Dangerous Sanctuary Read online

  Nevertheless, the curtness of her farewell was as much an acknowledgement of the unwelcome anxieties he aroused inside her as an indication of her mood. She was uncomfortably aware that she hadn't even asked him how he was, and even if she told herself she didn't care she knew she really did. It was a frustrating anomaly that she could hate him for the way he had treated her, and yet still worry about some probably exaggerated complaint he was supposed to be suffering.

  As Tom saw him to the door, Jaime pretended to be too busy to accompany them. She didn't need to hear the proprietorial note in Ben's voice to know that she hadn't seen the last of him. He would be back, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

  Unwillingly, she found herself wondering who he had invited to supper at the Priory. She wouldn't have been human if she hadn't felt some curiosity about his visitors, and she was aware that the prospect that at least half of them would be female nibbled away at her fragile composure. She didn't care that they were women, she told herself crossly. What had happened between her and Ben this afternoon had proved to her, once and for all, that he was totally unscrupulous, totally selfish. And here she was, worrying about his health, while he did his best to ruin it.

  Tom's return thankfully curtailed thoughts of that sort, but his expression was not encouraging. He stood, leaning against the door-frame, with a definite look of resentment on his thin, good-looking face. Jaime surmised he was wondering how she was going to respond, now that he didn't have Ben to back him up, but in this—as in so many things, she thought laconically—she was wrong.

  'What happened?' he asked, after a few seconds, and Jaime's brows ascended in sudden surprise.

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Between you and Uncle Ben?' said Tom offhandedly. 'He—he didn't—hurt you, did he?'

  'Hurt me?'

  Jaime was glad she had taken the potatoes out of the cupboard in his absence, and was consequently able to concentrate on the task of scraping them instead of holding her son's troubled gaze.

  'Yes.' Tom pushed himself away from the door, and came further into the room. 'The way you said he did before.'

  'I—' Jaime swallowed. 'When did I say that?'

  'Well, you said he assaulted you once,' Tom reminded her gruffly. 'And when I came in just now it was obvious something had been happening.'

  Jaime sighed, feeling a rising sense of indignation as she did so. Why couldn't Tom have voiced these deductions while Ben was here to deal with them? she wondered exasperatedly. Why couldn't he have put his 'uncle' on the spot, and not her?

  'All right,' she said, attacking the potato in her hand with unmerited savagery, 'we did—have words.' Words! 'What did you expect?

  Tom hunched his shoulders and pushed his hands into his pockets. 'You really don't like Uncle Ben, do you?' he muttered. 'I don't know why. It wasn't his fault that Dad walked out on us.'

  'No.' Jaime dropped the mutilated potato into the water, and groped about for another. 'And I'm not saying you shouldn't see him again. Just—don't expect me to encourage you.'

  Naturally, that wasn't the end of it. Although Tom wasn't happy with Jaime's attitude, he was still too young to hide his feelings. The events of the afternoon had been too exciting to ignore, and in spite of her feelings he spent a good part of the evening that followed describing what he had seen and what he had done.

  Jaime told herself she wasn't interested in the renovations Ben had made to the Priory, that Tom's descriptions of large rooms, opening one from another, meant nothing to her. But she couldn't close her mind to his words. The images they evoked were inescapable and, although she said little, Tom was determined to share his excitement.

  Perhaps he hoped that by talking about his afternoon he could persuade his mother that Ben was not the ogre she appeared to think him. He might even have imagined that she would become intrigued, and show some curiosity about the place herself.

  But, in spite of a wilful stirring of her emotions, Jaime succeeded in remaining impassive, and it wasn't until Tom had gone to bed that the enormity of what was happening washed over her. Tom's words, his admiration, his innocent response to his first taste of what it was like to be rich, reminded Jaime so much of herself, of the way she had behaved over fifteen years ago. Like him, she had been overwhelmed by the trappings of wealth and influence, seduced by the idea of sharing that kind of life.

