The Bride's Secret

He had known. All the time he had known!

'What did you think I was going to do if I knew you were alone?' he asked. 'Force my way into your room and take you by force? Or pester you? Make life unpleasant?'

'I didn't think that; of course I didn't,' Marianne said defensively, her face flaming with embarrassment.

'No? Forgive me if I say I don't believe you.' He looked at her steadily, some deep emotion at the back of his eyes that she couldn't fathom. Anger? Bitterness? Hurt pride?

'Hudson, it wasn't like that—' Marianne protested, before he cut in in his usual sweeping manner, his voice arrogant and proud.

'I'm not really interested one way or the other, Annie, so save your breath. Now, I'm sure you're tired, and I've things to do… '

'Hudson—'

'Goodnight, Annie, sleep well.' It was very frosty and very final.

And then he had gone, rising in one swift, fluid movement and walking out of the dining room without a backward glance, his broad shoulders straight and firm and his head held high.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn… She stared after him for long moments, her eyes jade-green with pain. She hadn't wanted it to end like this; she hadn't. Their last exchange would be one of bitterness and misunderstanding; he would hate her still more when he found her gone in the morning. Should she follow him? Explain about her trip? Say goodbye properly? She half rose in her seat.

Properly? That deep inner voice mocked her, its sudden intrusion into the maelstrom of panic caustic and unwelcome. What was 'properly'? To weep all over him? To persuade him to feel sorry for her? To beg his forgiveness? To tell him the one thing she couldn't say? Was that what she wanted? Where was her backbone?

She had set her feet on the path she had to follow two years ago and there was no turning back now, however much her heart craved otherwise. If she loved him, really loved him—and she did, oh, she did—she had to let him go. Anything else was self-indulgent and cruel. It was better for him to think she was heartless, to wash his hands of her once and for all.

Marianne walked to her room on leaden feet, glancing over her shoulder once more before she opened the door and walked in annoyed at finding herself hoping… Hoping what? she asked herself with furious self-contempt. That he would be standing waiting for her? That he would have followed her because he couldn't bear to leave her on such terms? Fool, fool, fool. Even if her hopes had come true it would have spelt disaster for them both. And, anyway, she knew Hudson was a fiercely proud and cynical man, and such men didn't abase themselves for someone who had already jilted them once.

It was over. It had been dealt a death-blow two years ago and the death-throes were finally finished.

CHAPTER FIVE

The night was endless. Marianne sat in a small basket chair on her balcony after showering and changing into her nightie and towelling robe, the warmth of the sultry night pleasant without being sticky. The moon was shedding a thin, hollow light over the face of the ocean far down in the bay, and one by one lights were dimmed and extinguished as people slept.

She had allowed him to touch the quintessence of her mind… She rubbed a tired hand over her face as she acknowledged the truth of the thought. He had got deep inside her head again, taken over every little part of her, but then… perhaps he had always been there. She had been fooling herself all these long, lonely months when she had been telling herself time was a great healer, that she was getting over him.

Getting over him. The phrase mocked her. You didn't get over Hudson de Sance. She might learn to live with the pain, go on and exist—function—the way people the world over did when catastrophe hit them, but with bis departure from her life something essentially joyful and beautiful had died in her spirit Whatever she did in the future, wherever she went, she would carry him with her in her heart. A bleak desolation filled her senses.

Dawn crept across the sky in a soft explosion of pink and cinnamon, touching the last remaining shadows with colour and making her cry with its beauty, and still she hadn't slept.

At six she rose slowly from her seat, like an old woman, and made her way to the bathroom, standing for long, long minutes under the warm shower and letting the smooth, silky water drown her tears and wash her clean. Life had to go on; she had to go on.

She dried her mass of golden hair sitting back in the basket chair as she watched the sun rise in a cloudless blue sky that promised a hot day, and later, after dressing simply in a loose white shirt and matching skirt, didn't bother to put it up, leaving it in a cloud of tiny curls about her neck and shoulders. She didn't bother with any make-up either; she just didn't have the energy, and since coming to Morocco the sun had tinted her smooth skin with its own honey shade which make-up couldn't enhance.

The coach was picking her up early outside Reception and she had decided to have her breakfast as soon as the dining room was open, before most of the other residents would be awake. Consequently, she wasn't surprised that the huge, sun-splashed room was virtually empty, with just the odd tourist who had a plane or coach to catch dotted around its vast space.

She had

just helped herself to a croissant, still warm from the oven, and a bowl of freshly prepared papaw from the magnificent buffet, and was turning to find a quiet table for one in a secluded corner, when a deep voice in her ear caused her to start so violently, most of the papaw jumped onto the floor.

'Early bird.' Hudson's voice was like warm treacle and devoid of any trace of the emotion of the night before.

'Hudson!' She took a step backwards from the papaw, which a helpful waiter was already rushing to clear up, straight onto Hudson's foot, and promptly dropped the whole bowl. 'Oh, now look what you've made me do,' she said fretfully, overwhelmingly glad the dining room was virtually deserted.

'I beg your forgiveness.' His voice was dry now, and as she turned to face him properly she felt her heart jerk and thud and then race on at a furious rate. He was dressed in casual wide-cut cotton trousers in a pale shade of grey which sat on the lean hips in a way guaranteed to make any female take a second glance, and his silky charcoal shirt accentuated the brooding masculinity to perfection. He looked cool and controlled and dangerous—very, very dangerous, Marianne thought breathlessly. And gorgeous. Definitely gorgeous.

'You're… you're up early.' It was pathetic, but all she could do with her heart hammering so hard it hurt and her face as red as a beetroot. She had thought she wouldn't see him again…

'So are you.' He smiled, gesturing across the room to a small table for two. 'Go and sit down and I'll get you another bowl of fruit—papaw, was it?' he said as he eyed the mess on the floor.

'Yes, please, but you needn't… I mean, I can manage—'