She was totally unsurprised, yet at the same time pleased, to be allowed into his memory, to hear him say, ‘It looks different.’
‘Different?’
‘In winter.’
‘Don’t you come in winter?’
‘Used to. Not recently. It’s come to be regarded as a spring-to-autumn retreat. But in my grandparents’ time . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘It was usual to come all the year round. Iola was populated then, and no one needed much excuse for a ceilidh. That’s a gathering where yarns are spun and vast quantities of food and drink are consumed and everyone is expected to contribute his or her party piece.’
‘Even a Sassenach like me knows what a ceilidh is. I bet you had fun.’
‘We did. From Burns Supper to the most minor family event, you name it and we celebrated it. The men in Highland dress, the women in pretty gowns with tartan sashes, and Hamish McBride on the pipes because he had the best ear and could handle the ‘warbles’—the grace notes. He was a character, all right Couldn’t read a single note of music, but he could throw the drones over his shoulder and pull out a tune to set the feet tapping.’ The vibrancy in Maxwell’s voice brought it vividly to life for her. She felt the warmth and the camaraderie and was in step with the music and the merry-making. And then he was off on another tack. ‘When the small loch froze, out would come our skates. We’d test the ice daily, hourly, sometimes, in our impatience for it to hold our weight. Once, Ian—’ He stopped abruptly. The magic spell was broken as he said his brother’s name and recalled who she was, or, more correctly, who he thought she was, and his grim expression was like a door slamming in her face. And it was all the more painful after being let in, even briefly.
She found herself damning Glenda Channing for whatever she’d done to Maxwell’s brother, and so spoiling the harmony of the moment for her. Why, oh why did she have to get involved in Glenda’s invidious affairs? And yet, if she hadn’t got involved, she wouldn’t have had reason to meet Maxwell and that wouldn’t have suited either.
His stride quickened and she had to put in twice as many steps to keep up with him as they climbed out of the glen, following a line of Scots pine with trunks like the foremasts of sailing ships, deep-rooted to stand up to the fiercest gale. In contrast, the alders, birch, and rowan were pliant and at the will of the wind, bending before and not standing up to the gales.
The mist turned spiteful. Its gentle softening-the-landscape effect became a damp obliterating blanket and Maxwell said it would be as well to turn back. Several times she stumbled and almost lost her footing on the rough and unfamiliar ground. He reduced his pace, but not once did he offer a steadying hand. But whether it was from repugnance, because he couldn’t stomach the thought of touching her, or because he was afraid to touch her because he was not total master of his feelings, she had no way of knowing.
By the time they arrived back at the house Gemma felt very cold and sorry for herself indeed. Warm as her sheepskin coat was, it only reached just below her hips, leaving the lower part of her dress exposed to the damp.
Looking her over, Maxwell said in grudging apology, ‘I should have found you something more suitable to wear sooner, rather than later. I’ll sort something out now. But first I’ll put some soup on. Only the packet variety, I’m afraid, but it will serve the purpose of warming you through.’
Despite his disparaging opinion of packet soup it smelled delicious as it simmered gently on the stove. Perhaps it was something to do with the air, but she was looking forward to sampling it. She also felt that she could do full justice to one of the large steaks which Maxwell had taken out of the deep freeze that morning.
While he went to find her some alternative attire she took a curious peep into the freezer and gasped to see it so well stocked. He had mentioned that nowadays the house was only visited between spring and autumn, so the freezer wouldn’t be in all-year-round use. When the house was unoccupied she imagined that the electricity would be switched off, in which case the freezer had been stocked in anticipation of their arrival. If the amount of food was anything to go by, he intended to keep her here for quite some time.
He came back with an assortment of garments. Jeans and sweaters, a pleated skirt, and a cozy red housecoat, the latter being just the thing to keep drafts at bay. She could tell at a glance that the owner of these clothes was considerably taller than she was. She held the housecoat in front of her and it swept the floor.
