All the way up the stairs Jeanie had been casting curious glances at her. Now she said, ‘Will you be wanting anything, ma’am?’
Gemma replied that she wouldn’t.
Jeanie said, ‘I’ll be away to my bed, then. Good night.’
‘Good night, Jeanie. And thank you.’
She wanted something. But it wasn’t anything that Jeanie could give her. She took off her own lavender wool dress, glad that she had put that on and not something of Fiona’s which Maxwell had dug out for her to wear while on Iola. Fiona resented her being here. It would have made the situation more intolerable still if she’d been wearing the other girl’s clothes. It would be bad enough having to confess to Fiona that she had borrowed some of her things.
As she got into bed her feet touched a hot water bottle. It was the only bit of warmth she had felt in this house. No matter whose idea it was—had Jeanie acted on her own initiative or upon Morag’s instructions?—she was grateful for the comforting thought.
With so much on her mind she thought she would have difficulty in dropping off, but not only did she sleep the sleep of the exhausted, she overslept
It was half-past nine when she very apologetically presented herself to Morag, who was in the kitchen, up to her wrists in flour.
‘I’m sorry. I had no idea of the time.’
‘I had a peep at you earlier to ask if you wanted a tea tray, but you were dead to the world, so I let you be. I’ll get you some breakfast,’ Morag said, taking her hands out of the baking bowl and going over to wash them at the kitchen sink.
‘Please don’t trouble. I’m not really hungry.’
Morag clicked her tongue and rebuked her. ‘It’s important for you to have regular nourishment and breakfast is one meal that should never be skipped.’
‘I don’t understand everyone’s preoccupation with feeding me,’ Gemma said grumblingly, because Maxwell had been equally insistent on her having regular meals.
Morag made no comment but sent Gemma a slightly cold look as she took bacon from the fridge and an egg from its holder and then went to the stove to give the porridge a stir.
‘You don’t approve of Mr. Ross marrying me, do you, Morag?’ Gemma asked, taking her place at the kitchen table before Morag had any ideas of shunting her into the dining room.
‘It’s not my place to approve or disapprove of anything the master does,’ Morag replied pedantically. ‘I can see . . .’ She stopped.
‘Go on.’
‘ . . . that he would look upon it as his duty,’ Morag said with a shrug. ‘The only decent way out.’
‘I don’t understand what you mean. You know that Mr. Ross, well, that he took me to Iola by force?’
‘Aye. My Angus being a party to it, I had to know that. I didn’t hold with such carryings on and I told him so. Yet, in Master Ian’s interest, what else could he do? Even if it wasn’t a praiseworthy thing he did, his purpose was above reproach.’
His purpose had been to take Gemma—or rather, Glenda—to Ian’s bedside. That accomplished, why did Morag think that Maxwell would look upon it as his duty to marry her, that he would consider it the only decent solution?
‘I know we were alone on the island.’ In these times it seemed preposterous to have to explain this. ‘But we didn’t go to bed together, you know.’
‘I should think not!’ Morag said, and she couldn’t have looked more shocked if Gemma had instead confessed to days and nights of unremitting passion.
If Morag didn’t think they’d slept together, although sleeping together wasn’t a reason for getting married these days, what did she mean? Chewing on her lip, Gemma said, ‘Where is Mr. Ross now?’
‘Out on estate business. A place this size doesn’t run itself. Although my Angus is his right-hand man and has full authority in the master’s absence, there’s still a pile-up of things that need his personal attention.’
‘Is the estate very large, Morag?’
‘Aye, by any standards. There’s a section reserved for timber, and then the master holds the rights to some of the finest salmon fishing in Scotland. But it’s the home farm that takes up most of his time. A small part of the estate is divided into individual farms which are let to tenant farmers. He takes his duties as a landlord very seriously. No matter how hard pressed he is, it’s never at the neglect of others.’
‘You have a very high respect for him, haven’t you, Morag?’
‘Aye, and so will you have if—’ She clamped her mouth shut, holding her runaway tongue.
‘If I’m around long enough to know him that well?’ queried Gemma, lifting the implication out of the air. ‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You implied it. Mr. Ross and I are going to be married. Don’t you think the wedding will take place?’ She knew it wouldn’t if Fiona had anything to do with it. ‘Is that it, Morag?’
‘It’ll take place, well enough.’
‘Then what? Don’t you think it will last?’
With a regretful shake of her head, Morag said, ‘I don’t hold with divorce any more than I hold with a lot of other things which are regarded as standard procedure these days.
‘Divorce?’ Now Gemma was the one to be shocked. ‘Who’s talking about divorce?’
‘No one. You’re flummoxing me, making me say things I shouldn’t. I’d be obliged if you’d eat your breakfast, Miss, and let me get on with my work.’
Upon which Morag set a bowl of porridge in front of her and presented her with her back, and no amount of probing could get another word out of her, on that subject, at least.
* * *
Gemma knew that she must get word of her whereabouts to Miss Davies and Barry as soon as possible, and with this in mind she decided to search the house for a telephone. She thought about spilling out the whole story to Morag and enlisting her help in getting in touch with people who might be worrying about her, but realized that it wasn’t fair to involve Morag. A person can only serve one master and she wouldn’t like to think she was responsible for getting Morag to do something she might consider underhanded.
She discovered a telephone in the drawing room. She didn’t want either Fiona or Morag to overhear her, so she wondered if there was another one somewhere more private. She found what she was looking for in a book-lined study. The phone was on the desk and she judged by the number of file cabinets around that this was the room where Maxwell attended to the paperwork involved in running the estate.
Although it would be easier to phone while Maxwell was out she didn’t care if he came back and caught her. She wouldn’t be saying anything that she hadn’t already said to him many times.