  She had been eighteen when she met Philip Russell. He had come into the bar one night with a group of young people who were all staying at the old Priory. The Dunstans had owned it in those days. Sir Peter Dunstan had been a retired military man whose second, and much younger wife was constantly giving house parties for her London friends.

  It had been Christmas Eve, Jaime remembered, and she had been home after completing her first term at university. She had intended to take a law degree, but of course that had all gone by the board when Philip came on the scene. She had liked him at first sight, and she had been absurdly flattered when he'd shown the feeling was mutual.

  Her feelings had been understandable, she thought now, despite the shiver of revulsion that slid down her spine. He had been a good-looking man, with none of the loud-mouthed brashness of the other members of the group. He had seemed shy, retiring, with them, and yet not quite one of them. Jaime had actually sympathised with him, and Philip had responded to her encouragement.

  And, during the months of their courtship, Jaime had had no reason to doubt her first impressions. On the contrary, he had always treated her with consideration and respect, and, unlike the boys she was used to going out with, Philip had never attempted to get her into bed.

  Naturally, Jaime had appreciated the advantages his independent means had provided. As the elder son of an undoubtedly wealthy family, Philip had only played at working. He sat on various boards, and attended occasional meetings, but most of his time was spent in frivolous pursuits. He enjoyed skiing, and sailing, and shooting in the season. He enjoyed driving, and had several expensive cars garaged below his penthouse apartment in Belgravia. He was a typical gentleman—or what Jaime presumed a gentleman should be—and, if her mother and father hadn't exactly approved of the relationship, they, too, had profited from the association.

  Of course, his mother and father had openly disapproved. Philip had taken her once—and only once!—to meet his parents, at their home in London. It had been a disaster. Another young woman had been present, whom Jaime was left in no doubt had been expected to become Mrs Philip Russell, and what with her—Jaime's—nervousness, and Philip's embarrassment, the visit had been a nightmare.

  Looking back, she realised that Heather—yes, that had been her name: Heather Sanders—had had a lucky escape. She could have had no idea of the kind of man Philip was, any more than Jaime. To all intents and purposes, he was a paragon, and that was why Jaime had considered herself so fortunate.

  Oh, the enormous diamond ring he had bought her on their engagement, and the Porsche, which he had told her would be waiting for her when they returned from their honeymoon, had helped. She wouldn't have been human if she hadn't been excited at the prospect of marrying such a wealthy man. All her friends thought she had been immensely lucky, and she had basked in their envy right up to the wedding.

  The knowledge that Ben Russell was Philip's brother had been an added bonus. She hadn't met him in the months leading up to the wedding, but she had seen him on television. At that time, Ben had been working for the BBC, and it had been something else to brag about—that her future brother-in-law was such a famous face.

  How young she had been, thought Jaime bitterly. How naive about life, and men. She had thought she knew it all, when in fact she had known nothing. Not about life, or emotions, or, most particularly, about the man she was planning to marry.

  They had been married in the small church where Jaime had been christened, and where she had taken her first communion. In spite of the absence of most of the members of Philip's family, it had not been a small wedding. The
fact that her father was the licensee of the Raven and Glass ensured that the church was full, and it was not until they were greeting guests at the reception that Jaime realised Philip's brother had attended. He hadn't been best man. One of Philip's friends from London—a man Jaime had never met before—had performed that duty, and when the tall dark man stepped in front of her she had had no premonition of the role he was to play in her life. On the contrary, her initial reaction had been one of apprehension. She had recognised him, of course. How could she not? But she had been wary of his intervention when Philip introduced them.

  She hadn't needed to be. Ben hadn't come to scorn or cause trouble. Looking back now, she realised it had been kind of him to come at all. He hadn't had to. Certainly his parents had felt no such compunction. Apart from a few of Philip's friends, the majority of the guests were from Jaime's side of the family, but by putting in an appearance Ben had tacitly endorsed the occasion on behalf of the Russells.

