If she were honest with herself she had to admit to wanting him as much as he wanted her, but whereas lust was his total motivation there was more to it for her. Even though she hadn’t properly analyzed her feelings for him—perhaps she didn’t dare because that would make her more vulnerable still—she knew that heady kisses and entwining limbs might satisfy the requirements of an affair, but they wouldn’t fulfill her. Moral principles kept intact for twenty-two years couldn’t be carelessly cast aside. There had to be a commitment and, strangely enough, she wasn’t necessarily thinking of marriage. She couldn’t offer her body without a commitment of the heart. It had to be that—or nothing.
She lifted her eyes to meet Maxwell’s penetrating gaze. He was holding the birthday card in his hand and it was obvious by his manner that he had just finished looking at it
His mouth had a wry twist to it and his eyes were cold as he said, ‘You never cease to amaze me. I’ve already discovered what a talented actress you are. Now I see that you’re no mean artist, either.’
‘Don’t patronize me,’ she said, her chin tilting.
‘I’m not.’ The glint in his eyes told her that he knew he was getting under her skin and was amused by this, and so the placatory tone sounded false to her ears. ‘This is really very good. Excellent, in fact. You’ve exactly captured the mood of the loch.’
‘It’s a very rough sketch, crude by artistic standards. You’re being overcomplimentary.’
The icy smile remained firmly on his lips. ‘Fiona used to dabble in this line.’
She shrugged, indicating bored disinterest ‘I’m sure she was much better at it than I am.’
‘I was only going to say,’ he continued, maintaining that irritating tone of forebearance taken to the extreme, ‘that some of Fiona’s sketching equipment might be around somewhere.’
‘Thank you. With your permission I’ll look round and see if I can find anything.’
‘Try the trunk. It’s as good a place to start as any.’
She would have liked to go there and then, but he might think she was grasping at any excuse to leave his company. She disliked the smug, anticipatory lift of his eyebrows, as if he expected her to leap from her chair and run.
She would not give him the satisfaction. With deliberate indolence she rested her strained shoulders back against the upholstery and willed the stiffly held muscles of her face to relax. ‘Thank you. I will . . . tomorrow.’
It was one of the most uncomfortable evenings she had ever spent, but she stuck it out to the bitter end. Before getting into bed she sat for a few moments staring out the window at the white blots of snow, a blizzard of dancing dots in the darkness. When would the weather take pity on her and let Angus get through? It was an intolerable situation. She pressed her fingernails into the palms of her hands in frustration and hoped it would be soon.
By morning it had stopped snowing. She looked up at the winter sky and saw chinks of blue, but as the day progressed they were blanked out by the chilling mist that rolled in from the sea. Maxwell would have called it mist, anyway, but to her eyes it had the density of fog.
She went to the top of the house to look for Fiona’s sketching materials. The trunk wasn’t locked. She smoothed her hands across the satin darkness of wood that belonged to another century before lifting the heavy lid and letting it rest on its own hinges.
She tried not to pry unnecessarily, putting things to one side that she didn’t think were for her eyes, although there didn’t seem to be anything personal here. Sure enough, she spotted a box containing tubes of paint, an artist’s pad and sketching pencils. As she lifted this out something else was revealed. A pair of ice skates. She judged them to be close to her size. She thought about the frozen loch with longing, but then she remembered Maxwell’s instructions not to skate there. If she’d thought that he was cracking the whip of authority for its own sake she would have been sorely tempted to disobey his order. But defiance at the risk of personal safety was just not on. So she put the skates back and contented herself with taking just the painting materials.
Next morning there were a lot more blue patches in the sky and the mist had dispersed. She thought she would like to have another go at the loch, but from a different angle. She cleared the breakfast things away and then poked her nose round the door of the main room and told Maxwell that she was going to find something to sketch. She wrapped up warmly and set off. If she could get the outline down she could do the actual painting in the warmth and comfort of the house.
To get a different angle of the loch meant sketching it from another section of the bank. Not only would the opposite side be ideal but it would serve a dual purpose, because she would be able to get the house in as well. But it looked a long way round and the path was steep and possibly hazardous in these conditions.
All traces of yesterday’s mist had cleared away and the surface of the loch was a mirror-glare of reflected sunlight. It looked solid enough. She cautiously tested it with one foot, then she stepped forward and put her whole weight on it, bouncing for good measure. No ominous cracks or creaks met her ear. She was at the loch’s narrowest point and this was surely a much safer proposition than going round by the uncertain path.
She crossed easily and reached the opposite bank without a mishap, never once feeling the tiniest bit unsafe. She even lifted her arms and enjoyed the exhilaration of sliding. She wondered what Maxwell had made that big fuss about and wished she’d brought the skates she’d found with her so that she could have skimmed across, like the wind, all the way.
She spent a happy hour, possibly longer, sketching. Despite the cold she was so absorbed in her task that she would have liked to have stayed even longer, but she had to get back to prepare the midday meal.
