CHAPTER FOUR
Davis was still. Their gazes held, but he gave no indication as to the thoughts hidden behind his mahogany eyes. Cressida could barely draw breath, anxiously waiting for the look of contempt that her weakness deserved. But instead she watched mesmerized as Davis reached slowly for the hand which rested on her chest, and then raised it – his eyes still locked with hers – and pressed his lips against her delicate palm.
He stepped closer. So close that their bodies were almost, but not quite touching. So close that Cressida could feel the soft brush of his breath on her face, and smell the musky, rich aroma of his aftershave. He held her hand to his chest as he leaned over her. His dark frame enclosed her; cocooned by his long, powerful legs. Her gaze dropped to his mouth and she waited expectantly for his lips to descend on hers. Davis saw her tongue dart nervously over her lips, moistening them, and he bent his head to taste their sweetness. But a thump from the door caused Cressida to flinch.
"Dr Thorndon-Davis?" A young, hesitant voice called from the other side. Davis reached out and turned the key sharply in the lock.
"Davis? Shouldn't we ..." began Cressida in concern. But the student was quickly forgotten as a thrill of anticipation shivered through Cressida. Her eyes were caught in his intense gaze before his mouth slowly – agonizingly slowly – came to meet hers. The kiss was gentle at first, tenderly probing at her mouth and savouring the new sensations. But then it became more insistent and demanding. His tongue darted into her mouth, tantalizing and teasing her.
Somewhere, deep in her subconscious, a panicked voice was screaming, 'this can't be right!' I should be watching Davis from a distance, safely invisible, not here in his arms! But for now it was easy to ignore the voice of caution and to concentrate simply on the delicious sensation of his lips against her own. Cressida's mouth moved with his, thirsty to taste and explore.
Davis growled deep in his throat and pressed closer to Cressida. His chest was now hard against hers, the rough fabric of his shirt brushed against her breasts, protected only by her lacy underwear and thin blouse. His grip tightened as he held her hand to his chest; his firm thighs pressed against her hips. Davis began to touch his lips to her cheeks and neck, caressing the soft skin, and Cressida turned her mouth against his prickly chin. The voice of reason inside her, which had demanded a stop to this foolish abandon and wanted to know why this was happening, was now forgotten. There was no past or future which needed to be agonized over, just the simple, overwhelming present. The world had shrunk until there was only the two of them, relishing the wonderful new intensity and awareness that was burning between them.
"Dr Thorndon-Davis!" The accompanying thud was so determined that Cressida felt the door jerk behind her. Startled from her overpowering emotions, Cressida became aware of the crowd of voices on the other side of the door. They were not loud enough for her to understand the words, but the feelings of confusion and anger were clear enough.
"Davis," she warned, and smiled at his answering groan. He rested his forehead next to hers for a moment, his breath making the soft hairs on her neck tingle, and then reluctantly stepped back. Lifting her hand once more, he planted another regretful, farewell kiss on her palm and then turned the key in the lock.
"Until tomorrow," he promised.
Cressida picked up her bag as Davis opened the door for her. He jokingly berated his students for their impatience and told them not to crowd the doorway. Cressida kept her eyes firmly on the floor as she passed through and started down the corridor, afraid of what her face reveal if she glanced at Davis, or what she might read in the curious looks of the students.
Cressida glanced at the slip of paper in her hand. 39 Middleton Road. She knew the street as it was on the bus route into the city. It was a wide road, lined with trees and long driveways which led up to interesting large houses, all built with an individual style. The new shiny cars and carefully tended gardens added to the air of prosperity. She would not have been surprised if Davis was the only university lecturer living there, in a part of town more commonly associated with lawyers and I.T. specialists. It seemed that Christian's throw-away comment about Davis's rich family might actually be based on some truth.
Cressida then glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes to eight. Already forty minutes late. But instead of jumping up and running the couple of streets to his house, Cressida closed her eyes against the warm evening sun and stretched out her legs. She let her mind wander as she sat on the cool brick wall, catching snippets of the animated chatter of students as they passed her and entered the hall.