Glenda, she recalled, was exactly her height. What was she thinking? She pondered for a moment. Everything about Glenda’s kidnap had been meticulously planned. He hadn’t grabbed her on impulse; every move had been well thought out in advance. He had known the road that Glenda would take to get home, even, Gemma suspected, the approximate time she would be there. Angus and Andy had been waiting at the quayside with a boat to bring them to the island, which had been visited beforehand and got ready for them. He had gone out of his way to see that her stay here would be as comfortable as he could possibly make it. Whatever else she had to say about him she could not fault him on that count. He had given her that lovely room, with that gorgeous four-poster bed, and he obviously meant to feed her well. His every action served to prove that her comfort and well-being were of paramount importance. It made her wonder why he hadn’t thought to stock up with clothes in Glenda’s size. It seemed a curious omission in view of everything else.
Or hadn’t it been an omission? Could it be that that stupid comment of his about her not bringing a change of clothing with her hadn’t been such a stupid comment at that?
What was she getting at? His assumption that Glenda would come prepared with her suitcase packed would suggest that Glenda was in on the plot.
‘Any good?’ he inquired, looking dubiously from the garments to Gemma as if he’d only just realized that their rightful owner was so much taller than she was.
‘Better than nothing.’ She hoped she didn’t sound ungracious. It was apparent that he’d done the best he could. ‘These are Fiona’s, I believe you said. Will she mind?’
‘Fiona? Not her. She’s a generous soul; she won’t mind in the least I’m sure she’d be only too happy to help out.’
His reply was touched with proprietorial pride, which made her wonder again about his relationship with Fiona.
‘I could do with a belt, to take in the waist and hitch up the skirt.’ She frowned in pretend preoccupation with the length of the housecoat, attempting to cover up the unreasonable pang she had experienced at the way he said Fiona’s name.
‘I’ll dig something out.’
‘No hurry,’ she said indifferently.
She asked him if he wanted help in getting their lunch ready. When he declined she didn’t press the matter but went upstairs for a trying-on session.
Everything was much too big, just as she had known it would be. The waistband of the skirt didn’t fit snugly; the same applied to the jeans, which sagged and bagged and had hopelessly long legs. She wondered if Fiona would mind if she made free with a needle and cotton and put in a few discreet tucks.
She changed back into her dress and trotted down to the kitchen to put this question to Maxwell. He said Fiona wouldn’t mind, and produced a work basket
It was old and had obviously seen many years of faithful use. There was a handle on the lid which she lifted to reveal a pin-neat, velvet-lined interior in a pretty shade of deep rose. From the tidy rows of every color thread imaginable she made her choice.
She didn’t have to ask; she knew instinctively that the work basket had belonged to Maxwell’s grandmother. She sat in the big pine rocker, which had the feel of having been Maxwell’s grandmother’s favorite chair, her head bent industriously over her sewing. The homeliness of her actions took her back to their recent walk—more particularly to how Maxwell had mellowed as he let her into his life as it used to be, with all the comings and goings he knew as a boy. The warmth of his memories wrapped round her and she felt a nostalgi
c longing for the days of her own childhood and the carefree years before she lost her parents. She had been a tiny afterthought, a huge disruption of her parents’ lives, coming as she did in her mother’s late thirties, when all thoughts of having the child they had so desperately desired and prayed for had long since ceased. She had enjoyed her parents for close on twenty years. Her father had been older than her mother and when he died her mother had been inconsolable, and a few months later she had also passed on. A tear pricked her eye and she bent her head lower until she felt more composed.
If she hadn’t been so engulfed in her thoughts she might have sensed that Maxwell was looking at her, the harshness of his features softened by the puzzled expression that had come to his face.
She wished he didn’t think so badly of her. She knew that she wasn’t perfect by any means. She had a quick temper and an unexpected jealous streak that needed watching, which she hadn’t known about until he started talking about Fiona. She made mistakes—didn’t everyone?—and had abided by the consequences. That was perfectly fair. She didn’t mind paying for her own mistakes and even held the belief that it made her a stronger person. But she objected most forcefully to shouldering the burden of someone else’s mistakes, misdeeds, or whatever heading most appropriately fitted Glenda’s mysterious transgression.
