Instead, he had made one mistake, and now he had a wife who was even less suitable than Claudia would have been, and who despised him and the life to which he’d brought her.
But he had a child. That was what mattered. Someday, everything he’d built would be Amalia’s. That was how he thought of Amy, as his Amalia.
It was amazing, the games fate played. He had taken a woman to bed, unthinkingly planted a seed in her womb, and she had given him a daughter that she named Amy, unknowingly choosing the diminutive form of his mother’s name.
He’d thought of telling that to Carin but he suspected she’d have begun calling the baby something else if she knew the name pleased him and had a connection to him, so he said nothing. But he took joy in whispering “Amalia” to his little girl when he held her, and to know that she carried the name of the woman who’d given him life, and who had worked herself into an early grave because the man who’d fathered him had turned his back on them both.
An insect chorus set up a loud trill. Rafe scowled into the hot afternoon and it seemed to get the message. Silence descended on the patio, and the stretch of waving grass beyond.
Yes, he had a daughter he adored…and a wife who was as much a stranger to him as she had been the night he’d taken her to bed, almost a year ago. After six weeks of marriage, all he really knew about Carin was that she liked to visit with his horses and that she hated the sight of him. She wasn’t subtle about it, either. Deus, there were times she went out of her way to let him know how she felt.
“Raphael,” she would say, if their paths crossed on the stairs or on the grounds.
Then she’d tilt her head and sail on past him as if he were invisible, or as if he were a servant—except, she didn’t treat the servants that way. He’d come into the kitchen early one morning and found her talking with the cook or trying to, anyway, stumbling over a sentence half in Portuguese, half in English, laughing until she saw him. Her laughter had died and she’d given him that imperious nod as she swept by.
She talked with the baby’s nanny, too. Really talked, because he’d hired someone who spoke English as well as Portuguese. More than once, he’d heard the sound of their voices and their laughter drifting down the hallway towards his rooms.
She never so much as smiled when she spoke to him.
“Are you well?” he would say.
“Yes,” she’d reply.
“Did the things I ordered for the baby suit you?” he’d ask.
“They did,” she’d answer.
“Do you need anything? Would you like me to take you to São Paulo or Rio, so you can shop?”
No, no, and no.
Joao, who spoke perhaps six sentences on a good day, was a better conversationalist than his wife. That was bad enough when they were alone but on several occasions in the last few weeks, he’d had visitors. His banker. His accountant. An old friend, who’d heard he’d married and had stopped by, unannounced, to say “hello.”
In each instance, Carin had appeared only after he’d sent for her.
“Hello,” she’d said politely, “how nice to meet you.”
Then she sat in a chair—not beside him, on the sofa, but in a chair on the opposite side of the room—and she’d said nothing, done nothing, not rung to ask the maid to serve coffee, not inquired if his guests wished a drink or something to eat. She’d simply sat there, a polite smile on her face, until he’d wanted to storm across the room, drag her to her feet, shake her, shout at her, kiss her until she came to life and heat lightning flashed in those cool eyes of hers…
Rafe sucked in his breath.
No. Hell, no. He didn’t want to kiss her. Why would he? Despite what he’d told her the day he’d married her, he’d reached a decision. She was, she would always be, his wife in name only.
The night he’d carried her into his home, he’d thought of taking her up the stairs, to his room, to his bed…not to make love to her, because he was not a monster, no matter what his bride believed. He knew she needed time to heal from the rigors of childbirth, but a man’s wife belonged in his bed.
Marrying for the sake of a child was the right thing to do, but only a fool would live with a woman—a beautiful woman—without enjoying her.
And then he’d looked down into Carin’s face. She was staring at him as if he were a monster, her eyes icy pools of darkness against the pale translucency of her skin, and a sense of self-loathing had roiled through him, like the water of the Amazon in flood.
He’d said nothing, only carried her to one of the guest suites and left her there, and that was where she’d made her life over the past weeks, in her own rooms or in the nursery, or anywhere at all where she would not have the misfortune to cross paths with him.
He knew he had only to command her to move into his rooms and she would have no choice but to do so. In his country, unlike hers, he held all the power in their marriage. But he wouldn’t do it. It was what she expected of him, and he would not do it.
In fact, he didn’t want his wife in his bed anymore.
He was a Brazilian; he lived in a country in which men didn’t have to apologize for their needs. Mistresses were commonplace, especially among those of his class and wealth. He’d taken them before. Soon, he’d take one again. The simple truth was, he no longer wanted Carin sexually. She held no interest for him, except as the mother of his child.
He’d come within a second of telling that to her doctor, when the man had offered that little smile with the news that Carin was well.
“I’ve told her she may resume intimate relations with you,” the medico had said, with some delicacy, when Rafe didn’t respond to the smile.
Rafe had nodded. “I see,” he’d said.
Had there been something in his voice that had given him away? He wondered about it, because the doctor had flashed him a look of understanding.
“You must realize, senhor, that, ah, that such things may require a little patience. Some women take longer than others to recover from the experience of a difficult childbirth…”
Rafe opened the patio gate, closed it after him, and began walking towards the stables.
The difficulty of childbirth had nothing to do with his wife’s distaste for him but he didn’t care. All he wanted now was that she assume her proper role, as his wife. He would tell her, tonight, that she could no longer ignore him. She would dine when he did, preside over his table, entertain his guests, grace his arm at public and private functions.
He would tell her, too, that he did no
t require her to lie in his bed. She could erase that from her mind.
Perhaps he would turn to Claudia to soothe his sexual needs. She had been shocked to learn he was married—she’d phoned a week ago, and he’d told her, though, of course, he’d given no details.
“I’ll miss you, darling,” she’d said, as if they’d still had a personal relationship—but they could. For all her faults, Claudia had never disappointed him in bed. She’d also made it clear that she’d be happy to be there again, if he asked. He never had, but now…
Why not? he thought, as he reached the paddock where the stallion he’d bought from Jonas Baron kicked up its heels in the sunlight. Claudia was beautiful, and she would not need to pretend he was someone else in order to moan with ecstasy in his arms. Her only complaint about him had been that she meant less to him than Rio de Ouro.
“You love this desolate place more than you could ever love a woman,” she’d said when he’d ended their engagement. “It’s the only thing you ever think about.”
Rafe sighed.
It was close to the truth, but marrying Claudia would have been a mistake had he never set eyes on the ranch. She was a spoiled little rich girl; he’d grown weary of her games, of her self-indulgence, of her unfaithfulness. In his culture, the law often looked the other way if a man beat his woman, even killed her, for infidelity, but he’d simply told Claudia he no longer wished to marry her.
She’d accused him of never losing control enough to raise a hand to her because his real passion would always be for his land and never for a woman.
He thought back to that moment in Carin’s hospital room. She’d taunted him by saying she’d have to pretend he was Frank before she could lie in his arms again.
He had raised his hand, then. It was the first time he’d ever come close to such a thing, but it had nothing to do with passion for Carin. It was because she was impossible.