  For which she had been grateful, Jaime admitted wryly, remembering how proud she had felt when he'd stood and talked to her. Ben had a way of giving someone his whole attention when they spoke, and she couldn't deny she had been dazzled by his friendly personality.

  His wife had not been with him. At age twenty-four, Ben had already been married for three years, but the elusive Mrs Russell preferred to remain in the background. Or so Philip said, when she asked him. Of course, that was before they left on their honeymoon, before other considerations swept such paltry cares aside.

  It had taken Jaime just twenty-four hours to realise she had made a terrible mistake. Twenty-four hours, during which time she realised she did not know Philip at all. The shy, sensitive man she thought she had married didn't exist. The man who had taken her to bed in his apartment was a monster, and she couldn't believe the way he had treated her.

  Oh, the following morning, the morning they were due to leave for their honeymoon in Bermuda, Philip had apologised profusely. When he saw the bruises on her face and neck—bruises that were repeated on her body, but were not all, thankfully, visible—he was contrite. It was the champagne, he said. He had drunk too much; he hadn't known what he was doing. She was so beautiful, he groaned, she had gone to his head.

  Jaime hadn't been convinced. She was not that naive. But she was his wife, they were married, and the idea of telling anyone else what had happened was not a viable proposition. After all, what if he was right? What if the champagne had gone to his head? How could she revoke her vows after only one night?

  Luckily, the worst of the bruises were on her neck, and a scarf, twisted into the collar of her blue silk travelling suit, did not look out of place. For the rest, a rather heavier foundation than usual proved invaluable, and when they boarded the plane and took their seats in the first-class compartment Jaime succeeded in fooling herself that it was all going to be all right.

  And Philip was his usual charming self. He spent the whole trip ensuring that she was comfortable, that she had everything she needed, and describing their destination so enthusiastically that Jaime couldn't help feeling a sense of anticipation. He had been so successful in soothing her fears that by the time they landed on the chain of islands, which were strung together with causeways to form the delightful colony of Bermuda, Jaime had convinced herself that what had happened the night before had been just an aberration.

  They didn't stay at a hotel. Philip's parents owned a villa, and although they might not have approved of the marriage they had agreed to allow the young couple to use the colour-washed cottage that overlooked an unblemished stretch of coral sand.

  It should have been heaven, but for Jaime it became a living hell. No matter how considerate Philip might be to her during the day, she could only think of the nights, and the fact that her worst fears had been realised. She had sometimes wondered if Philip's parents had known of his sexual perversions before the wedding. That would account for their apparent generosity in lending them the cottage. There was no way she and Philip could have stayed at a hotel without someone noticing Jaime's distress. Besides, how would he have explained her swollen face, or the dark discolourations on her body?

  As it was, she had counted the days until they could go home. Home meant England, and the chance to escape from this mockery of a marriage. She didn't care now what her friends thought, or how humiliated she would feel to have to admit what had happened. She only wanted her freedom. To never have to see Philip again.

  Strangely enough, she didn't tell Philip how she felt. Not then, at least. Something, some subconscious knowledge, perhaps, warned her not to confront him until she was back on her own ground. She didn't think he was mad. Most of the time he was too obscenely normal, treating her with such sickening sweetness that she wanted to vomit. But she was afraid of him, afraid of the power he had over her here, far from the protection of her family.

  Then, the night before they were due to fly back to England, Philip told her what he would do if she ever told anyone what went on between them. He had friends, he said—friends she wouldn't like to know. He was not specific, but Jaime was left in no doubt as to what might happen if she attempted to leave him. He loved her, he said, and the ignominy of that remark was a small indication of how abnormal he was. He didn't love her. He didn't know the meaning of the word. But he wanted her, and he would do anything he had to do to keep her. And what she had hoped was just a term of detention became a life sentence.

  Jaime closed her eyes now, as the horror of that evening in Bermuda surged over her again. She had lost control, of course. As he had probably guessed she would. He had chosen his time deliberately, and all the pain and humiliation of the last two weeks had burst out of her in a desperate flood of recrimination. She didn't remember what she'd said. But despair had made her reckless. This might be the last chance she had to say what she thought, and her anguish and agitation had sent her clawing for his face.

