that once again it was she who was making tie first move and, in effect, asking him to notice her, she jerked her hand away. It was enough. It seemed that her action had opened a secret sliding panel in his personality and all his masculinity and drive had, like a hidden hoard of gold coins, come tumbling into the open. His hand came out now, not gently as hers had done, but with a ruthless knowledge of its own intention—which was to grasp her wrist and pull her sprawling face down over him. 'How did you guess my thoughts, lady?' he growled deep within his throat. 'Like a water diviner with a magic twig? Or,' he whispered with his mouth disturbingly against her ear, 'like a real wife knowing her husband's mood, guessing the path his inclinations were taking him?' She smiled to herself, unable to let the opportunity of goading him pass by. 'So the music didn't only please your intellect,' she said, lifting her head and challenging him with her look, 'but stirred your emotions like it did mine?' Her head dropped and they lay together, cheek against cheek. Then she shook her head. 'I can't believe it. The cold, remote, robot-like scientist called Dr Logan Tate actually possessing feelings, like any uncomplicated;, averagely-educated male? No,' she taunted, lifting her head again and gazing down at him, 'it's just not possible.' 'I'll show you what's possible, you tormenting, maddening little witch.' He caught her wrists and held them above their heads and the full

weight of her body pressed against his. She felt his chest, his thighs, his legs, the muscles of him hard and demanding against the softness of her femininity. The music ended and the tape clicked to a stop. For a moment there was a tremendous silence, holding them both in its spell. It was like a complete and utter merging of their minds, as if their bodies did not matter. Logan released her wrists, then he jerked himself from the unit suite to the floor, harmlessly hitting the deeply piled carpet and breaking her fall with his body. 'You think you know me, do yob? You think that because you've slept with me two or three times and that a piece of paper made me your husband; you think that because once, when you were little more than a child you called me your "fiance" for a few weeks, you know me from head to foot, back to front, inside out?' In a few seconds he had the buttons of her straining shirt unfastened. A few seconds more and his tie was removed and thrown aside, his shirt unbuttoned and his granite-hard chest pressed against her soft, rounded, yielding shape. It was as though their bodies rejoiced in the contact, as though they cried out for each other. She was intoxicated with his nearness, with eagerness ' for his love. 'Cling to him,' Mina had said, 'you've got a handful of aces.' Mina was right. She would use those aces one by one—and she would win. She would hold on to the man she loved so hard that no other woman, not even a beautiful, black-haired one, would drag him away from her. He turned her on to her side and her palm slid gently over his face, skimming the high cheekbones, stroking his cheek and finding at last the tapering line of his jaw. She put the back of her hand to his neck and let it move down to rub softly against his chest.

He half-closed his eyes. 'You're a minx,' he said, 'you're a fair-haired, blue-eyed witch. I'm a fool, aren't I? Why do I always entangle myself with fair-haired, blue-eyed --' 'Am I like your first wife?' The question shot from her and plainly hit the target, as she had intended it to do. She was sure he had almost winced. 'Yes. And no. Stop asking dangerous, foolish questions and let me finish what I've started.' He pulled her closer and his lips settled in the hollows at the base of her throat, making their ardent way downwards until they found her breasts. There they lingered, moved, lingered again, inducing in her an ecstatic, vibrant response. Faintly, from the distance, came the ring of the telephone. In the haze in which her husband's lovemaking had enveloped her she repudiated the sound. It was a noise in her ears, a joyful ringing of bells ... Logan drew away, lying On his back, arm uplifted on which to rest his head. 'For you. You'd better answer.' 'Let it ring,' she said, pulling at his arm. 'It'll wake Jilly.' His voice was thick, his eyes closed. 'But for God's sake, hurry back.' Marianne buttoned her shirt with fumbling fingers. 'If it's Mina, tell her we're indulging in a bit of togetherness. If it's anyone else,' his voice faded as she wrenched open the front door, 'tell them to go to—' She opened her own front door, dived for the telephone in an effort to silence it and gasped, 'Yes?' 'Quentin here. You sound out of breath.'

'I am. I've just come from my husband's cottage.' . Her docs' creaked wider. Logan entered and stood waiting, hands in pockets. 'My dear, I'm so sorry. If I'd known, and knowing the situation between you, I wouldn't have dreamed of interrupting -- -'Please,' Marianne glanced over her shoulder, seeing her husband run his hand through his hair, 'did you want something, Quentin?' Quentin spoke with clarity and his voice carried. She knew Logan could hear every word. 'I really do apologise. I'm not usually tactless. As you may know, I make k my business to speak on the phone with the utmost diplomacy. At the moment, maybe because of the exceptionally pleasant person I'm talking to, I don't seem to be doing very well. First, my notes are ready for typing. Would you, I wonder, be available tomorrow morning to make a start?' With Logan so near, it was not easy speaking to Quentin Royle. She had already been forced to damp down her fires. Now she must speak in a normal voice with a certain, amount of enthusiasm to someone she liked very much but on whom, at that particular moment in time, she wished she could hang up. 'Certainly,' she managed to say with a smile which she hoped Quentin would hear, 'I'm looking forward to working for you. Would nine-thirty suit you?' 'Excellent,' Quentin answered. 'There's one more thing before I let you go --' Marianne threw an anxious glance over her shoulder. Logan was slowly and deliberately fastening his shirt buttons and buckling the belt around the waistband of his trousers. Her heart sank. His fires, it

seemed, were not just damped down, like hers—they were out, cold. Without even looking at her, he turned and went away. 'This charity dance they're giving at the Windsor Towers Hotel,' Quentin was saying, 'would you allow me to partner you?' Marianne's face grew warm. 'You mean, you're inviting me to go with you?' 'I am.' 'Quentin, that's terribly kind, but --' I'll think about it, Logan had said. What should she do? 'But,' she took a chance, 'my husband's taking me. It's so kind of you, though, to think of me.' 'Not at all. I'm delighted to hear it. I shall be attending in any case. But you won't even notice me! Until tomorrow. Goodbye.' She walked back slowly to Logan's cottage. 'That was Quentin Royle,' she said unnecessarily. 'I know,' His voice was flat. There was a change in him. He had drifted away from her in mind and body. 'I --' she could not look at him, 'I'm going to do some typing for him. I meant to tell you.' Logan threw himself down on to the unit suite. His tie. was in place again, he had run a comb through his hair. He had even pulled on his jacket. The rug they had rumpled with their twisting, ardent bodies had been straightened. It was as though the lovemaking had never happened. Like a criminal covering his traces before leaving the scene of the crime, Logan had restored his living-room to its customary order.