She was only halfway across when yesterday’s mist came back. At first it was nothing to worry about, just scarf-like swirls twirling across the loch, eerie rather than frightening. Ghostly gray-white specters forming and dispersing and forming again until suddenly it wrapped all round her. She couldn’t see the bank she was heading for, she looked back and discovered she couldn’t see the bank she’d left, either. She told herself not to panic. If she walked in a straight line she would be all right Surely, even without landmarks to guide her, this wouldn’t be impossible.
She seemed to be walking a straight course, but she realized that she couldn’t be because she had now been walking longer than it took her to cross initially. The fog—by no stretch of the imagination could this be called mist—stole all the normal daytime sounds, birdcalls, the fleeting step of a deer, the chitterings of small woodland animals and the wind shuddering through the trees. The blanketing silence was unnerving.
She called out Maxwell’s name, but all that came back to her was the ringing echo of her own voice. Had she said where she was going? No, she had looked round the door and merely informed him that she was going in search of something to sketch. Was this before or after she’d put on her coat and boots? It was difficult to remember, but she thought that it was before, so Maxwell might have assumed that she meant something in the house. Even if he did look out and see that the fog had rolled in he might not realize that she was out in it and wouldn’t come looking for her, at least not right away.
She began to walk more quickly, hoping against forlorn hope to stumble upon the bank, but she seemed to go on forever with no awareness of direction. She shouted Maxwell’s name at the top of her voice, then she listened, praying for an answer. What she heard intensified her fears instead of taking them away. It was a loud noise, like the report of a gun—or the cracking of ice. A jagged black line appeared round her and she couldn’t find a safe footing. The loch was like a conveyor belt and she didn’t know where to turn, which step would take her to her destruction.
A voice—Maxwell’s—called out, ‘Glenda!’
Tears, frozen drops of fear in her eyes, melted on her cheeks. Never had she been so delighted to acknowledge that name as her own.
�
��I’m here, Maxwell.’
‘Where? Keep calling out. Your voice will guide me to you. Don’t stop calling until I get to you.’
‘Maxwell, no! Let’s do it the other way round. You call out and let your voice guide me to you. I’m much lighter than you are. There’s every chance that I shall make it. The ice is cracking all around me; it won’t stand your weight. You could drown trying to rescue me.’
‘What are you saying? I can’t hear you.’
‘I’m saying don’t come on the ice. Please, Maxwell, don’t. It won’t stand your weight’ She listened for his reply. It didn’t come. ‘Maxwell, why don’t you answer me? Answer me, damn you!’ What was he playing at? ‘You must be able to hear me. Where are you?’ she demanded, her voice lifting on hysteria.
‘I’m here. Right here,’ he added. As his arms closed round her she knew that he had been able to hear her every word. He had made her keep talking by pretending not to hear until he reached her.
‘You crazy man,’ she sobbed.
‘You crazy woman, and a lot more besides, which will have to wait for the time being,’ he said thickly.
‘I’ve been walking and walking. It’s been a nightmare. I must have been going round in circles.’
‘Later!’ he commanded. His voice was harsh, but she knew it was that way for a reason, as his next words confirmed. ‘Shut up. I need my ears. Do everything I say and don’t utter a word.’
If anything, now that Maxwell had joined her, one aspect of the situation was much worse. His added weight was a severe detriment, but she knew that she would never have made it without him. She thought it was probably a false sense of security, but now that he was here she felt safe.
Progress was agonizingly slow. When she wanted to go faster Maxwell made her walk even slower still, often halting altogether so he could listen. Suddenly she felt her feet whirling clear of the ice. She was being rushed through the air and she didn’t know what was happening to her until Maxwell, his arms still firmly clamped round her waist, set her down and she was conscious of her feet touching the bank.
She clung to him, unable to speak or move, just grateful to be safely encased in the warmth of his arms. She didn’t know how he was managing to hold himself aloof, why he wasn’t taking her offered, upturned mouth in a passionate kiss and conveying the agony that had gone through his mind when he discovered she was missing. At her bleakest moment, just before she’d heard his voice, it had flashed through her mind like a revelation that she didn’t want to leave this life which had suddenly become doubly precious to her—ever since, in fact, he had entered it
To recognize feelings of love could be—should be—the most wonderful experience in the world. It could lift you right up to the stars. Or it could be the worst moment and drag you down into the deepest despair you have ever known. It all depended on your loved one’s reaction. Maxwell’s reaction shattered her. He wasn’t a fool. As her hands clasped tightly round his neck, clinging to his strength with an urgency born of the torment and suffering of her recent experience, he knew of her need, her caring. Her body shaped to his in a declaration of surrender. She loved him and she didn’t care if he knew it How could he feel nothing in return? How could his face be so cruelly cold toward her, his voice withering her with condemnation instead of sighing in soft gratitude for her safety?
‘You little fool. I forbade you to go on the ice.’
‘You forbade me to skate,’ she corrected.
Was he angry because he’d received a fright—because, despite all the signs to the contrary he cared? Or because she’d disobeyed him?
‘Don’t split hairs,’ he said, his voice as harsh as the hands that pulled her forward, commanding her to move. ‘Let’s get you back to the house and dried out.’