  It wasn't until she saw the glittering sensuality in his eyes that she realised he was actually enjoying her assault. He was a big man—almost as tall as Ben, and more heavily built. He had fended her attack quite easily, and there had never been any danger of her doing him any permanent damage. On the contrary, she had seen, to her dismay, that he was quite violently aroused, and when he ripped her clothes from her, and flung her on the bed, he climaxed almost as soon as he thrust himself inside her.

  Jaime didn't see her parents for two weeks after their return from that parody of a honeymoon. Philip made sure her face revealed no betraying bruises when he drove her down to Kingsmere for a visit. To all intents and purposes, they were an ideal couple. Both young, and tanned, and happy—as one would expect after spending two weeks in the sun.

  If Jaime's eyes were a little hollow, and her clothes seemed a little loose on her tall frame, it was assumed that she and Philip had been burning the candle at both ends. Certainly, she did her best to ensure that her mother and father had no reason to suspect otherwise. She didn't trust Philip not to involve them should she become a problem, and she had come to the painful realisation that she had to live with her mistakes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Margaret Haines phoned on Thursday evening. Tom was out, and when Jaime picked up the phone she had already steeled herself to speak to Ben. It was three days since that incident in the kitchen, and she was sure it wouldn't be another week before they heard from him again.

  However, she was pleasantly surprised to hear Felix's ex-wife's voice—even if her thoughts immediately jumped to his present wife's condition. She should have phoned Maggie, and let her know, she thought unhappily. She deserved to know, and no one else was likely to tell her.

  'Long time, no see,' Maggie remarked, after the initial greetings were over. 'How are you, Jaime? How's Tom?'

  'Oh, we're OK.' Jaime responded quickly, wondering if Maggie had learned that Ben Russell was living in Kingsmere now. Like Felix, she knew that Jaime had been married to Philip Russell at one time, and, also like Felix, she had been told the
tale that Tom was not Jaime's ex-husband's son. 'Tom's looking forward to the holidays, of course. Just another few weeks, and then he'll consider himself a fifth former.'

  'A fifth former! Really?' Maggie made a sound of amazement. 'It doesn't seem any time since he was starting infant school.'

  'I know.' Jaime laughed. 'But, believe me, it feels like it.'

  'Why? Tom's not a problem, is he?' Maggie was concerned. 'He always seems such a nice boy. Unlike some of the tearaways I see walking along Gloucester Road.'

  'Oh—well, he is. A nice boy, I mean.' Jaime had to choose her words with care. Although she was sure Maggie would be sympathetic, she was loath to discuss her present difficulties with anyone. It was foolish, she knew, but talking about it would only magnify the problem.

  'So, it's just old age creeping on, is it?' Maggie teased her gently. 'It's a pity you've never let another man into your life. I've always thought you were an ideal mother.'

  Jaime's lips twisted. 'Thank you.'

  'No, I mean it.' Maggie sounded sincere. She paused, and then added cautiously, 'Don't you ever hear from Tom's father? I mean, he can't have been such a bad guy. Tom's far too nice for that.'

  Jaime's fingers tightened round the receiver. She had to remember that, as far as Maggie was concerned, Tom's father was the reason she had broken up with Philip. Oh, what a tangled web I've woven, she thought ruefully. But before Ben's reappearance she had been managing more than adequately.

  'No,' she lied now, crossing her fingers as she did so. 'No, I've no idea where he is. In any case, I'm quite happy as things are. As you say, I'm too old to start again.'

  'That isn't what I said, and you know it,' Maggie retorted drily. 'These days women are having their first babies when they're older than you are. It's becoming quite the fashion—waiting until they're in their thirties to start a family.'

  It was the ideal opening, and, deciding anything was better than talking about her own life, Jaime took it. 'I—' she began. It wasn't easy but it had to be said. 'I—did you know that—that Lacey—?'