An involuntary shiver of revulsion went through her, accompanied by an unconscious drawing nearer to Maxwell Ross, a gesture that in itself brought its own crop of disturbing thoughts. She doubted if there was a woman alive who could stand this close to him and not feel a spark of something. In her case, with—her lips still burning from his kiss, it was like aiming a pair of bellows at her smoldering emotions. In silencing her lips he had awakened feelings in her she hadn’t known existed. She had never responded like that to Barry’s kisses, and she had always sensed that some emotional stimulus was missing. From an early age she had been fed a literary diet of all the classic fairy tales and just like every other little girl she had harbored thoughts of being Sleeping Beauty awakening to the Prince’s kiss. Somehow she had twisted her fairytale imaginings into this nightmare reality.
Her thoughts were cut off as she found herself being bundled onto the boat. Weasel-face, who answered to the name of Andy, was mercifully not coming with them, which was something to give thanks for. His task, it seemed, was to drive Maxwell’s car home for him, because he took the keys, his smirking gaze leaving her face only to stroll slowly down the length of her body. She was glad of Maxwell’s arm pulling her down to sit beside him as Angus moved over to take the wheel of the boat.
As the engine throbbed into life she angled her neck to see exactly what Angus did to effect this maneuver. In the bright moonlight she would have been able to see well enough if only his back hadn’t kept moving to obscure her view. She knew nothing about boats, but felt that she ought to get the measure of this one in case the opportunity arose for her to steal it, at which point she would have to find the courage to take the controls and make her way back to the mainland.
She watched the receding shoreline with angry thoughts and sinking disbelief. This couldn’t be happening to her. It might have been unwitting on Glenda’s part, but she had certainly got out of this very nicely. And why, she asked herself, should she have to suffer for something that Glenda had done? It was very true that she hadn’t been subjected to physical violence, but there was such a thing as mental cruelty, and she was finding out that that could be worse than actual brutality. She suffered every time Maxwell looked at her as though she was something that had crawled out from under a stone. Every glance he tossed her was flecked with icy contempt. Angus’s attitude to her confirmed that whatever Glenda had done it must have been bad. He had also been giving her some dark and disapproving looks, which, as far as she was concerned, was pretty damning for Glenda. She prided herself on being a reasonable judge of character and she would have put her shirt on her evaluation of Angus as a law-abiding, fair-minded man, the type who wouldn’t knowingly commit even the most minor offense. Yet what he knew made it right with his conscience to be Maxwell’s accomplice. She dismissed Andy. The only thing his involvement confirmed was her belief that a shady character like that would do anything for money. He was obviously being paid, but Angus . . . he was up to his neck in it with Maxwell because of . . . what?
And who was this Ian whose health was causing such concern? When she had said that she was being kidnapped and appealed to Angus for help he had replied to the effect that it was for the best. ‘Master Ian would wish it,’ he had said.
She remembered something else, this time a remark of Maxwell’s. ‘When you offend my kin, you offend me.’ Was Ian his kin? Or was it a coincidence that since the mention of Ian’s name his manner toward her had grown even colder and more condemning than before? There was too much she didn’t know, too many gaps in the puzzle.
She turned her face to look at Maxwell and said in entreaty, ‘Please, won’t you tell me what this is all about?’ When he didn’t answer she reaffirmed, ‘I am not Glenda Channing.’
‘So you keep saying,’ he drawled, his cold tone playing on her nerves.
‘And I’ll go on saying it until you believe me,’ she asserted with fervor, her heart in her expression. He grasped her by the shoulders. ‘Don’t come that. I am not my brother. I will not be taken in by that melting look of injured innocence.’
Even through the thickness of her coat, his touch electrified her skin. ‘Who is your brother? Is Ian your brother?’
‘As if you don’t know!’
‘I don’t know.’