The rain-like mist had soaked into her clothes and chilled her through to her bones, but it was his attitude that chilled her heart.
They didn’t speak again as he bundled her roughly toward the house, his long stride showing no consideration for her. No sympathy for the ordeal she had been through, not the merest glimmer of human compassion, touched his dark countenance. Would it have hurt for him to unbend just this once?
‘I know you’re angry with me, and perhaps you have just cause,’ she admitted. ‘I made an error of judgment. Is that such a big crime?’
The only acknowledgment that she received was a swift sidelong look and a grunt
She sighed. ‘Everything was fine going across. The ice was as solid as a rock and there was no danger; at least, none was apparent. If the mist hadn’t come down I would have got back all right and you wouldn’t have been any the wiser. But it did, it rolled in on me without warning. I couldn’t keep a straight course and somehow I found myself on the part of the loch you said was dangerous. I’m not stupid. I didn’t walk there deliberately to thwart you. Why don’t you say something?’ she shouted, goaded by his silence. ‘I wasn’t to know the mist would come down like that.’
‘God Almighty! You weren’t to know! Where have you been all your life? Any fool knows how quickly these mists come down, and the islands off this coast are particularly prone to this sort of thing. Don’t tell me you’ve never read anything to that effect?’
‘Well, I suppose I have, but—’
‘You had to find out for yourself. Your sort are a hazard to themselves and a menace to others. I’ve never before known so much trouble to come in such a small packet.’
With that he lifted her off her feet, opened the door with his free hand, banged it shut behind them with a vicious kick of his foot and carried her up the stairs and into her bedroom. She didn’t know what he was going to do next; she half expected to be flung down onto the bed, but she wouldn’t have been surprised at anything. As it was, the hand clamping her waist stayed there, the one supporting her legs was removed; she slid down along the length of him and felt her feet contact the floor. Even with the bulkiness of their clothes separating them her consciousness of his nearness caused her to shiver alarmingly. She was blue to her lips with cold and hoped he would put it down to that alone.
‘Get out of those damp things. I’ll fetch some rough towels from the bathroom to get your circulation going.’
In a moment he was back, divested of his own coat, but because her fingers were so numb she was still wrestling with the buttons on hers.
‘Let me.’
She submitted to having her coat removed with childlike docility because there was nothing else she could do. He took her hands in his, chafing her fingers to bring the circulation back. Then he flattened them against his chest, trapping them there with his own hands. The warmth of his body forced life back into her dead fingers which knew an absurd longing to mold to the hard contours, bury themselves beneath the light covering of his shirt and curl into the masculine growth of hair on his chest.
As his flesh tautened she wondered if her shameless fingers had given her away. Did he feel their quivering urge to touch, know the frightening depth of emotion he was arousing in her? She looked up in anxiety and her hope that he might not have perceived anything different in her died when she saw the dawning cynicism in his eyes.
‘Wanting to find something else out?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Shuddering in shame and rebellion she used her hands as a lever to push herself away from him, at the same time shaking off his hands. She knew that he let her do this, that if he’d exerted himself to stop her she would have been powerless to escape. As her hands dropped loosely to her sides his crept round her waist, pushing upward under her sweater, following her spine. She felt the tingling in her breasts as he unfastened the clasp of her bra. She tried to swallow, but her throat wouldn’t constrict, as if she’d lost command of the muscles. Her breathing was similarly defective and the blood seemed to be pumping through her body at twice its normal speed.
Her heart throbbed fiercely as his hands moved round to the front. The tingling lightness of his touch scalded and sensitiz
ed her flesh. His thumbs rubbed sensuous circles round her nipples, then withdrew. As before, his lips moved down to take their place, lightly and moistly taking her left nipple between them, biting gently, as if on some precious fruit, then pausing.
She waited, her breath held and his name hovering on her lips. She dared not speak, but she had no clear idea whether she was afraid that he wouldn’t stop if he knew how he was affecting her—or that he would.
His breath was hot on her throbbing breast; surely he could feel her heart beating against the warm flesh of his mouth. Then his tongue slipped back onto the pebble-hard tip of her breast and she shuddered against him as he resumed the maddening caresses of a moment before. His fingers teased gently at her other nipple, which tautened further in response, flames darting along her skin.
His other hand slipped to her back and then down along her spine and beneath her jeans, moving with tormenting slowness over the firm, rounded curves of her buttocks. Teasingly, always teasingly, his mouth and hands sent her quivering along the path of mindless sensation, her breath coming in long gasps of agonized delight.
And then, suddenly, he stopped. His hands returned to his sides and he lifted his head. The cool air of the house chilled the overheated, moistened flesh of her breast, and the desire that had been coiling and uncoiling within her, leaving a hollow feeling beneath the pit of her stomach, subsided as shame coursed through her.
Only then did she realize he was playing that macabre teasing game again. Demonstrating, with even greater boldness, the power he could wield over her, the command he had over himself. Proving, in case she hadn’t got the message the first time, that he was capable of driving her to dizzy heights of desire while remaining immune himself.
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