An hour ago she had been all ready to go. She had been idling leafing through a magazine, waiting for the minutes to pass until it was time to leave. She had abandoned her attempt to work in the library that afternoon, as thoughts of Davis had constantly interrupted her concentration. Realizing that she was reading the same page for the third time, with no recollection of what she had read at the beginning of the chapter, Cressida gave up her attempt to study as futile. So it was back to Gladstone Hall to decide on a mature but sexy outfit for the evening.
Just as she was checking the contents of her bag for the last time, Cressida heard the sound of sobbing pass by in the corridor. Her reaction was automatic. Her bag was tossed away as Cressida hurried to see what the matter was and how she could help. Opening her door, Cressida heard the sobbing disappear around the corner, and so she followed. Even before she came across the open door of room 291, Cressida had a good idea of the source of the muffled sobs. The two girls were huddled together on Marianne's bed. Charlie's long, brunette hair had come loose from her ponytail and tendrils hung around her face. Marianne murmured soothingly to her, a protective arm around her shoulders.
Marianne glanced up at Cressida and quietly mouthed, "mid-term exams". Charlie was a bright and dedicated student, but like many teenagers she had found the transition from school to university quite a shock. Unlike Marianne, who had spent a couple of years working as a temp, Charlie had come straight from her school exams. She was the only undergraduate student on the corridor in the history department, and Cressida knew that she was a hard-worker but also that she tended to be too harsh on herself.
"Charlie?" Cressida asked tentatively and knelt down in front of the two of them. "Can I help?"
The tendrils of her hair waved back and forth as Charlie shook her head. "I can't cope with it all. I'm going to leave and go home."
As Marianne softly coaxed her, telling her not to worry, Cressida said sharply, "that's a bit melodramatic."
Charlie jerked her head up and her light brown eyes peered out through her hair. "I've failed my exams!" she wailed.
"What, all of them?" Cressida asked sceptically.
"No," Charlie snapped, flicking her hair back irritably. "Just Anglo-Saxon Art and Archaeology. But it makes up twenty-five percent of my overall mark and Dr Lesley says I will have to retake it during the Christmas break but I've got a holiday job lined up at home to help reduce my overdraft, so I can't stay here over Christmas and ..." Disconcerted by Cressida's serious, unsympathetic frown, Charlie turned to look pleadingly at Marianne.
"Is this job important? More important than your studies?" Cressida questioned her.
"Oh, you don't understand!" Charlie hiccupped. "It's not just the money. It's a job working in the local museum which would give me work experience for when I start my career. At the start of term Dr Lesley told me that if I wanted to go into the heritage industry my lack of experience would be a real disadvantage, and that I had better sort something out. And now, when I've got it organised, she ruins it!"
"Is there any way you could retake the exam during term-time?"
"No," Charlie sighed. "I don't think so. Dr Lesley didn't really say. But don't you see? My careers teacher was right. She said I should stick with languages – much better for the job market, she said, whereas there aren't any jobs in heritage these days. I should have listened to her. It wasn't meant to be."
"Rubbish!" Cressida scoffed, causing both Charlie and Marianne to start in surprise. "There is no such thing as fate or destiny, or things that are meant to be. People just use it as an excuse to give up. If you want to succeed at this, then you'll have to fight for it. You're in charge of your future. Make it work for you. Okay?"
"Okay," replied Charlie doubtfully.
"But you don't have to fight on your own," Cressida smiled reassuringly. "Let me talk to Dr Lesley and I'll see if there's a way around it somehow."
Yes, tomorrow morning she would speak with Dr Lesley and see what she could do. Tomorrow morning, Cressida thought with a wry smile. Impossible to think of tomorrow morning when she seemed to be held in limbo that evening. Knowing that the minutes were ticking away, but unable to move from the solid, safe brick wall outside Gladstone Hall.
You're a coward, she taunted herself. All the fighting talk you give to Charlie, Marianne and the others, and you can't even fight your own battles. But everything's gotten out of control! In a moment of madness I admitted my feelings for him – Cressida winced as she remembered her blunt, crude words – and now I feel so out of my depth. The sensations that raged through me when we kissed – what if it meant nothing to him? What if he was just taking advantage of a besotted student?