'You meant to tell me. I can't think why.' He stared narrowly into the fireplace where an unlit fire was arranged, log upon log. It would not throw out its promise of warmth until autumn bronzed the leaves and the summer sun grew cool. --_ iWhat do you mean?' She wrapped her arms about her. He had changed from ardent lover back to cynic and she could have cried at the alteration in his attitude. ' 'I meant,' his tone was colourless, 'that I'd been expecting it.' She frowned. 'Expecting what?' 'Your unfaithfulness to begin. I knew it wouldn't be long before you started looking elsewhere for—entertainment. All women crave the excitement of illicit love.' 'On what,' she demanded, 'do you base that quite irresponsible and completely unjust statement?' He smiled mockingly. 'Experience is a great teacher.' So he refused to explain! Her temper erupted. 'Earlier this evening I called you cold and remote. I said you were like a robot, without any feelings. I was right, wasn't I, although you denied it.' When his eyes lifted they seemed strangely shadowed. 'What was what we shared down there,' he indicated the floor where they had lain, 'if not "feelings"?' 'I'll tell you what it was. It was desire motivated by proximity. It was an automatic reflex action on your part. I've got --' she looked down at the shape straining against the shirt, 'attractions, I'm female and—and I'm your wife. They all combined to bring about what happened. Not feelings, not emotions, not—not even love.'

As his gaze returned to the unlighted fire, he gave a shrug. 'You should know. You initiated it.' 'Need you say that every time?' she choked. 'Need you rub it in that each time we—come together, I—I --' She could not finish. Her voice was full of tears. 'Do the running?' He smiled. 'But you do, don't you?' he mocked. 'What else can you expect since you got yourself a cold, robot-like scientist for a husband?' A few moments of deep breathing were necessary to hold back the spate of angry words, then she said, 'Quentin invited me to go with him to the dance.' Her words brought no response. 'I said you were taking me. Is that correct?' She waited, then went on, 'You said you'd think about it.' His face lifted and it was blank. 'I've thought about it.' A tantalising pause had her wanting to leap at him and scratch his face. As if he could read her thoughts, he smiled. 'I'll take you, spitfire. Now run away and leave me alone. We've come up against a problem at work which I ,must think about. Go and take care of my daughter.' His smile taunted. 'That's why I married you, wasn't it?' She gritted her teeth. 'Our daughter,' she said. His raised eyebrows indicated his surprise and amusement. He bowed his head slightly. 'Forgive me. Our daughter.' She could do nothing else but leave him alone. 'Cling to him,' Mina had said. Well, she had clung, hadn't she? And what had she found at the end of it? That she might as well cling to a cloud as cling to Logan Tate.

Marianne enjoyed working for Quentin Royle. His notes were clear, their content of immense interest. In another folder were photographs of items described in the notes and it was plain that the photographer who, Quentin explained, was a friend, was first class. Sometimes Quentin would come into the room he called his office and stand a few moments watching Marianne's fingers flying pvfer the typewriter keys. When, now and then, she looked up at him, she found his eyes full of approval—and a more meaningful appreciation. Her colour flared, but all he said was, 'I admire your typing expertise greatly. You must give me lessons some time.' Marianne shook her head. 'To learn to touch-type, you need really expert tuition.' He laughed and went away. Despite his obvious admiration for her as a woman, she believed Mina's interpretation of his character—no matter how much he liked a woman, he would treat her with the greatest respect. Whether she was married or unmarried, it would make no difference. He was a solitary, no longer young, but with no regrets about the past and no illusions about the future. No wonder he was a member of the Samaritans. She felt instinctively that he was.a man to be trusted implicitly. Once a week, Marianne helped at the charity shop. Sometimes, when trade was slow, she would use the hand sewing-machine in the office at the rear of the shop. She would make her contribution towards the goods on sale by turning pieces of spare material into aprons and even summer skirts for small girls. Logan seemed once again to have drifted from her. She felt as powerless as a watcher on the shore seeing a beloved child drifting helplessly out to sea on an inflated air-bed.

He had taken to staying late at the laboratory again. Marianne was tormented with visions of her husband lunching with Coral, drinking morning coffee and afternoon tea with Coral, working side by side , with Coral at the laboratory bench, exchanging ideas, arguing a point, reaching agreement, meeting on all planes, both mental and physical... One afternoon after school, Jilly ransacked her room for a missing doll7 It was not to be found. Marianne joined in, looking in every cardboard box, in every drawer. Then, when Marianne had given up, saying she must have given the doll away or lost it on the way back to England from Africa, Jilly grew desperate and began to search in the most unlikely places. She went into Marianne's bedroom, opening doors and pulling out drawers and exclaiming at the feather-light lingerie never yet worn. She went into the kitchenfopening drawers there, too, passing into the dining-room and reaching the living-room. 'It's somewhere, I know it's somewhere ...' Seconds before the cry of exultation, Marianne remembered the precious miniature bureau-bookcase Quentin had given her. Panic-stricken, she dropped everything and ran —too late, the cry of delight met her ears and she stood looking down into Jilly's excited eyes. No doll, but the tiny, perfect miniature was held in reverent-hands. 'Mummy,' she squeaked, 'oh, Mummy, is it for me? Where did you buy it? Does everything work?' Delicately, fingers opened a tiny drawer, found the key and used it carefully. 'Darling,' Marianne crouched down, 'please be careful. It's very precious, pet. No, Jilly, it's not for you. It was— given to me. You know who by?'