Her head came up. ‘Maxwell?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m right, aren’t I, in thinking that we’re not connected to the mainland by phone and that we’re cut off from the outside world?’
‘You’re right about the phone, but we’re not completely cut off. We do have contact—by boat, remember? Angus will bring a regular supply of fresh produce plus, of course, things like newspapers.’
‘Mm—that’s what I was getting at—newspapers. Do you agree that Clifford Channing wouldn’t take his daughter’s disappearance lying down? If she was missing it would be reported in the newspapers, right?’
His eyes narrowed and he adopted a tone of chilling tolerance as he said, ‘I’ll go along with that.’
He was talking down to her, pandering to her as he would a child. He was doing this quite deliberately to humiliate her, and she wondered if anyone had ever been able to disrupt his impregnable calm. She could have taken it better if he’d blown his top with her rather than spoken condescendingly to her.
‘And when it isn’t . . . ?’ She refused to be incited to anger, although it took all the composure she could muster to match his control. ‘When there’s not one word about her disappearance in the newspapers, then will you believe that I’m not Glenda Channing?’
One black eyebrow lifted derisively. ‘I would certainly have grounds for a serious re-think, but that possibility is hardly likely to arise. You are Glenda Channing and your name will be blazoned across the front page of every newspaper to prove it. The press will have a ball.’
How could he be so positive? So calm in his disbelief? If only she could shake him out of his righteous complacency, rouse him to anger—anything but this glacial smoothness that set her teeth on edge.
‘You won’t even admit that you just conceivably might be wrong.’ Despite her good intentions she was biting back frustration and temper.
‘Isn’t this conversation rather a waste of time?’ he drawled, evincing lazy boredom.
‘Obviously. Because you’re like those mountains out there; you never melt. You can’t see the truth when it’s staring you in the face. But that’s not important anymore. It doesn’t matter who you think I am. I demand that you come out of the Dark Ages, stop this petty vengeance, and take me home. Hasn’t it occurred to you that someone might be worrying about me?’
The sardonic twist of his mouth summed up his grim satisfaction in being able to agree with her. ‘I should imagine that your parents will be extremely worried. Your father, in particular, will be tearing his hair out by the roots because his carefully laid plans have gone awry. Please forgive me, but as his influence over you is partly to blame for my having to bring you here, I can’t feel too much regret about that.’
‘I forgive you nothing!’ she spat at him. ‘You can’t feel regret because you’re incapable of human emotion. You’re inhuman and bigoted. I’ve never met anyone like you and I hate you for what you’re doing to me. I know I’ve got a temper, but for the most part I manage to keep it under control. But you goad me with that look of yours. I must have reacted the first time you looked at me like that and so you know just what to do to get at me. Just be careful you don’t give me such a weapon, because if you do I’ll turn it on you. I’ll . . .’ The threat died on her lips, swallowed in a gasp of dismay, because she could not envisage a time when she would have the upper hand. No one, man, woman, child or beast, would ever get the better of him.
She achieved something. The ‘look’ left his eyes to be replaced by concern.
‘You’re getting distraught. It can’t be good for you.’
‘Getting?’ she questioned with rising hysteria. ‘I am distraught. The only tiny bit of comfort I can find in the whole of this stupid situation is that my parents won’t be worried. They died over two years ago, so at least they’re spared that heartache. But there are people who care about me and who will worry and it isn’t fair to put them to this kind of distress. There’s Miss Davies at the library, where I work. My neighbors. Even Barry, in his own way.’
‘Barry?’ he queried, his tone sharpening.