"Cressida." She jerked her head up in surprise, and saw Davis standing only a few feet away. His back was to the light and Cressida had to shield her eyes to focus on his grave expression. He was dressed formally, in a dark grey jacket and light blue shirt, as if he was about to go out for the evening or as if he was expecting a guest. Cressida grimaced in shame.
"Can I join you?" Cressida nodded silently. "I suspected you might have second-thoughts," he said carefully.
Cressida kept her eyes lowered. Davis sat down next to her and stretched out his legs alongside hers. His black leather shoes contrasted with her suede boots and embroidered skirt. They sat side by side, separated by only a few inches, but the atmosphere was cautious and restrained, like a couple of polite strangers enjoying the warm evening.
"It's such a beautiful evening. It seemed a shame to spend it working at a computer," Cressida said quietly. It was obvious that she was side-stepping the real issue, but Cressida was not ready – not yet – to voice her real fears about the evening.
"I was hoping you would think that. I was going to suggest more pleasurable ways to spend the evening," Davis replied tenderly.
"On an evening like this, the students often go a bit mad," Cressida continued, her husky voice hesitant and cautious. "They forget work and let themselves go, and always regret it in the morning."
"It's in your control, Cressida," Davis promised. "I would never push you to do something you might regret."
"But the last time we met I got so caught up in ... our work, that I lost control, and ..."
"... felt yourself falling into an overpowering storm of desire and need? Yes, Cressida, I know. Because it knocked me for six too." Finally Cressida could raise her eyes to his and returned his affectionate grin. "Let's walk down to the lake." Davis stood and held his hand out to Cressida. Like a debutante at her first ball, Cressida's fingers tingled at the sensation of her soft skin in his rough palm.
Two burly young men, the white and red of their rugby shirts stark against the grey concrete of the hall, burst out of the revolving doors. Davis released Cressida's hand to guide her around them and towards the path. Away from the busy entrance to the hall, the path down to the lake was quieter and the shouts and laughter of students began to fade. But instead of reclaiming her hand as Cressida hoped, Davis casually tucked his hands into his pockets.
Four girls, linked arm-in-arm, walked by in a uniform of short black skirts and glittering tops. "Hey, Davis," one of them shouted. "We're off to Zak's nightclub. Wanna join us? You can bring Maggie if you want."
"No, thanks," Davis called back. "I'm sure you don't want a chaperone."
"A chaperone wasn't quite what I had in mind," she teased him back. As they passed, another of the girls stared frankly at Cressida, and then whispered to her companion and dissolved into giggles. Cressida looked away quickly, fixing her gaze on the shimmering silver of the lake.
"Let's go that way," suggested Davis, indicating a small, overgrown path which led into a quiet, secluded thicket of trees. The leaves blocked out most of the evening sunshine, and the earth was dark and moist. It was gloomy after the fierce brightness of the lake, but thankfully free from giggling teenagers.
A chill shiver made Cressida pull her lace cardigan tighter across her chest. "Are you cold?" murmured Davis. "We can stay in the sun if you prefer."
"Davis, are you married?" she asked, her voice flat.
Davis started in surprise, and frowned. "You mean Maggie? Well, we've been together for three years now, but we haven't taken any vows yet. She's great, but I wish she'd learn not to sit on my face in the mornings." Cressida stumbled to a stop and stared at Davis in shock. "Cressida, Maggie is a dog. I sometimes take her for walks around the lake, so lots of the students know about her. Good god, Cressida, did you really think, after yesterday, that I could be married?"
"I don't know," she admitted ruefully, pressing her hands to her crimson cheeks. "There's so much I don't know about you." Davis tugged her hands away from her face, forcing her to raise her eyes to his.
"What would you like to know?"
"I don't know where to start." But then she remembered the question that had tantalized her. "What is your name?"