Jilly, preoccupied with opening everything that moved, said, 'Daddy?' 'No. Mr Royle. You know, he sells antiques.' Jilly nodded. 'Is this an antique, then?' 'It certainly is. And it must have cost a great deal of money.' 'It must indeed have cost a great deal.' The deep, mocking voice came from the door. They had both been so absorbed that neither of them had heard it open. 'What did you—give for it, Marianne?' There was no mockery in the eyes that looked down at her, only a narrow hardness, a look bordering on contempt. Marianne straightened. They could not quarrel in front of Jilly. 'Nothing, as a matter of fact,' she said slowly. 'Quentin gave it to me out of the kindness of his heart.' 'He did?' Marianne glanced quickly at Jilly. No, she had not heard the sarcasm. 'Yes, he did, Daddy,' she said, getting up from her knees and showing him the miniature bureau. 'Isn't it perfect? Everything on it works.' Logan held out his hand. 'It's very precious, Mummy said,' Jilly told him, placing the item with exaggerated care into her father's hands, 'so please be careful.' Logan examined it minutely, as if it were a specimen under a microscope. 'Precious, is it?' he said, looking at his wife. 'Because of its intrinsic value, or because of its donor?' Jilly looked from one to the other, not understanding the words, big words which her father had deliberately used to keep the conversation above her head.

A flare of defiance burned in Marianne's breast. 'Fight for him,' Mina had said, 'use all your weapons.' 'Maybe both,' she said quietly, calming the tremor in her voice. They must not quarrel now! 'Quentin's a good man,' she said with complete conviction, plus a desire to irritate, 'he's the salt of the earth as men go.' She went on, repeating Mina's words, 'He's a wonderful man. Where others are concerned, he gives and gives.' She stopped and mentally stood back in horror as she saw a silent rage take hold of Logan. He also knew that, in front of Jilly, they must not appear to be quarrelling. With fear she watched the antique in his hands. As his fingers loosened their hold, she gasped and turned white. He couldn't, he wouldn't simply out of spite destroy such a beautiful thing ... He smiled at the reaction he had intentionally provoked, appeared to relent and held it out to her. 'May I give you - some advice? Next time you come up against someone with a weapon in his hand, with power to destroy something you prize, withhold your fire, your provocation, until that thing is back in your possession and the danger has passed. You so nearly lost a present given to you by a man who, in your opinion, stands head and shoulders above all other men—your husband included.' He swung from her and made for the door. There, he paused. 'With regard to the charity dance,' he said curtly, 'I've changed my mind. Since your boy-friend, for whom you—work so willingly and who rewards you with such valuable gifts, has already indicated his wish to take you, I give him my permission,' his eyes glittered, 'yes, even my blessing, to do so.' 'Does that mean,' Marianne asked, keeping her voice colourless, 'you won't be going?'

'Oh yes, I'll be going. I shall take Coral Morland who, in a roundabout way, has already asked me to ask her to be my partner.' Under such provocation, Marianne threw aside all restraint. Jilly had left the room in her search for her doll. Marianne hoped that if Jilly could hear, she would notunderstand what was taking place—the slow, torturing disintegration of her parents' marriage. 'You've discussed it over lunch, no doubt,' she sneered, 'over morning coffee and afternoon tea. You've probably discussed me, too—over your evening meal before going back to the lab for more—er—work,' she smeared the word with scorn. He asked coldly, 'Who fed you with all this information?' 'A mutual acquaintance. A completely reliable source. Don't deny it, because I know it's true.' He rubbed his chin in seeming thoughtfulness. 'Mutual acquaintance, It would be Mina, via Ralph?' 'Don't pin it on to one person. I'm told it's all round the lab what's going on between you and Coral Morland.' 'And what exactly is going on between us?' He hadn't denied it! She felt her heart was breaking, but she hit back, 'You of all people should know that.' 'Well, if it is going on, whatever "it" is, wouldn't it be a case of snap, tit-for-tat, blow for blow, call it what you like—a game at which two can play?' 'If you're referring to Quentin and myself --'

'I was. But don't worry, my love,' he went on sarcastically, 'even when I do take Coral to the dance—to quote your own misquotation—J shall be faithful to thee, Marianne Tate, in my fashion.'' Anger narrowed his eyes and turned his hps into a thin line. He swung round and this time went away. 'I still haven't found my dolly,' Jilly wailed, returning to the living-room. 'Darling,' said Marianne, her voice, which was full of tears, muffled by a handkerchief, 'if that's all you've lost, consider yourself a very lucky girl.' Jilly frowned, sighed and shook her head, unable to understand what her mother was talking about. She went on looking for her doll. Marianne rang Quentin that evening. 'I hope you don't mind,' she said, 'my taking you up on your very kind invitation to me to go with you to the charity dance.' There was a short pause. 'You mean,' Quentin said at last, 'you would like me to partner you, after all?' 'Yes, yes, please, Quentin. There's—been a change of plan.' 'I—see,' Quentin replied. 'My dear, I should be delighted, not to say honoured, to partner you. I shall call for you around eight. Will that suit?' 'Thanks, Quentin. I'm truly grateful. It's really very kind --' 'Nonsense. No kindness about it. My pleasure, and I hope, yours.' Marianne arranged for a friend of Angie's to baby-sit on the night of the dance. Angie had returned to the university. Another of Angie's friends would be baby-sitting for Mina and Ralph.

