The Marriage Trap (Book 2, The Mackenzies)

by Diana Fraser

  Cassandra was the only person he’d have accepted advice from. She’d been through a lot, he knew. And he’d admired the way she’d taken charge, had gone after what she’d believed in.

  “Maybe.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “I think, Cassandra my love,” Dallas kissed his wife on the cheek, “coming from Callum, that’s enthusiastic agreement!”

  Callum sighed and pushed his glass forward. “Shut up and pour me a drink.”

  Callum landed the plane in a cloud of dust and taxied to the hangar. It was late afternoon and the sun still beat down. Out of habit he glanced at the state of the grass, noting it was already being leached of its moisture by the unrelenting summer sun. But he gave it no further thought as he focused on the house, focused on the one person in the house who had dominated his thoughts since he’d been away. He’d hoped that putting distance between them would give him some peace. But it hadn’t.

  She must have heard the plane land but there was no sign of her. He strode up to the house and looked around the downstairs then went up to the bedrooms. He hesitated by her bedroom, knocked and, receiving no reply, opened the door and breathed in deeply. He smelled her perfume. He smelled her. He missed her. As he came downstairs he was met by Maria.

  “Have you seen Miss Winters?”

  “Yes sir. She’s gone out.”

  “And taken Morgan with her, I hope.”

  “Not that I know of, sir.”

  He scowled. Typical. “Where was she headed?”

  “Well you know how interested in history she is—”

  Callum grunted—a sound that could be taken either way because he had no idea she was interested in history. His damn staff knew more about Gemma than he did. But then he’d made sure he’d kept his distance, hadn’t he? He had to face the fact that he didn’t know Gemma at all and that was down to him.

  “I was telling her about how the Church of the Good Shepherd came into being,” continued Maria, “and she wanted to have a look. Safe enough road, sir.”

  Callum strode across the drive, heading for his Range Rover. Maria was right, but only up to a point. The Mackenzie country weather was unpredictable and he’d told Gemma to always make sure Morgan was with her and she hadn’t. It was for her own good. He could feel her slipping away from him already. Just as Claire had.

  Gemma lifted the old iron latch of the church with a clunk and pushed the groaning door inward. She stepped inside and inhaled the smell of polished wood and fresh flowers. It was cool and soothing—and she needed soothing. She’d thought that being close to Callum and unable to touch him, to hold him, as she’d wanted to was murder. But being away from him was worse.

  She pushed the door closed and looked around. The church was old by New Zealand standards, about 1870. Built by Mackenzie country pioneers of lakeside boulders with an oak-shingled roof, it sat beautifully in its surroundings. The inside was just as impressive, simple, solid and light, with its cream plastered walls holding up the massive dark wooden beams.

  She walked up the aisle, her eyes drawn above the stone altar to a window that gave views out over Lake Tekapo and the mountains beyond. It was beautiful. Maria had told her that her ancestors and Callum’s had been among the early settlers who had built the church. Of course, it hadn’t been her ancestors. It had been Sarah’s. But she couldn’t say anything. Not if she wanted to keep up the façade and, if she didn’t want to be found here by Paul, she had no choice.

  Her hands traced the rugged carving of Christ on the front of the altar.

  “My ancestor carved it. Yours designed it.”

  Shocked, she turned to see Callum standing quietly behind her. His large presence seemed to make the small church even smaller. She took a long slow breath to calm her pounding heart. “A marriage made in heaven then.”

  “Aren’t they all?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Some have more pragmatic beginnings.” She looked back at the carving. “But maybe they get there eventually.”

  She heard him exhale behind her, as if he’d been holding his breath. He walked up to her and took hold of her hand, pushing it towards the other relief carvings.

  “Edelweiss, you see, and mountain lilies. And over here,” he stretched her hand to the far side, “are keas. The settlers were fascinated by them.”

  “Keas?” Gemma frowned.