"Edward. Edward Peter Thorndon-Davis." He tucked her hand securely through his arm and continued along the path. "I am not married, nor have I ever been married. Nor," he added with a stern look at Cressida, "have I got another girlfriend hidden away somewhere. My last serious relationship ended two years ago. Her name was Ellen, and we were together six years."
"Six years!" Cressida blurted out, trying to pull back her hand, but Davis would not let her go. He grasped her hand firmly in his own, and continued, "six years. It was a mutual decision to end it. Now how about you?"
"How about me? Well ..." Davis was right. How do you begin to explain yourself to someone? Your history, your hopes and fears for the future ... "What would you like to know?" she turned his question back on him.
"Let's start with the most important question," he suggested, with an amused grin. "What do you want in life, Cressida? A successful academic career, writing best-selling history books and jetting off to conferences in exotic locations?"
Cressida shook her head. "I love my research but ... I wouldn't want to do it as a career. I don't feel comfortable talking in front of dozens of people, let alone hundreds, and I couldn't stand the pressure to publish, publish, publish which academic departments obsess about. No, academia is not for me."
The pensive tilt of her head reminded Davis of her thoughtful, still posture in his lectures. It had been near the beginning of term when he had noticed the quiet redhead sat far to one side of the lecture hall. Although he never saw her taking notes, she seemed more attentive than most of the other students, her hands clasped in front of her, a curtain of auburn hair falling across her cheek. She never spoke to anyone around her and they seemed oblivious to her presence. The few cautious enquiries he had made about her had come up against blank frowns. He could have tried harder to catch up with her after one of the lectures, to stop her before she left, but a part of him had enjoyed the mystery. Now that he had discovered her teasing smile and sexy, husky voice, he cursed himself for his previous lack of action.
"So if not academia then ..." Davis pressed.
"Copy editing," she confessed with a self-conscious laugh. "I've really enjoyed the work I've been doing for Christian on Antiquus. I've built up a good relationship with the publishers and I even enjoy bullying the authors when they don't get their manuscripts back on time."
"You, a bully?" Davis raised his eyebrows.
"Only to students and lazy authors," she admitted with a laugh. "You would be amazed how sloppy their work is sometimes! Full of spelling and grammar mistakes. Effective proof-reading is a skill ..." Cressida broke off her speech and rolled her eyes. "Just listen to me! Boasting about myself!"
"So you should," Davis gave her a stern look. "Be honest about your talents. You shouldn't be ashamed of being good at, or passionate about something."
"Tell me about your passions then," Cressida countered with a teasing smile.
"My passions?" Davis growled and pulled her closer to him. He glanced around briefly – the only sounds were the rustling leaves on the ground and the soft whisper of the trees overhead – and then brushed his mouth gently over hers. The taste of his lips was tantalizing. Cressida tugged him closer and deepened the kiss. Her earlier doubts were forgotten as she drank in the heady taste and aroma of his skin. But too soon the kiss ended and he pulled back, with another quick glance back down the path.
He must have noticed my discomfort when those girls stared at us, Cressida reasoned. It's thoughtful of him to shield me from prying eyes, she tried to convince herself.
"Until recently I would have said that I have only two passions in my life, my teaching and my writing." Davis slipped his arm around Cressida and they continued walking. The warmth of his palm through the thin material of her blouse sent a shiver through her. "You are cold," Davis accused her, and hugged Cressida closer to him. Her goosebumps had nothing to do with the cool breeze and dark shadows but Cressida did not argue with him.
"You love writing history books?" Cressida prompted him.
"Not particularly. What I like writing is ..." Davis groaned and shook his head. "This is between you and me, okay? I write science-fiction stories."
"Really?" Cressida stopped and looked up at him, her eyes wide. "What are they called? Do you use a pen-name?"
"I haven't been published ... yet," Davis admitted. "Come on, I should get you back in the sun." He tugged her along by the hand.
"Don't clam up on me!" Cressida demanded with delight. "Tell me more!"
"I'm hoping to send a manuscript off to an agent soon. But I've been putting it off. What if they say it's rubbish?" Davis raised Cressida's hand and brushed his lips gently against her palm. "It takes a lot of courage to admit what you want, and to risk rejection."