It was all so hopeless. Silence fell between them and she lapsed into thought again. She had never had time for village gossip, which was often flavored for entertainment value and tended to be highly exaggerated; she had always tried to shut her ears to it and make up her own mind. The villagers didn’t have a good word to say about Glenda. Unfortunately, Glenda had never gone out of her way to raise Gemma’s opinion much above the one that was commonly held. She was a chip off the old block, as devious and unscrupulous in her ways as her father. There wasn’t the slightest doubt in Gemma’s mind that Maxwell Ross was fully justified in what he was doing, but that didn’t help her.
If that wasn’t enough, she realized that she had a further complication to grapple with. Not only did she find herself respecting Maxwell Ross—she admired anyone with high principles and would uphold their right to defend them to the bitter end—but she was much too conscious of him as a man. She must not let herself be drawn to him in that way. All such feelings must be stamped out at once. But how?
3
She woke with a start, expecting to see her own rose-patterned curtains at the window, framing a view of neighboring cottage chimney pots, fields where cows grazed, and softly rolling fells for the sturdy, tough-coated Dales sheep to climb. Instead her eyes met floor-length blue drapes, matching the canopy on the four-poster bed in which she lay, and the scarecrow arm of a tree, black and leafless, tapping on an unfamiliar window pane.
She sighed in despair, realizing that it hadn’t been a bad dream but had really happened. Driving Glenda’s car, being abducted by Maxwell Robert Bruce Ross, the most disturbing and dramatically handsome man she had ever met, meeting up with Angus and Andy, the boat ride to this remote island and eventually coming to this house—all were real.
She remembered watching Angus handle the boat, carefully memorizing the sequence of the controls in case the boat provided her with the means of escape—and the realization that, in his turn, Maxwell must have been watching her in secret amusement, knowing as he did that Angus was merely dropping them off and taking the boat back to the mainland. That had been a severe disappointment, because she sensed that she had found a friend in Angus. She had gauged his age to be between forty-five and fifty, which would have given him enough time to have learned that things weren’t always as they appeared, and she had hoped that he would be more receptive to the truth than Maxwell was. But no, it was not to be, and so here she was, alone with, and the prisoner of, a man whose strong personality matched up in every way to his imposing name. Maxwell Robert Bruce Ross. It had a most distinguished ring to it and positively rolled off the tongue.
If she hadn’t been at boiling point because something like this could have happened to her she might have regarded it as an adventure. If she hadn’t been frustrated beyond endurance she would have quite enjoyed waking up in this grand room in a bed as soft as a powder puff and being looked down at by the smiling faces of cherubs carved in the dark and ancient wood. She would have taken pleasure in the warm flannelette nightgown that by rights should have had an accompanying mop cap and cozy woolen bed-socks.
When he had handed the attire to her last night mischief had prompted her to say as much to Maxwell. He had replied darkly that he could doubtless find the missing accessories. She had just as quickly said, ‘Thank you, but no thank you,’ feeling that the situation was ridiculous enough as it was.
The nightgown, Maxwell had informed her, belonged to someone called Morag. He hadn’t elaborated on who Morag was and she hadn’t asked. She deduced that Morag was small in stature, but mighty in girth. The nightgown would have wrapped round Gemma three times and still have material to spare, but the sleeves wouldn’t pull down to her wrists an
d the hem didn’t reach her ankles. As she didn’t aspire to any great height herself, a fact she had always regretted, Morag must be very short indeed.
She got out of bed, shivering in the chill air. It seemed the height of silliness to put on her boots to go to the bathroom which was along the corridor so, as she had no slippers, she went barefoot.
Washed, divested of Morag’s nightgown, and wearing her own lavender wool dress, plus boots, she ventured down the stairs. Following her nose, which twitched to the loveliest smell in the world—freshly percolated coffee—she found the kitchen.
In contrast to the dark-paneled, rather awesome face of the rest of the house, the kitchen was decorated in white and a light and pleasingly delicate shade of blue, the coldness of the colors being dispelled by the homey atmosphere and the warmth given out by the stove.
