Free The French Bride by Evelyn Anthony Page B

movement to escape him but he was too quick for her. For a few desperate moments she tried to fight him, and he felt the scorching pain of her nails on his skin. ‘You little vixen,’ he said. ‘You damned shrew—’ He tore the magnificent nightgown from neck to waist and ripped it off her. Then the full weight and strength of his body stilled her struggles and she submitted and was mastered, the tears streaming down her face as the moment of possession came, bringing with it unbearable pleasure and pain. She lost consciousness for a few seconds, and then the crushing arms released her. When she opened her eyes his hands were in her hair, not hurting her except when she tried to turn away.
    â€˜You’re my wife,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll trouble you very seldom, but when I do, by God I hope you’ve learned not to say no to me!’ Then he withdrew from her and turning on his side he went to sleep.
    There were no tears left in her then; she was bruised and hurt, trembling with weakness; exalted and horrified at the same time at the nature of the lesson he had taught her. Before the dawn came, the touch of his hands awoke her again, and she knew better now than to draw back from him. His second love-making was so different from the first that she could hardly believe the lover who possessed her then was the same man as the jeering violater of some hours before. Not a word did he speak; he took her in silence and he subjected her to the expertise gained in the arms of many women until her senses swam and incoherent cries came from her lips as they were opened by his own. When the culmination came it was a shared ascent, explosive but controlled, completely different from that other brutal act of domination.
    Anne put her arms around his neck and fell asleep against his breast, not daring to speak for fear of breaking the spell that seemed to have encompassed them. In his arms she felt very soft and light, very pliable compared to the stiff, resistant body that he had overcome by force the first time. She was different from Louise; Louise entwined herself like a serpent when they were in repose together, unwilling to lose the slightest contact or abjure the last faint sensation of enjoyment. His wife slept in his arms like a child who had been loved and comforted. He felt content himself at that moment; surprised, but contented and very much inclined to hold her close and sleep. All his life he had taken what the moment offered. She was a change after Louise. While the month’s honeymoon lasted, she would serve well enough.
    â€˜Madame is very happy,’ the little maid Marie-Thérèse whispered. The senior girl frowned at her. It was not proper to discuss their mistress but she could not resist it that morning. She had helped to put the pale-faced bride to bed; she and the others had listened for hours in the anterooms for the bridegroom who had not come. And when he did, the word had reached them through his servants that he had already been drinking. And yet this morning the marquise was transformed. Her beauty bloomed; she smiled and sang as they dressed her.
    â€˜Yes,’ Marie-Jeanne whispered back, ‘yes, she is happy; how it is possible with that foreign brute, God knows. At least we can be glad for her. For me, I’d as soon lie with the devil!’
    When Anne awoke he was gone; it was already late and the sun was streaming through the curtain cracks. She had slept on for hours; his pillow was cold when she touched it. She slipped out of bed and saw the ruined nightdress lying on the floor; she hid it in a drawer and put on another. It was the only time in her life that she had dressed herself without help. The thought made her smile, but then everything was touched by the overwhelming happiness that filled her heart. She had forgotten nothing; there were marks on her arms and shoulders that would take many days to fade, but of what consequence were they