"Sometimes it can work out," Cressida murmured huskily.
"Yes it can."
The setting sun was disappearing below the horizon, leaving a trail of red and orange, when Davis and Cressida emerged from the shadows. The fields behind Gladstone Hall were not as busy with laughing, chattering students as beside the lake. Cressida noticed only a few couples walking or sitting together, and a group of lads kicking a ball around. Davis let his arm drop from Cressida's side and said with a wicked grin, "Christian's tenure as editor-in-chief comes up for review at the end of term. You should put yourself forward for the post. After all, you've been effectively running it for him over the past few months."
"Well, I have been helping him but I wouldn't say that I was running it ..." Cressida frowned uncomfortably. Privately she knew it was true – she had been lumbered with all of Christian's responsibilities as editor-in-chief recently – but she had to be careful not to criticize him. She was, after all, dependent on him as her supervisor.
"Don't deny it. I know Christian," Davis replied curtly with a grimace. "I lectured at Queen's College, London, before I came to work here."
"Queen's College. Isn't that where Christian did his Ph.D?," Cressida suddenly remembered.
Davis sighed. "Yes, I've had the misfortune to know him for many years. No doubt he's had plenty to say about me. And none of it complementary." Davis interpreted Cressida's silence as agreement, and continued, "there were some malicious rumours about me at Queen's. Encouraged, no doubt, by Christian."
"He doesn't like you very much," Cressida admitted with a frown, "but would he really be that spiteful?"
"He probably thought it was just a bit of fun at my expense, and he was too naïve to anticipate the consequences," Davis said with a wry smile.
"What were the rumours about?"
"Nothing." Davis gave a bitter laugh. "Nothing, blown out of all proportion and dressed up in lights like a Christmas tree. What's that term they used? 'Unprofessional conduct'. Don't listen to what Christian says about me, Cressida. It's just vindictive gossip." Davis turned to meet Cressida's questioning look. His gaze was raw and honest. Cressida felt herself drawn into his mahogany eyes; their dark depths pleading with her to trust in him. "Don't listen to him."
* * * *
'Don't be fooled by his charms'. Cressida caught sight of her confident, relaxed smile in the window pane and lifted a hand to touch the image on the cold glass. The black night outside made a mirror of the pane, reflecting the golden warmth of the lamp light in Cressida's room. Davis didn't need to tell her not to listen to Christian.
Now that darkness had descended and the only light outside was from the streetlamps and the occasional flickering glow of a camp-fire, the evening was chilly and brisk. But Cressida thought she could still feel the soft warmth of the setting sun on her back as she and Davis had strolled leisurely back to Gladstone Hall. His sombre mood had lifted quickly when Cressida changed the subject away from Christian. They had chatted, gradually beginning to know each other better. The memory of their relaxed and easy banter brought a contented glow to Cressida's cheeks. Like a subtle flame. Cressida frowned thoughtfully. Where had she heard that? Catullus, that was it! Perhaps those Roman poets knew something after all.
It had been perfect. Well, almost perfect. Davis had not accepted her invitation to come up to her room. Instead, like a perfect gentleman, he had brushed a quick kiss against her hand and made her promise that she would allow him to cook her a meal the next evening. Then he had left, cheerfully whistling 'I'm Walking on Sunshine as he strolled away. Cressida pulled her lacy cardigan tighter around her shoulders as an ache of loneliness threatened to disturb her inner warmth. She wanted him here now, holding her in his arms as they gazed out at the lake together, talking and talking through the night.
But it was her own fault. Davis was simply trying to put her at ease, wasn't he? Cressida frowned as she tried to make sense of it. He must realize that it is difficult for me, she thought. Davis has female students fawning over him all the time, could he really be attracted to me? Cressida closed her eyes as the memory of his burning gaze, the naked passion in his eyes, returned to torment her. Yes, he does want you. Let yourself believe it. Davis understands your hesitation and that is why he is biding his time. You just need to trust in yourself, and him, and everything will be fine.