It was blissful to close the door and leave the drafts behind, a thought quickly reversed on seeing Maxwell’s expression, which was several degrees below zero.
‘Good morning,’ he said icily. ‘I trust you slept well?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘Breakfast is coming up.’
‘Just coffee, please, if it’s all the same to you.’
Obviously it wasn’t. He placed a steaming bowl of porridge before her. ‘Eat’
‘Now look here—’
‘No, you look here.’ He towered above her, his dark eyes glowering down into hers. ‘You’ll eat that of your own accord or I’ll force-feed you.’
‘What concern is it of yours whether I eat or not?’ she spluttered in amazement
‘I made it my concern when I brought you here. I have taken on the responsibility of your welfare and I will see to it that you eat three good meals a day, get at least eight hours sleep each night and your daily quota of exercise.’
‘This situation gets sillier as it goes on. I will not submit to your ruling. Who do you think you are that you can order me about? I absolutely refuse to—’
He made a menacing move toward her and she hurriedly picked up her spoon and transferred a little of the porridge to her mouth. Even eaten while choking on rage she had to admit to herself that it was good, but she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing this and continued to pull a face with every successive mouthful.
‘Bacon, eggs, and kidneys all right to follow?’ he said.
‘It most certainly is not. It is not the hallmark of a good host to bully his houseguests like this,’ she complained.
‘You’re hardly a houseguest.’
‘That evens the score, because you’re hardly a good host. You are, in fact, an unprincipled barbarian. I’m not used to eating huge breakfasts, so while it’s just possible that you might force me to eat one I very much doubt if even you could make me keep it down. Now, may I have some coffee, please?’
She got it. He sat down opposite her and devoured bacon, kidneys and two perfectly fried eggs, presumably meant for her, in dour silence.
She made no attempt to break it, but drank her coffee in brooding contemplation. The silence wasn’t ended until he’d finished eating and she had drunk a second cup of coffee.
Rising from her chair, she said, ‘I’ll do the washing up.’ But instead of getting on with the task she paused hesitantly by the table, unable to resist venting her frustration. ‘It would be something to understand the situation. Won’t you tell me what I’m supposed to have done to earn this fate? Or, should I say, as I can’t seem to convince you that I really am Gemma Coleridge, what Glenda Channing has done?’
Even before he uttered one single word the wry twisting of his mouth indicated that her plea was going to be ignored. ‘There’s an apron of Morag’s hanging on a peg at the back of the pantry door. Pity to spoil that pretty dress.’ He spoke slowly while casting a speculative and unhurried eye along the length of her.
He was deliberately doing this to undermine her, of course. It occurred to her that some men got a perverted pleasure in embarrassing a girl with a too-long look, but she didn’t think it was that which had motivated his prolonged study. It wasn’t that sort of appraisal and, stranger still, the embarrassment was all his for enjoying looking at her. His expression quickly went guarded, but not before she had seen his flicker of interest followed closely by something that seemed to resemble startled shame. Which made no more sense than anything else did. Why should he feel uncomfortable about what was, after all, a very understandable reaction? What was shameful about looking at a woman and finding her attractive?
‘Is Morag a domestic or family?’ she asked, a surge of pleasure whipping through her because he’d set out to disconcert her and had ended up by disconcerting himself. That must be the reason for her delight. Surely she wasn’t foolish enough to be glad that he wasn’t as indifferent to her as he would care to make out? That could only serve to make her position here more dangerous than it already was.
‘Domestic, I suppose.’ A few seconds elapsed before he elaborated on his reply. ‘She’s been with us so long that she seems more like family.’ He had quite recovered himself now and the return of his equilibrium was marked by the resumption of that scathing tone she found so intolerable. ‘We might be here for some time, and as you didn’t bring a change of clothing with you—’
‘Was I likely to have brought anything with me?’ she cut in, retaliating in a rush of annoyance, matching his sarcasm. ‘I’m not in the habit of waking up and saying to myself, I’m likely to be kidnapped today, so I’ll pack a suitcase on the off chance.’