  “Mountain parrots the size of a large owl, inquisitive and therefore easy prey for hungry settlers.” He pulled her hand away but still held it tight as he slipped his hand around her waist. “You see the bronze candlesticks? They were sent from the men and women working The Grampians sheep station. They match the bronze cross. Bronze, oak, stone.”

  “As solid as the pioneers had to be.”

  He pulled her over to the oak stand. “You see here? The stand and the Book of Remembrance have the Mackenzie country pioneers’ names inscribed.”

  “I love that. It’s as much about them as God.” She laughed. “Your forebears must have been an arrogant lot. I can see where you get it from.”

  “Your forbears too, don’t forget. You’re pretty stubborn yourself, but perhaps not as arrogant.”

  Gemma swallowed. He was close to her now. So close she wouldn’t have to move to kiss him. “Callum?”

  “Mmmm?” he hadn’t taken his eyes off her.

  “How was Wellington?”

  He pulled away as if he’d forgotten where he was. “Fine. Business. Family. What did you get up to?”

  “Morgan’s taken me out a couple of times, shown me around. They’ve started work on the studio and Morgan’s brought my paintings over. Otherwise, I’ve just been hanging around Glencoe.”

  “Well,” he said, turning back to her. “You look better for it.”

  “I feel better.”

  “Mother says the wedding arrangements are all made.”

  “Right. Christchurch, then?”

  “Yep.”

  “Reception at some posh hotel?”

  “You got it.”

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t want that.”

  “It’s family tradition.”

  “And does family tradition include marrying someone you don’t love for the sake of their child?”

  “Probably. But those stories aren’t passed down through family history.”

  “Why don’t we break with tradition? Look around you. Look at this place. Wouldn’t it be fabulous for a wedding?”

  “It’s tiny. It wouldn’t hold a quarter of the people mother wants to invite. She sent me the list last night.”

  “Let’s make it just family and close friends. It’s a farce. Why make it a public farce?”

  “It’s not a farce, Gemma. It’s a practical solution to a problem.”

  She shook her head. “Then this church would also be practical. It’s close to Glencoe. We could have the reception in the grounds there. Why not?”

  He nodded. “I’d prefer it, too.”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  “We’ll have to fight that out with mother. But, for what it’s worth, I agree.’

  The tension in Gemma was released and she smiled and leaned against his shoulder. “Thank you. I don’t want a big wedding in Christchurch to suit other people—people your mother wants to impress. Only—”

  “Yes?”

  “To…” She wanted to tell him that she wanted the wedding to mean something to them, just them. But she wasn’t sure it did mean anything to Callum.

  “To suit our needs.”

  “I guess, yes. Whatever they are. And I have a funny feeling they’re different for both of us.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” She felt her hopes rise at the way he held her hand. Just in that simple gesture she felt the difference between him and Paul. Paul used to grip her wrist like a shackle. Sometimes it had hurt but he hadn’t let go. But, for all his controlling ways, Callum never once made her feel trapped. He held her hand gently within his own large, strong hand, as if he were cradling a bir
d. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  He pulled her outside into the fresh air. The afternoon wind had risen, whipping the hot dry air around them. The orange-red fruits of the coprosma and buttercup daisies were bright with the fiery sun. Two large paradise ducks squawked their annoyance at the intrusion and flapped a little further away onto the lake. Wekas, pukeko and bittern lifted their long skinny legs delicately around the swamp area surrounding the lake as grey ducks and gulls soared in the bright blue sky, buoyed by the rising wind. Surrounded by such beauty, her hand held by the man she felt so much for, despite the fact his stubborn, arrogant nature insisted he remain a stranger, she felt a flare of hope ignite and refuse to subside.

  She stopped by a gravestone. “Look at these names. Perhaps we should look for inspiration.” She peered at one. “Violet Rose. How about that?”

  “I think something more ordinary.” He nodded to another gravestone. “Like Joan, or Mary.”

  She laughed and pulled him away. “Okay. Discussion looming, but not now.”