Jilly, dressed in her pyjamas, watched Marianne dress for the dance. The child's baby-smooth complexion and silver- fair hair, highlighted by the sky-blue eyes, gave her a radiance which enchanted. If, Marianne thought, comparing disparagingly her own streaked fair hair with that of her little stepdaughter, Jilly had inherited her mother's looks, no wonder Logan had married the woman. Did he, she wondered, taking her long dress from the wardrobe, see hot Marianne Tate, but Gaye, his first wife, every time he made love? When he feathered her cheeks, her eyes and found her lips, devouring them with his, did he delve into the past and imagine that the woman surrendering so ecstatically to his male dominance was not herself but Jilly's mother? The possibility gave rise to a pain so intense Marianne winced. "What's the matter,' Jilly asked conversationally, ,'have you hurt yourself? Or was it excitement that gave you that funny look? When I go to parties I get excitement pains.' They were comments that required only smiles, .not answers. Marianne spread the dress on the bed, and Jilly exclaimed, 'Isn't it pretty? Look at that glitter!' The glitter was caused by a triangle of sequins fixed to the lowest point of the plunging vee-shape of the neck. The high waistline emphasised the provocative curve of her breasts. The long sleeves tapered to the wrists which were scattered lightly with more sequins. The skirt clung, revealing the neatness of her hips and swinging enticingly as she moved. Round her neck, Marianne fastened a silver chain, round one wrist a matching bracelet. 'You look beau-ti-jul!' Jilly breathed. 'Much, much prettier than my real mummy.' -

Marianne smiled sadly and shook her head. The child would surely have been too young to remember. 'You do!' Jilly insisted indignantly. 'Oh, your sandals are silver, too. And,' she squeaked, 'your toenails are pink! The same colour as your fingernails!' After completing her make-up, Marianne touched her ears and wrists with perfume. 'I'm nearly ready,' she said. 'Off you go to bed now, pet. I'll come in soon.' Jilly skipped away and Marianne ran a comb through her hair, pausing in the action and letting the hair fall fan-like back into place. If only Logan were taking her! If only Logan could see her as she was and not as his first wife, appearing through the mists in his mind. If only Logan loved her ... 'Yes, you look beautiful. There's no need to admire yourself now you've got a captivated audience to do it for you.' She swung round and the skirt swirled, catching his attention. He leaned casually against the inner door and his indolent gaze travelled slowly the whole distance of her body until he met her eyes. Then his eyes rebounded, lowering quickly to dwell first on the sparkle at the plunge of the neckline, then on the swell of her breasts to which the neckline drew attention. His look was almost a physical caress, careless, slightly insolent, but a caress nevertheless. She grew warm and uncomfortable under the arrogant look. 'Well,' she challenged. ''do I pass?' 'I told you, you're beautiful. Poised, sophisticated, every centimetre the mature, experienced young woman—and not one atom like the girl to whom I became attached enough eight years or more ago to pull off my signet ring and push it on to her finger.'

'So you don't like me like this?' . He straightened slowly and came towards her, hands pushed into his jacket pockets. The nearer he came, the faster her pulses raced. He stopped an arm's length away and she felt the tremendous pull of him. In his formal black suit and dress shirt, with his thick black hair and the slightly ironic arch to his brows, he looked both handsome and ruthless, cool and calm. But it was, she was sure, only a surface calm. Underneath it she sensed that he was bitterly angry and was, with difficulty, only just holding that anger in check., 'No,' he said, raking her appearance once again, 'I don't like you like that. I prefer you like this.' His hand lifted and he jerked aside tie neckline, baring her shoulder. His head bent and his lips found the smooth white skin. The kiss he deposited there was savage, his teeth making her cry out and tears fill her eyes. He threw her from him, leaving her to cover the shoulder he had maltreated. 'It's l-lucky,' she choked, fingering the plunging point of the neckline, 'that it's not t-torn.' 'Isn't it?' he sneered. 'Then your precious escort, that paragon of a man who's partnering you and on Whom you've bestowed almost god-like qualities, won't get angry at the thought of your husband mauling you about. You'd better take care he doesn't see the teeth marks I've just nipped intoyour shoulder. It will probably leave a bruise, which will at least give you something to remember me by. Pity it's there, though, isn't it, because when you're making love after the dance --' She lifted her hand, hurling it towards his cheek, but he caught her wrist deftly and gripped it until she bit her lip. She must not cry out again. Jilly would hear and begin to grow anxious.

'You don't know the man,' she whispered, 'you're so wrong about him.' The grip tightened and she winced. 'Please,' she faltered, 'you're spoiling my evening before it's even-begun.' He released her at once and she tried in vain to rub the pain away. 'Forgive me,' he mocked. 'I hope you have a fantastic time with your .antique dealer, which is what I intend to have with my partner. Don't forget, when you watch us moving round the floor locked in each other's arms, that I've been given permission—your permission—to commit adultery.' 'That's a He!' she blazed. 'Alas, no. On the evening you went to visit Quentin Royle and I entertained Coral Morland, you told me—let me get the words right—that if it was my masculine appetite I needed satisfying, why didn't I go to my female guest? What greater encouragement could a straying husband need?' 'Mummy!' The cry came from a shrill, childish voice. Had Jilly guessed at last what was happening between her father and her new mother? Marianne went at once to answer the call, but Logan forestalled her. She heard him speaking softly to his daughter, soothing her as though she was crying. She's lucky, Marianne thought, using all her self-control to hold back her own tears, she can let her misery out. I have to keep mine under lock and key. She went on to the landing and looked into Jilly's room. Logan crouched beside his daughter's bed, rocking her in his arms. The picture they presented made her cover her face. There was an unhappiness the two of them shared— the death of a woman, a woman long gone, but who plainly still meant the world to both of them.

CHAPTER NINE THE dance was over, the baby-sitter had left. The silence that prevailed in! the cottage was louder than the noise had been in the dance hall. Marianne sat forward, head in her hands. Quentin had acted like a lover. When the dance had started, he had whispered, 'Will you trust me, Marianne? Will you believe that whatever I do this evening, I shall do with the best intentions? That I have no evil or immoral motives, that it will be only for your own good?' He'll do anything he can to bring you happiness, Mina had said. So Marianne had nodded, like a patient putting her life into the hands of a doctor. As they had danced, Quentin had held her close, whispering in her ear. What he had said had been a meaningless jumble, but it had made her laugh and gaze up at him. When they had sat out a dance or two, he had given her his exclusive attention, telling her about his work, revealing the extent of his knowledge of the world of antiques which he loved so much. When, on one occasion, Logan and Coral had come near and Logan's arm had been round Coral's waist, Quentin had leaned forward and taken Marianne's hand. In the hotel garden, when they had wandered past a white seat and found Logan and Coral embracing, Quentin had taken Marianne in his arms and kissed her—but his lips had not in reality touched hers. It was then that she recognised his tactics and thanked him silently from the bottom of her heart. But she knew her husband better than any other person, including Quentin. She was certain that even if Quentin succeeded in provoking Logan to jealousy, it would not have the desired effect.

