“I love you, kitten,” he told her. “And you’re my wife now. My wife.”

My wife. That was what he was saying, that she was his, that she belonged to him in the eyes of God and man. My wife. Not we are married but you’re my wife, as though the whole sacrament of marriage had been a specifically acquisitive act on his part.

“Tonight,” he said, speaking her thoughts. “I’ve waited a long time for you, sugar. I can’t wait much longer.”

But why did he have to talk about it? She couldn’t even think about it without trembling inside. Why did he have to talk about it?

Once he put an arm around her. “My baby,” he said. “My wife, my little girl.”

My, my, my. Possession, ownership. God!

Hadrian’s was a massive stone building, its decor suggestive of medieval England. The high ceilings were supported by rough oak beams, the walls paneled, the doors composed of wide boards highly polished. At another time she might have been captivated by the lodge, receptive to its atmosphere, but now it only conjured up images of a castle lord taking the chastity of a young serf according to the ancient droit du seigneur. His wife.

A gray-haired bellhop showed them to their room. A large room with a view of a patterned garden in the rear. A large room with heavy furniture and a massive bed that, in her frightened eyes, dominated the room utterly. She could not take her eyes off that bed. It fascinated and repelled her, like a snake in the eyes of a bird. She wished it were smaller or less imposing. As it was, it seemed slightly obscene.

And he mistook her feelings. He grinned and touched her arm. “That’s the bed, all right,” he said. “You’re getting excited just looking at it, aren’t you?” He squeezed her arm. “Don’t worry, sugar. We’ll be in it soon enough.”