‘As I was saying—as you didn’t bring anything with you, I’ll scout round and find something else for you to wear.’
‘Of Morag’s?’ she said, unable to resist that poke as an impression of Morag’s short but voluminous nightgown flashed into her mind.
A similar picture must have presented itself to him, because the dourness of his mouth almost, but not quite, slid into a smile. It would have been the first proper smile she’d seen and she was disappointed when his lips tightened again.
‘No. Of Fiona’s.’
‘And Fiona is . . . ?’
‘Very clever.’
‘Is she?’ she inquired, thinking what a strange reply that was.
‘She’s not in the least academic. She’s got more going for her in the way of looks than brains. I meant your stratagem. Very cunning of you to pretend not to know who Morag and Fiona are when Ian must have mentioned them to you on many occasions.’
His face went sad and she knew that she’d lost him to Ian who was apparently, she remembered, his brother. She also recalled the inquiry he’d made about Ian’s condition, which seemed to be causing some concern. And then his gritty retaliation to Angus’s doleful expression of sympathy, ‘He’s not dead and buried yet.’ Was Ian expected to die? Something obviously had happened to him. He’d either been struck by illness or accident And Glenda, apparently, was supposed to know Ian. Did Maxwell blame Glenda for Ian’s misfortune? There had to be a connection somewhere, but what was it?
At that point Maxwell announced brusquely that he was going outside to chop some logs. She washed the dishes and put them away, hung the tea-towel to dry, and lifted her eyes from the kitchen sink to look out the window at a suggestion of descending mist, the sort she’d prayed would come down yesterday with sufficient vengeance to make sailing impossible.
The vaporous swirls parted for a moment, an unseen hand dragging back a curtain, to give her a brief view of brooding purple mountains with their frozen caps of snow that never melted. Bleak, yes, yet in some indefinable way a compellingly beautiful scene, its stark majesty softened by the gentle drift of daytime mist.
Not caring that Maxwell might have made the necessity to chop logs an excuse to get away from her, she pulled on her sheepskin coat and opened the door. It was a prison without locks for the simple reason that there was nowhere to escape to.
Standing beside a tidy pile of logs—excuse or not he’d got on with the task—Maxwell looked up in inquiry as she sl
ammed the door shut behind her.
‘I thought I’d like to stretch my legs and see something of your island. Has it a name?’
‘It’s called Iola,’ he said, nodding at what he apparently accepted as a sound idea. He threw down the ax. They fell into step together, Maxwell leading the way.
Talk was sparse. The lack of it didn’t seem to bother Maxwell in the least. The expression ‘taciturn Scot’ suited him admirably, along with a few more adjectives she could think of without any great difficulty. She had fun bringing them to mind. Feudal. Stubborn. Impossible. Bossy. And bigoted beyond belief. The poor girl who married him would have her work cut out. Which raised another question. Was he married already? Or engaged? Perhaps to the mysterious Fiona?
In the preliminary stages of getting to know a person the conversation generally takes the form of question and answer. Stubbornly holding the conviction that she was Glenda Channing, he was convinced she knew all the answers already through her relationship with his brother, Ian. Because of this, any question she put forward was received in anger. She could have resorted to social chitchat, she supposed, making some banal comment about the weather, but she was no more the type to talk for talking’s sake than he was, so she remained silent. If he wanted conversation it would be safer to let him initiate it
Strangely enough, it wasn’t a strained, separate silence, but a shared one, enfolding them in a deep pocket of content as they tramped along together. On her side she was engrossed in the sleeping beauty of the island with its trees and mountains and gray, glittering lochs. She sensed two things. First, that the full force of winter was hovering on the horizon, ready to come in fast, wiping out this bland calm, threatening ice and snow. And, secondly, that Maxwell was soaking up memories of years past.
Sweet Bondage Page 4