  He groaned and pulled her tightly towards him. “I’ve missed you, Gemma.”

  “It was you who went away.”

  “Yes, well. I did have work…”

  “But you didn’t have to go away, did you?”

  “No. I was finding it difficult, being with you, but not being with you, if you know what I mean.”

  “And now? Still difficult?”

  He smiled a slow, secretive smile that melted her body, from the inside out. She drew in a long, slow breath and held it, wanting to know what lay behind that smile. He shook his head and she let out the breath. “No.”

  She touched a golden curl that shone in the sun and tried to tuck it, in vain, behind his ear. She slid her palm against his cheek, feeling an overwhelming tenderness and sadness at the same time. “Callum, I’ve missed you too. That first time we were together, it was everything I’d always wanted. I couldn’t believe I was so happy. And then, it vanished and I knew it had been too much to expect.” She twisted her hand round, and stroked the back of her fingers against his stubbly chin. “Tell me, is it dangerous for me to expect something now?”

  “We’re marrying. You’re expecting our child. No doubt I could have done the whole thing better, but we are going to be together. Expect that.”

  How could she change the habit of a lifetime and expect something good? She shook her head. “You’ve not answered my question.” She searched his face and saw the uncharacteristic uncertainty there. “I know our life will be together, I’m asking what kind of life it will be.”

  He touched her chin with his finger and lifted her face to his. “It will be okay. I promise you.” He brushed her lips with his thumb as if he wanted to kiss them but was unsure of her reaction.

  She folded her hands around his and pressed them against her mouth. His groan rumbled through his body. He slipped his fingers into her hair and kissed her. Heat shot through her body. She felt electrified. His lips barely moved over hers. Coming out of the blue the kiss had a raw sensuality that was shocking. For one long moment they stayed there, both minds focused on nothing else but the sensation of their connection. Then, slowly, his mouth relaxed against hers and he pulled away. He kept his hands thrust in her hair, framing her face, and held his face close. “It will be more than all right. I care for you, Gemma.”

  She nodded. Coming from anyone else it would have been a bland, ambiguous statement. Coming from Callum, it was practically a declaration of love. Practically, but not quite.

  He slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get back. It’s getting late.” He grinned. “We’ll have to work out how to break the news to mother of our change of wedding venue. Or who will break the news.”

  She laughed and whispered in his ear. “Last one home gets to tell your mother.”

  Paul McCarthy sat in the private alcove of his London nightclub, surrounded by the small group of people he kept close by his side at all times. With his business interests it didn’t pay to ever be alone, to ever be vulnerable. He’d inherited his patch of London from his father who’d lost his life in an uncharacteristic moment of softness. Paul had learned from that. His men had to have two attributes: blind loyalty and no morals. Simple.

  The blonde with a generous bottom and even more generous bust wriggled on his lap, demanding attention. He could have her here and now, despite the people all around him. She wouldn’t care. Women like her didn’t. That, unfortunately, was the downside of surrounding oneself with people with no moral compass. That was why he so cherished Gemma. She’d been different, she’d been his Princess. Something or someone had taken her away. He knew where she was. It hadn’t taken long to find her. He knew she was living by herself and he’d give her time to realize her mistake. He’d considered taking the first plane to her and bringing her home but he knew she’d realize what a big mistake she’d made sooner or later. Paul McCarthy didn’t run after women. Women ran to him. And Gemma would too. He’d sent her little reminders of him, just so she knew.

  Paul glanced up as one of his men sat down beside him. The man pushed an envelope across the table to Paul.

  Paul scanned the contents, then reread it, disbelieving. He neatly refolded the report and placed it back in the envelope. The music in the club receded to a dull repetitive thud, pounding in time to the roar of blood pulsing heavily through his veins.

  Married? What the hell? There’d been no sign of any other man. The woman wriggled once more on his lap while his man looked at her appreciatively. Fury licked through his veins. He could hardly think straight. Gemma was the only woman he wanted. Yes, he could have any woman but there was only one woman whom he loved, who he didn’t want to share.

