Friendship's Bond by Meg Hutchinson Page A

to what was happening. By that time it had been too late; with a hand over her mouth to deaden her scream he had snatched open his own clothing and thrust his pulsing flesh deep into her.
    ‘ It would be unwise to speak to anyone of this .’ He had caught her wrist, holding her as she made to run from the house. ‘ Think of what people will say not only of you but of your mother? What will they say of a woman who allows a sixteen-year-old daughter to visit a man alone and at night? They will say that she encouraged you to come here, to seduce with pretended tears .’
    ‘ Folk would never say that, they know my mother .’
    ‘ Better than they know their preacher? ’ His reply had cut away her words. ‘I don’t deny that, but they also understand the limits of a man, a man enticed beyond endurance, teased and tormented by a girl, the flaunting of her naked body finally snapping the power of his will .’
    In the silence of the empty chapel Thomas Thorpe felt again the exultant rise of the laugh with which he had greeted her denial.
    ‘ Go then ,’ he had released her, ‘ go tell your side of the story. I’m sure folk will listen with interest same as they’ll listen to a man broken in spirit by the wickedness of a girl and a mother set upon trapping him into marriage; and one thing more I can be sure of, they will believe the word of their preacher, the man who has helped and served the community in every way he could. That belief will destroy the reputation of your mother and of you, Deborah, you will be ignored by any you called friend, forced by their disgust to leave Wednesbury. Think of it . . . ’
    He had snatched her hard against him, revelling in the gasp of fear as she had felt the hard rise of flesh against her thigh.
    ‘ Think of your mother already desolated by the loss of two sons, think what the shock of another ordeal will do to her .’
    It had been enough; he had seen the flame of defiance die in her eyes. Deborah Marshall had crumpled before that argument. But she had not come alone again to the chapel, not until the arrival of a letter to say Edward Langley had been found, that he was recovering from a wound and would shortly be repatriated. She loved Edward, she loved him and wanted to be his wife.
    ‘ Please ,’ she had pleaded, ‘ please promise he will never learn of . . . ’
    ‘ Of you being a whore, that you lay willingly with me .’
    With his hands pressing hard against the smooth surface of the pulpit he smiled inwardly at the girl staring back with horrified eyes; felt the elation of mastery and side by side with it another equally satisfying sensation: the prospect of pleasures his promise could demand.
    ‘ There will be no need of Edward Langley learning anything . . . ’
    He had paused, allowing Deborah Marshall a moment of relief, before continuing, ‘ That is of course so long as you agree to resume our relationship, shall we say once a week .’
    He had sneered openly at her gasp of abhorrence.
    ‘ Why should marriage make any difference? Lying with one man need not prevent you lying with another .’
    But she had not seen it that way. Sobbing that she would rather both her mother and the rest of the town know what he had done, what he further demanded, she had turned away.
    The threat of exposure flashed like a lightning bolt in his mind. Grabbing the heavy metal cross from the table which served as an altar, he had followed her and brought the object smashing down on her head as she reached the door. She had dropped to lie without a sound yet he feared she might not be dead.
    His glance travelled to the spot where she had fallen as he breathed again the fear of that moment.
    It seemed he had stared an age at the crumpled figure, its turquoise-coloured coat rapidly staining with the crimson of blood seeping from a second blow, staring until the clang of metal striking stone as the cross dropped from his hand had recalled him to what he had done and to what must yet