not. He heard only the anger.
âWhat are you doing here?â
She was in the most desperate situation of her life, as near the brink of total disaster as she had ever been. How could she pause now in her mad rush to salvage whatever could be salvaged â if anything at all â how could she possibly add to the sum total of her disaster by allowing herself to fall in love?
Not now. Please â let it be later. When it would be resolved, one way or another, and she would have time to think only of herself. And torn badly, most distressfully by a conflict of racing emotions â a burst of sheer, pure joy at the sight of him, an urgent need to send him away, terror that he might not come back â the tears in her throat causing her to clench her jaw as if in temper, making her voice cool â although he could not know that â she rapped out âWouldnât the pedlar take you back on his cart?â
âOh yes. I got on, right enough. And off again.â There had been no sense to it. He knew that. No certainty even, of seeing her again that day. He had simply, suddenly, and most urgently desired to be here . And so, once again, he had vaulted over the tail-board of the wagon, already a mile on its homeward track, and had come back to the street called St Judeâs with no specific intentions, his aim now extending no further than to draw her into the narrow passage between two darkened warehouses and then into his arms.
âI had to see you, Cara. Now. I couldnât risk going back to Leeds and then tomorrow finding you gone. I couldnât wait.â
Nothing had ever equalled the ferocity of her gladness. He was all she wanted. For the brief moment in which she allowed herself to rejoice in him, to live as herself for herself wholly and fully, she knew that there could be nothing more wonderful anywhere in the world than the love and passion and folly vibrating from his body, his mind, to hers.
And then it was the folly, after all, which really counted. The folly she had sworn never to commit again. And how could she give in to it now? How could she?
She could not.
But, choked by her tears and frustrations, she could not tell him so. Nor could he â as unused to love as Cara, although quite comfortable with passion â understand her muttered fears as she began to resist, pushing him away with one hand and holding him with the other, refusing his kisses and then abandoning herself to them almost, never quite, entirely; increasing his fever.
âCara â come with me â¦â
âWhere?â She was scandalized.
âJust with me â away â Anywhere.â
He had forgotten her parents and her child, forgotten the business which had brought him to Leeds. All he saw was Cara Adeane who did not resemble in any way the kind of girl he had expected to love. And yet it seemed that he loved her. Unwisely. Far too suddenly to be able to cope with it, to go beyond the astonishment, the unease, and convert it to tenderness.
He had been tender, sometimes, with other women in a light-hearted, highly enjoyable fashion, had teased and cajoled and usually had his way. What seemed to matter now was that she should not escape him. And the only way he could be sure of her was physically to possess her. After which â calm in the knowledge that she was his â he would soon learn how to tell her what was in his heart.
And caught up in the heat of his own new emotions, he was angry with her for not understanding this, angry with himself for his sudden inability to communicate.
A moment more and they were bitterly quarrelling.
âYou donât think I can look after you,â he accused her. No, of course she did not.
âYou donât trust me.â It surprised her, even in her condition of near hysteria, that he could think she might. Men did not exist to be trusted. Nor were they put on the earth to look after women. She was very sure of that.
âWhat are you doing here?â
She was in the most desperate situation of her life, as near the brink of total disaster as she had ever been. How could she pause now in her mad rush to salvage whatever could be salvaged â if anything at all â how could she possibly add to the sum total of her disaster by allowing herself to fall in love?
Not now. Please â let it be later. When it would be resolved, one way or another, and she would have time to think only of herself. And torn badly, most distressfully by a conflict of racing emotions â a burst of sheer, pure joy at the sight of him, an urgent need to send him away, terror that he might not come back â the tears in her throat causing her to clench her jaw as if in temper, making her voice cool â although he could not know that â she rapped out âWouldnât the pedlar take you back on his cart?â
âOh yes. I got on, right enough. And off again.â There had been no sense to it. He knew that. No certainty even, of seeing her again that day. He had simply, suddenly, and most urgently desired to be here . And so, once again, he had vaulted over the tail-board of the wagon, already a mile on its homeward track, and had come back to the street called St Judeâs with no specific intentions, his aim now extending no further than to draw her into the narrow passage between two darkened warehouses and then into his arms.
âI had to see you, Cara. Now. I couldnât risk going back to Leeds and then tomorrow finding you gone. I couldnât wait.â
Nothing had ever equalled the ferocity of her gladness. He was all she wanted. For the brief moment in which she allowed herself to rejoice in him, to live as herself for herself wholly and fully, she knew that there could be nothing more wonderful anywhere in the world than the love and passion and folly vibrating from his body, his mind, to hers.
And then it was the folly, after all, which really counted. The folly she had sworn never to commit again. And how could she give in to it now? How could she?
She could not.
But, choked by her tears and frustrations, she could not tell him so. Nor could he â as unused to love as Cara, although quite comfortable with passion â understand her muttered fears as she began to resist, pushing him away with one hand and holding him with the other, refusing his kisses and then abandoning herself to them almost, never quite, entirely; increasing his fever.
âCara â come with me â¦â
âWhere?â She was scandalized.
âJust with me â away â Anywhere.â
He had forgotten her parents and her child, forgotten the business which had brought him to Leeds. All he saw was Cara Adeane who did not resemble in any way the kind of girl he had expected to love. And yet it seemed that he loved her. Unwisely. Far too suddenly to be able to cope with it, to go beyond the astonishment, the unease, and convert it to tenderness.
He had been tender, sometimes, with other women in a light-hearted, highly enjoyable fashion, had teased and cajoled and usually had his way. What seemed to matter now was that she should not escape him. And the only way he could be sure of her was physically to possess her. After which â calm in the knowledge that she was his â he would soon learn how to tell her what was in his heart.
And caught up in the heat of his own new emotions, he was angry with her for not understanding this, angry with himself for his sudden inability to communicate.
A moment more and they were bitterly quarrelling.
âYou donât think I can look after you,â he accused her. No, of course she did not.
âYou donât trust me.â It surprised her, even in her condition of near hysteria, that he could think she might. Men did not exist to be trusted. Nor were they put on the earth to look after women. She was very sure of that.
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