She didn’t know why she had tossed out Barry’s name. If he was tormented at all it would be because he didn’t care for puzzles and he would be mystified by her disappearance, but she was sure he didn’t care deeply enough about her to endure any real suffering. The relationship between them had been based on friendship. No vital spark or lovers’ clashes, no heights and depths of feelings, no flights from tenderness to passion. The realization that there could be no shared future for them had been coming on gradually, yet for all that the moment of impact took her by surprise and stole her concentration. Therefore she wasn’t giving much attention to what was going on behind the stony facade of Maxwell’s face and she answered his question as to who Barry was in vague indifference. ‘A friend.’
‘A man friend?’
‘Obviously.’
His face underwent an alarming change. The black rage in his dark olive eyes made her jerk back in sheer astonishment. Not in a million years would she have thought that the mention of Barry’s name would foment such feeling. How ludicrous! After all her attempts to get under his skin and rouse him to this state of anger she had fallen upon the means by accident. Barry, dull, staid, slightly pompous Barry! It was so amazing that she almost laughed out loud.
‘You haven’t been playing fast and loose with Ian, have you?’
He sounded too savage for her to crow openly about her triumph, but she couldn’t prevent a little flicker of satisfaction from coming to her gray eyes as she said emphatically, ‘I don’t know Ian, so how could I play fast and loose with him?’
‘Have you slept with Barry?’
‘Now really!’ As her eyes slid away from his, as though concealing something, she realized that she was enjoying taunting him. But she would have enjoyed it a whole lot more if she hadn’t begun to question the wisdom of provoking him to greater fury. Yet why should she back down? And why was he attaching such importance to the possibility that she might have gone to bed with Barry? ‘You surely don’t expect me to tell you that. It’s much too personal.’
‘I do, and you will. Have you slept with him? Answer me!’
‘No. I don’t see why I should.’
‘Then I’ll have to provide you with a reason, won’t I?’
He grabbed her by the arms and pulled her out of the chair so fiercely that it crashed back on its rockers, collided with the table, catching the edge of the work basket, and began to rock wildly backward and forward. Cotton reels, needles, pins, scissors, a colorful assortment of buttons, all the ingredients of a well-stocked work basket flew everywhere.
But her defiance earned her a severe shaking and his fingers bit deeper into her arms; she thought that if he held her any tighter her bones would crack. In the end she had to cry out in anguish. ‘Stop . . . you’re hurting me!’
‘God in Heaven!’ His ejaculation was ground out in frustration and it was harsh and unrepentant. ‘I’ll hurt you a whole lot more if you don’t speak up.’
He was no longer the obdurate mountain with its frozen cap. Not only had she melted the ice off the top, but she had caused a volcano to erupt.
‘Damn you, Maxwell Ross!’ she sobbed, closing her eyes on a wave of weakness born of despair. ‘I haven’t slept with Barry. There, you’ve got it out of me. I hope you’re satisfied!’
‘I would be if I was convinced that you were telling the truth, that you’re not lying about this just as you’ve lied about everything else. You’d better be telling the truth.’ His tone was vitriolic. ‘That’s one complication I can do without.’
4
Angus came the following day with fresh produce and several newspapers.
‘Dump everything on the table,’ Maxwell instructed, his eyes urgently searching the older man’s face in a questioning way that did not require words.
Sorrowfully, Angus shook his head. ‘The same. The laddie is still very poorly. Perhaps tomorrow when I come I’ll have brighter news.’
‘I hope so, Angus. I hope so. Cup of tea and a bite to eat?’
‘Aye. That would be most acceptable.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ Gemma said and was rewarded by the kindly smile that Angus sent her way.
She cut hefty man-sized slices of bread for sandwiches and raided the various cake tins in the pantry which someone had thoughtfully filled in anticipation of their arrival. She wondered whether to set a cup for herself and, after a moment’s thought, decided it would be in order. The talk wasn’t of a personal nature; it seemed to be concerned with the business of Maxwell’s estate. She gathered that Angus worked for Maxwell and held a position of some importance. It didn’t take long to realize that there were strong links of friendship between the two men based on a long acquaintance.
Sweet Bondage Page 5