  “You want her?” he said pushing the blonde off his lap. “Have her.” The blonde fell laughing on top of the man whose hands swept up under her dress, revealing the tops of her thighs and more. But the man’s eyes were still on Paul. Business first.

  “You want me to go and bring Gemma back to you?”

  “No.” Paul’s intense gaze was fixed with disgust on the woman’s bare flesh—she wore no underwear. She was nothing but a slut. Some women were like that. But not Gemma. She’d been a virgin when he’d met her and they’d had something special. He’d even begun to think about marriage before she disappeared. Disappeared without trace. Or so she’d thought.

  And now, some man had got his hands on his Gemma? A blood red mist passed over his eyes. The report said she was pregnant. But he didn’t believe that. She wouldn’t let anyone touch her. Only him. That was the way it had been. “No,” he repeated. “I’ll go. Send her another blank postcard. This time from Auckland. It’ll let her know I’m coming, that I’m closer. She’ll be ready then.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “So, Lady Mackenzie, we won’t be getting married in Christchurch after all.”

  Gemma’s confident reflection in the dining room mirror stared back at her. Callum stood behind her, a smile twitching on his lips.

  “That won’t cut it, Gemma. You’ll have to try harder than that.”

  “Okay, how about this.” She bobbed down on one knee. “My lady.” She looked up with an impish grin. “Callum has something he’d like to say to you.” But her grin faded when she saw the look in his eyes. He wasn’t listening to her. His mouth had softened and his eyes strayed around her face and hair before settling on her lips.

  “That’s right, pass the buck.” He extended his hand to hers. Slowly she rose to her feet and he pulled her to him. “But it’s you who wants to marry here, at Glencoe. Why should I risk my mother’s wrath?”

  “You may find it in your interests to help a girl out here.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Umm.”

  A spark of humor warmed his blue eyes. “And what particular interests would they be?”

  She broke his gaze and smoothed down his dinner jacket. “Well, you’ll have to find out, won’t you? After you’ve been to Christchurch to se
e your mother.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

  “Honestly? I think this conversation is best between the two of you. I’ll be here. When you return tomorrow.”

  He stepped towards her. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m,” she paused for dramatic flourish, “going to go to bed.”

  He brushed his hand under her eyes. “You don’t look tired.”

  “I’m not.”

  He groaned again. “I’ll give mother a call and postpone it. If I have dinner with her this evening, I won’t be able to return here tonight.”

  She pushed him away. “No, you go. Get it over with. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Gemma awoke with a start, her heart racing as she gasped for breath. She sat bolt upright, her eyes wide as she looked around, trying to work out what had woken her up. The only movement was the flick of the open curtains in the breeze through the sash window. Moonlight flooded the room, bathing her naked body in its white light. She swallowed and wiped her palms over her face trying to eradicate the image of the man who haunted her nights.

  She’d been dreaming of Paul, that he’d called out to her that he was coming for her. He’d been staring at her, his eyes cold and fierce, furious and possessive. She shuddered in terror and repulsion. She pulled herself up out of the disheveled sheets and leaned against the pillow. A slick of cool sweat covering her face and shoulders where the chill breeze touched her. Would the nightmares never leave her?

  But what had awoken her? Her ears pricked at some small sound, her senses alert and straining. There it was again: the clunk of a foot meeting the brass rod that held back the old-fashioned carpeting on the stairs. Then the footfall became lost again in the runner of carpet that stretched along the length of the landing. But she could swear she could still hear it, coming towards her—a soft muffled heaviness that stopped right outside her door.

  Callum was staying overnight in Christchurch. It was too dangerous to fly into Glencoe at night and too far by road. It was Paul. It had to be. He’d tracked her down. The door slowly opened and she saw a dark shape enter the room and close the door quietly, with a soft click. She couldn’t see who it was and he made no sound. But she was plainly visible, sitting in the pool of moonlight.