Now, sitting alone at half-past midnight, with Quentin gone after drinking a cup of coffee, Marianne knew the answer. Quentin's efforts had not only failed, they had made matters worse. From Logan's cottage came sounds of music, raised voices, loud laughter—no one had laughed quite like Logan, even in the old days—sounds which told her that her husband, in entertaining his girl-friend, was winning the bitter battle with the ease of a hardened fighter. When she could not stand the noise any longer, she went upstairs. It was as if Logan had sensed what she had done, because only a few moments after she had dropped into bed, fatigued beyond words, too tired even to cry, she heard voices in Logan's bedroom. Marianne gripped the covers, her body taut from head to foot. That couldn't be Logan's intention! He surely wouldn't brazenly bring his woman to his bedroom, knowing that his wife was on the other side of the door, able to hear every word, imagine every movement! There was a gurgle of laughter from Coral, then a smothered giggle as though she had been told to be quiet. It sounded as if she had had too much to drink. There was low talking for a while, then silence, a long, long silence. It was some time later that Marianne, lying there in anguish, heard a car's engine come to life. With a spurt and a crunch of the wheels, it was gone. 'I've been given permission by my wife,' Logan had said, 'to commit --' Marianne clapped her hands over her ears as if the action would prevent her from hearing her own thoughts. Logan must have decided against entertaining his girlfriend as blatantly and conspicuously as she had dreaded. He had exercised discretion and had gone, instead, to her home. The thought crept into Marianne's mind—would he, having taking Coral back, decide to return to his own home after all? It was this minuscule fragment of

hope that she took with her, clasped like a magic charm in the frenzied fingers of her mind, into a deep, exhausted sleep.

The magic charm had failed to work. When Marianne awoke, the birds were singing, throats opened wide to the early morning breeze, telling of the joys of the sun-filled hours to come. The communicating door remained dauntingly closed. Marianne washed, pulled on pants and sleeveless top and looked at the door. It was a barrier. It was meant to deter. It was also a challenge and, like the mountain that beckons the climber, the door beckoned her. I'm his wife, she told herself, so, agreement or no agreement, she would rise to that challenge. No matter what she might find on the other side of that door ... Her thoughts cut out abruptly like a radio switched off. Marianne turned the handle, pushed the door—the room was empty. The covers were ruffled as though bodies had lain on them, but the bed had not been slept in. So Coral Morland had won. Logan had spent the night at her apartment. It was the end. All-right, she told herself, hands to her throat, so he had said the day she had accepted his proposal, 'Even if I were ever unfaithful to you—and who knows, I might be—you would still remain my wife.' Now he had been unfaithful, blatantly so. And she had discovered one very important fact. She loved him so much she could not take it. She wanted out—and fast. Her heart began to pound. She was too confused to make plans. There was one thought in her head—to get away.

'Mummy!' Almost a scream—she was missing again from her room. Conditioned reflex—that was it all it was, she told herself—made her rush back into her own cottage. When a white-faced little girl gazed up at her, she crouched down and wrapped her arms about the shaking figure. Reflex action—rubbish! she thought. She loved this little child of Logan's just as much as she loved the child's father. How could she bear to part with her? 'Jilly, oh, Jilly,' she whispered, pressing her cheek against the soft hair. --, 'Are you crying, Mummy?' Jilly asked gently. When Marianne, trying to suppress her sobs, did not reply, Jilly said, 'I don't mind. I often cry. I know what it feels like.' Marianne lifted her head and released the child. She found a handkerchief and rubbed her eyes. 'You're a poppet,' /she said, smiling tearfully. 'That's what my daddy calls me,' said Jilly, and she skipped away to dress. Her daddy! She couldn't take this little girl away from the father she adored. It was then that she knew what she would have to do. There was only one place she could run to at such a time. She would go where she had gone before—home to her mother. But for the child's sake, she would have to go alone. There must be no variation in the routine. Jilly would be taken to Mina's but before Mina left for the school, she would tell Mina her intentions, ask her to keep Jilly until Logan came home and—well, she must harden herself—the rest was up to him, wasn't it? He would have to find another woman to take care of Jilly. And he would have to find another wife.

They arrived early at Mina's. There was, as usual, a great after-breakfast flurry. 'Mina,' Marianne stepped into the hall. She could not hide her shadowed eyes from her friend. Marianne lowered her voice. 'I'm leaving Logan. I can't go on. Last night --' 'No Logan?' Marianne nodded. 'So that cool bitch—if you'll pardon my language—won?' 'So it seems. Bedroom empty, covers disturbed but not slept in. I heard the car drive away --' Tears threatened, but by holding her breath she had them quickly under control. 'Jilly?' Even the mere whisper of the child's name seemed to have attracted her attention. Marianne whispered, 'Will you keep her until Logan comes? Please, Mina?' Mina nodded, remarking resignedly, 'Go on, say it. "You're a real pal." Also an utter fool. Look, don't go, Marianne. Fight it.' Marianne shook her head. 'It's gone past that. I shall go to my mother's. Jilly'—oh, no, she thought, seeing the small face drained of colour, she doesn't really understand, does she?—'when—when Daddy comes home this evening, he'll come and get you.' 'If you're going away,' Jilly cried shrilly. 'I'm going with you. You promised you'd never leave me like my real mummy did! You promised!' 'But, Jilly --'

'If you don't take me,' her young voice rose higher, 'I'll run all the way after you in your car!' -She looked triumphantly from one to die other, aware that she had played her trump card. Mina smiled ruefully. 'Full stop. End of message.' She bent and tapped Jilly playfully on her bottom. 'You're an. imp. Off you go,' she said to them both. 'I'll tell Jilly's teacher, Marianne. I'll say you've been called away urgently and had to take Iilly. All right?' 'Thanks a lot, Mina. And—would you mind—please tell .Quentin? And thank him, too.' 'For fast night?' Mina laughed. 'I never knew he was such a good actor.' 'It didn't do any good, did it?' Marianne said miserably. 'In fact, it only made matters worse.' Mina's face took on an unfamiliar, hard look. It passed quickly and she said. 'Off you go and get packing. I must get these little angels of mine to their classrooms.' Her hand came out. 'Good luck, Marianne. 'Bye, Jilly. I'll be seeing you both—some time.' Jilly skipped beside Marianne to the car. 'Where are we going, Mummy?' As if, Marianne thought, they had a day's outing in front of them. --. To your granny's pet—that is, to my mother's. It's a long way.' She looked down at the child. 'Do you remember her? That lady in a blue and white dress, the day your daddy and I got married?' ' 'Oh, yes, that—sort of round lady.' Marianne laughed. Her mother did possess a plump-cheeked face. 'I liked her very much. Is she my new granny?'

Jilly clapped her hands, climbed into the car and they drove back to the cottage. --The journey from Suffolk to Gloucestershire was long and tiring. On their wedding day, Logan had been beside her to share the driving, but now she had to tackle it alone. They stopped for lunch at an ancient inn, then moved on as fast as the traffic would allow. Before they had left, Marianne had telephoned her mother. No questions had been asked, only a muted pleasure exchanged at the coming reunion. All her mother had said was, 'Just you and Jilly?' 'Yes, Mum,' Marianne had answered, 'just Jilly and myself.' That, Marianne felt, had been enough to tell her mother all she needed to know. It was teatime when the car finally drew up in the street outside her mother's modest home. Only a couple of roads distant stood the house in which the Tate family had once lived. Here was the past and the future. As far as she was concerned, there was no present any more. Jilly jumped out of the car and pushed open the rusting iron gate. 'Come on, Mummy,' she urged. 'Look, the door's opening.' Jilly, suddenly shy, slowed to a walk. Then, as Marianne's mother's arms came out, she took courage and ran into them. She was enveloped at once in love and warmth and grandmotherliness. There were tears in Gertrude Conway's eyes. 'She's so like you were at her age, love,' die said. 'It's quite extraordinary, it really is.' The room Jilly would occupy was once Marianne's. The thought delighted Jilly that, when her new mummy was a little girl, she had slept in there, too. Marianne put her own belongings in the spare room

which Logan had occupied the day he had come back into her life. Counted in months, it was not very long ago. In experience, however, it seemed to Marianne the equivalent of years. Jilly went willingly to bed soon after tea. She was tired from the long journey and exhausted by the hew sounds and sights and events she had absorbed into her small system. It was, to her, a holiday. To Marianne, it was very close to hell. For some time after Jilly had gone to sleep, Marianne had talked to her mother. It settled nothing, but it achieved something—the unburdening of her misery and lack of hope for the future of her marriage. The evening sun beckoned, the clear sky above the summer greens and reds promised, through the birdsong, to soothe troubled minds. 'I'm going for a walk, Mum,' Marianne said. Mrs Conway smiled. 'I thought it wouldn't be long before you said that, dear. I know my own daughter as well as I know the alphabet! Never could resist the call of these bright summer evenings, could you, even when you were young.' It had been a summer evening when she had first become engaged--and disengaged—to Logan Tate. It had been an early summer evening when Logan had proposed for the second time. She walked through the village and across the empty market square, making for her favourite walk. There would be ghosts up on that hill, she was aware of that. Maybe by visiting diem and saying she knew them for what they were, they would melt away and cease to trouble her. But there was one ghost she knew she would never be able to exorcise—Logan Tate, who had been her husband for so short and tumultuous a time.

The path was as steep as ever. Even the passage of centuries would not alter that. The old iron gate creaked as it always had, the drystone walls still stood, as sturdy as ever. The fields, as the sinking sun chased shadows across them, stretched as far as before into the distance, their greens varied and soothing. Here and there was a brilliantly yellow field of mustard, like sunshine growing out of the earth. The peace there was all around her! If only it would creep inside her body, take root and grow until it enveloped her so completely that the whole of her was miraculously freed from its present torment... She was so lost in her brooding unhappiness, she had not heard the footsteps climbing with firm and familiar tread. When a voice said, 'Marianne?' she jumped as if a gunshot had passed within a hair's breadth of her ear. Back she was plunged to the last time she had stood in that place, and she knew that the ghost she had acknowledged she would never be able to exorcise had come again to haunt her. All of her body was taut, her hands in her pockets were clenched. 'Yes?' she said in a thin, colourless voice. 'Will you look at me?' It was a request she could not refuse, simply because it was the man she loved who had made it. She turned. She saw the darkly shadowed eyes, the coldness in them, the untidy black hair so far above her she was forced to tilt her head to look at it.There were the high cheekbones she longed to caress, the obstinate chin, the straight nose and the hard, determined line of his jaw. If she peeled away the layers of the years, put her arms around him and whispered, 'Logan Tate, I love you,' would he push her from him and say, 'What's the use? I love another'?

As she studied him, so he looked at her. What did he see? The deadly tiredness reflected in her face? The hopelessness, the misery? 'I've come to offer you a divorce.' Her heart leapt and tumbled like a boulder pushed over a cliff edge. She could not speak and sought consolation from the fields and trees. 'It would free you,' he said at length. 'And you,' she managed. He moved to stand beside her and she felt him shrug. 'And me.' 'Jilly?' He did not answer. She went on, 'She wouldn't let me come away without her—that's why she's here. But,' - there was a catch in her voice, 'if you want her, as I'm sure you do, you must take her. After all, she's your daughter, yours and your first wife's.' He said softly, after a few moments, 'She's not mine, Marianne.' Marianne felt her cheeks drain of colour as she stared up at him. 'She must be! You told me --' 'She was Gaye's daughter, never mine—until Gaye died and I adopted the little girl she left behind.' Aware that her legs would not support her for much longer,' Marianne sank to the ground. Logan joined her, stretching out his legs and leaning on his elbow. His narrowed eyes sought the fading horizon. 'Please tell me,' Marianne whispered. It took Logan a long time to speak. He said at last, his voice strained,

'I was tricked into my first marriage. I met Gaye in Nigeria. I had an affair with her—I can't tell you why. It just happened. After a few weeks, she told me she was pregnant. I believed her and naturally, being honourable in that respect, wasted no time in marrying her. When the ceremony was over and my ring was on her finger, she told me she had lied, that she was not pregnant but actually had a baby daughter by some other man who had left her. She married me because she wanted a father for the child.' Logan pulled at a clump of grass and studied the contents of his hand as if he were examining them for unfamiliar characteristics. 'After the first shock, I took to the baby—which, loving children as I do, she had known I would. It wasn't long before Gaye grew tired of being married to me, and went out with one man after another, leaving her child with me. One day, she went up in a private plane owned by one of her boy-friends, and they crashed in a tropical storm.' He threw away the grass and dusted his hands. 'I can't say I was prostrate with grief. But I took steps immediately to adopt her daughter and make her my own.' There was a long pause. 'Now you know it all.' 'Why didn't you tell me this before we married?' He shrugged a shoulder. 'I had the arrogance to think that you might take to a child you thought was mine, but reject one you knew belonged solely to the woman who had once been my wife.' She said, her voice thick, 'If that's what you thought of me...' She glanced at him. 'You've never known me really, have you, Logan?' She could not keep the bitterness out.

He shrugged again. 'If that's true, then I'm not going to have much chance to get you know you in the future.' She went cold. His indifference was like a kitchen knife slipping and paring her finger. She swallowed and asked, 'How did you know I'd come back to my mother?' Another long pause and the darkness around them deepened. 'When I first discovered you'd left me, taking Jilly with you, I was beside myself with anger. After the— performance your boy-friend put over last night at the dance, I was certain you'd gone to him, so I rang Quentin Royle's number. The phone at his end lifted and I heard his voice. I was just about to swear at him when I heard the words, "Samaritans here." I put the phone down.' He paused, then continued, 'I thought "My God, the man's all, she says he is. He's not what I thought he was." So,' he took a deep breath and released it slowly, 'if you want him, I'm freeing you so that you can go to him.' 'What you really mean, don't you, is that you can go to Coral Morland. Why act the hypocrite, Logan? I know what happened last night. I know you slept with her ...' Logan rose, stuffing his hands into his pockets. 'Look, I'm offering you a divorce. I know you love Royle. By the way he acted last night, he returns your love. For all I know, he might have slept with you—except that if he's a member of the Samaritans, he simply wouldn't do that sort of thing. So he's waiting patiently for me to free you. As you've said so often, I trapped you into marriage by using Jilly. So I'm freeing you. Take it or leave it.' He began to walk away, not back to the village but across the fields.

With a cry like an animal caught in a trap, she threw herself full-length on the grass, clawing at it in her sobbing • despair as she had done eight long years ago. Logan Tate was walking away from her again. And this time she-knew it really was for the last time.

CHAPTER TEN His footsteps faded and there was silence. Marianne grew hysterical, gripping her hair. Sobs shook her body. Her lungs felt as if they would burst. 'I can't bear it,' she muttered, resting her cheek against die cool blades of grass, 'I just can't bear it...' A figure crouched beside her and turned her over. 'Marianne, stop it, stop it, do you hear?' Logan's arms slipped beneath her, lifting her and cradling her. He found a handkerchief and dried her tears, although more came to take their place. Cling, cling ... Mina's voice echoed round and round her brain. They were half-reclining side by side and her arms reached out, wrapping round his neck. 'Don't leave me,' she sobbed feverishly, 'don't walk away again. I can't live without you, Logan,' she shook her aching head, 'not any more. If you want to have an affair with Coral Morland, have it, but let me stay your wife. Love me whenever you want me, I don't mind. I'm not proud. I love you too much to have any pride left. I'm sorry to burden you with me, but --' 'My love, my own,' Logan pressed his cool face against her burning cheek, 'what are you saying? Burden me—with die woman I love above all other human beings? Why do you think I loved and adopted Jilly? Because she reminded me so much of the young girl I'd left behind. Why, as soon as I returned to this country, did I come and seek you out? Because I wanted you as my wife, not just the mother of the child I'd adopted.' 'And I never forgot you, Logan,' Marianne whispered, pressing herself to him. 'I never let any other man near me. Somehow I thought you might come back. I had a feeling ...' She paused and played with the zipper on his jacket.

'So you waited?' She nodded. 'All that time?' 'All that time.' His arms tightened around her. 'When I came back and found you, even though I loved you, I couldn't get out of my system the cynicism which had taken root in me during my marriage to Gaye. When I married you, I couldn't possibly foresee that there would come a time when I would ever need a woman as much as I've come to need you. 'So I held myself aloof from you—you'll never know the effort that cost me—and tamed my desires until I had them under complete control. Then you, you presumptuous kitten,' he gripped her chin and pulled it round, kissing her roughly, 'you insinuated yourself into my most intimate thoughts, my dreams and into my arms to such an extent that I couldn't hold out against you any longer.' He pulled her across him and lowered his head, kissing her throat and her neck, his impatient hands irritated by the barrier formed by her clothes. He caressed her nonetheless and her passions leapt to life. 'Creeping into my room,' his muffled voice continued, 'curling up beside me in my bed ...' 'Logan --' He raised his head. There was something she must ask him, no matter what it cost, even if his answer was too painful to bear. 'What happened between you and Coral last night?' 'Ah, yes,' he commented, lifting her away from him until they sat side by side, 'I was expecting that question. Stay here beside me and I'll tell you.' His arm went round her waist and her head drooped to his shoulder. The peace that flooded through her was like a balm on a painful wound.

'You may perhaps have noticed,' he said, smiling down into her face, 'that there are times when I get very, very, angry.' 'I certainly have, Logan Tate,' she retorted, 'and whenever it happened—which seemed to me to be very, very often,' she grinned impishly up at him, 'you frightened me to death!' 'Glad to hear it, young woman. Someone has to keep you in order—and I did warn you that day on the beach, soon after we were married, that I was boss of this particular household.' 'And forced me to admit it.' He smiled at the memory and pulled her closer. 'Last night at the dance,' he went on, 'I was so jealous I nearly went crazy. I watched you with Royle and it was as much as I could do to stop myself from going over to you and wringing your neck. I also told you that day on the beach—remember?—that if you wanted to encourage a man, you shouldn't do it under your husband's very nose. That was - a sound piece of advice you neglected at your peril.' 'Logan, it wasn't really as you thought. Quentin did . what he did—as he thought—to help me.' She looked up shyly. 'And he did, didn't he? It was all completely innocent. Even when he kissed me in the hotel gardens, he kissed my cheek, not my lips. Anyway,' she accused, 'you weren't exactly behaving yourself with Coral.' 'Good grief, woman, I had to have some weapon to hit back at you with! I'm only human. I remembered the praise you'd lavished on Royle and that you'd accepted an expensive gift from him. You had also agreed to work for him. I' - thought you'd at last found the man you really wanted, which is why I decided I Would have to let you go. After all, you once said you hated every inch of my body. On another occasion, you called me "rotten to the core".'

'But, darling,' she cried, 'I didn't mean all those things. I only said them because I was so annoyed you didn't guess how much I loved you.' 'Sweetheart, I'm not a mind-reader.' 'Anyway, what about Coral Morland? Mina told me how much time you spent with her.' 'She forgot to tell you also how many people were with us nearly all the time. Or Ralph forgot to tell her.' 'But last night,' she could not help the quiver in her voice, 'you stayed with her --' A hand fastened on her throat, turning her head and impelling it upwards so that he was gazing into her eyes. In the depths of his she saw the anger stir. 'That I did not!' he said, releasing her. 'I admit that, as a weapon against you and Royle, I made good use of the fascination I seem to have for her. I bought her drinks, I tolerated her kisses and her coaxing ways with an appearance of pleasure. 'When I saw you leave with Royle, I took her to the cottage, where I thought you might have gone with Royle. When I saw his car outside your cottage, I got mad. I took Coral in, got her half-stoned, followed her up to-the bedroom where I knew you'd hear her ridiculous laughter, even joining in myself to annoy you even more.' Marianne tried to pull away, but his hold only tightened. 'You're a brute, Dr Logan Tate.' He smiled contentedly. 'Yes, I suppose I am at times. Take warning, my love. Anyway, Coral pulled me down on to the bed and I didn't resist, but when she got too obstreperous I was having none of it. I

coaxed her downstairs and out of the cottage. I realised she was too far gone to drive herself home, so drove her there myself in her car. 'By then the last train had gone, there wasn't a taxi in sight and I couldn't face the long walk at that time of night, so I decided to book in at the nearest hotel. I intended to phone you as soon as I arrived at work this morning, but the moment I got there someone grabbed me and I was tied up for hours. When I did manage to get through, there was no answer. I concluded you must have gone to Mina's— or Royle's—after Jilly had gone to school, so I rang again at lunchtime.' 'Still no reply,' she prompted him. 'Right, So I called Mina. She advised me to come home at once, said I'd regret it if I didn't. I took the rest of the day off and rang for a hired car to take me home. First, as I said, I tried Royle's number and got nowhere, so I rang Mina again. I asked where you'd gone and she told me.' 'How did you get here so fast?' 'Trains and taxis.' 'So,' she teased, 'you spared no expense to get to me?' 'Correct, you little baggage. Do you know that when I left you eight years ago, I intended coming back after a couple of years, when you were older and knew your own mind? As I told you, I was caught in a trap—a woman- trap.' 'And walked straight into another as soon as you returned to this country.' 'Ah, but this was a trap I'd set for myself, one I walked into with my eyes open. Shall I tell you something? I dreaded hearing you were married, or even engaged. All through the years, my darling, I've never

forgotten you. Even throughout the marriage I endured with Gaye, you were there in my mind. In truth, my sweet,' his voice lowered to a murmur, I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion.' 'And I,' she whispered, the blood racing through her body, 'have been faithful to you, Logan Tate, all these years.' He pushed her down, half-lying beside her, and the love in his eyes made them gleam. 'I want you, my darling, as I never thought I'd want a woman again. I want you in every sense. To greet me when I come home, to talk with me and be my equal by day, my lover by night.' She unfastened his jacket, reached up and loosened his tie. He did not stop her. 'Part of my living,' he went on softly, 'my breathing; interweaving your essence into my every action.' The breeze stirred the grasses and the leaves overhead, but they did not notice. He buried his face in her hair. 'The scent of you lingering in my nostrils, the feel of you clinging like a second skin to my hands ... receiving the urgency of me, surrendering to the male dominance of me, giving me a reason for living, fulfilment and above all, peace. These, beloved, I've never known, until now.' One by one she unfastened his shirt buttons, sliding her hands inside and running them over his chest and his lean, hard body, arousing her own desires as well as his. He responded by pushing aside her jacket and tugging her tee-shirt free of her pants. As his hands caressed her body to exultant life, he whispered, as he had done in the old days, 'You're tempting me, chick, by heaven, you're tempting me.' 'Be tempted, darling,' she whispered, her eyes shining in the moonlight, 'please be tempted.' And he was.