She would have preferred to speak to Miss Davies, her superior at work, but after pondering on this for a moment she dialed Barry’s office number. She was conscious that she was making a long-distance call without first obtaining Maxwell’s permission. Miss Davies didn’t always grasp the point very quickly. It would be less expensive, and more practical, to contact Barry and ask him to pass the message on. Also, there was another consideration. She wondered if she might ask Barry to come up to Scotland to help convince Maxwell that she wasn’t Glenda, something she couldn’t possibly suggest to Miss Davies at her age and with the roads as they were. She was quite relieved to find that the telephone was working, having half expected the lines to be down.
She announced her name to Barry’s secretary and a few moments later heard his voice inquiring urgently, ‘Gemma, is that you? What’s going on?’
‘Barry, it’s a long and very involved story. I’ve no right to ask this of you, but I’m desperate. Please don’t let me down. The fact is, I need you. Will you come—’
‘What the hell are you playing at?’
The words came from behind. Maxwell’s tone was bitter and there was black murder in his eyes as he wrenched the phone from her hand and crashed it down on its cradle.
‘Why did you do that?’ she protested. ‘Why didn’t you listen? You might have learned something.’<
br />
‘I did. I learned what a little tramp you are.’
Hot color ran up her neck. She realized she was trembling as much from fear at what he intended to do next as from choking humiliation and anger. He hadn’t bothered to close the door when he came in and it was open for anyone to hear.
‘You are never to speak to him again,’ he commanded autocratically.
‘Sometimes I think you must be off your rocker,’ she said, trying to scrape past him, not sure whether she meant to close the door for privacy or run from him in cowardice until he’d simmered down.
The choice wasn’t hers to make. He caught hold of her wrists and brought her forcibly up against his chest.
‘There are times when I think I am. Instead of forbidding you to have any further contact with your boyfriend perhaps I’d show more sense if I packed you off to him. How dare you tell him that you’re in desperate need of him? Begging him to come to you like . . . like I don’t know what.’
‘It wasn’t like that, and if you were reasoning properly you’d know it wasn’t.’
‘No?’ he sneered.
‘I refuse to talk to you while you’re in this mood, so please let me pass.’
‘I’ll talk to you in any mood I like. And you’re going nowhere.’
‘I hate you,’ she said through clenched teeth.
‘There are times when you’re not my favorite person, either, but it seems that we’re stuck with one another.’
He glared down at her and she found herself unable to look away.
In one movement her wrists were released and she was pushed from him. He walked toward the door and she heaved a sigh of relief which was smartly swallowed as, instead of continuing through the door as she had hoped, he slammed it viciously shut and then twisted the key in the lock.
Backing away from the insane, dark torment in his eyes she stammered nervously, ‘Wh-what are you going to do?’
‘Give you something to hate me for. I’ll get the truth if I have to beat it out of you.’
‘I’ve never lied to you,’ she insisted, knowing in every nerve in her body that even as he threatened to lift his hand to her in violence he wanted to kiss her, swamp her mouth with his, slide his hands down her back and line her body to his.
And then, his anger still there, as unquenchable as the passion that was burning him up, driving him on, he was doing just that, tilting her chin and forcing her back to arch to such an extent that she had to grab hold of his shirt front to prevent herself from falling over. And then his hands were moving with inexorable precision down her spine, splaying out to compel her body even more intimately close. She felt his desire; the heat of his hunger for her seeped through her clothes and found a reciprocal flame.
She closed her eyes in bitter desperation and wished for an immunity that did not come as the combined forces of his anger and his need of her searched for appeasement. His mouth savaged hers; his hands were ungentle as they found their way beneath the material of her dress to travel across her shoulder blades, encircle her throat and explore the vulnerable hollows along her collarbone. A pulse quivered in her throat in recognition of her helplessness and fragility. One hand dropped to her breast in a light touch that was almost an act of reverence. The contrast was sweet, oh, so sweet. Following the instincts that were teasing her she wriggled open the buttons on his shirt, finding a way inside and letting her fingers delight in the hard strength of his muscular chest and wind into the masculine growth of hair she had known instinctively would be there. Simultaneously his fingers delighted her breasts, fondling each in turn with tender care through the thin layers of material. The pulse in her throat throbbed more wildly with the gently increased pressure of his caresses; her mouth was subjected to kisses that drained her resistance to the dregs. She clung weakly to him in a gesture that conveyed submission, total and unconditional, and rampant invitation.
He responded to the invitation with a passion that was shattering in its intensity. She was wearing the lavender dress again and his right hand left her breast and dropped to her hemline. His fingers teased gently at the material before slipping underneath it to slide softly up her leg. He drew light patterns on her thigh, those tormentingly knowing fingers sliding ever higher up the slick fabric of her nylons, leaving traces of fire on the sensitized skin beneath.
At last, after heart-stopping moments in which she felt an anticipation so great that she could hardly keep herself from taking his hand and forcing it those last few inches, his finger flicked gently at the heart of her desire. She shuddered, gasped, then bit her lip in an agony of wanting. Never had she known a need so great. Then his whole strong palm closed on her, cupping the mound of her desire and sliding slowly back and forth. Her knees turned to water and she trembled against him, her breath rasping in her throat as he forced her ever closer to release.
A loud banging on the door brought them to their senses: A voice called out, ‘Are you all right in there?’ And then, after a moment, ‘Mr. Ross, will ye not answer?’
‘It’s all right, Morag. Go about your business.’ To Gemma he said, ‘After the commotion, the calm is sometimes more worrying. Poor Morag probably thought that I’d murdered you.’ His voice was gruff, as if he was wondering how his anger had channeled into this, but he seemed totally unaffected by the passion that still held Gemma shuddering in its grasp.
She did her dress up and attempted to smooth her hair into some kind of order. Without saying another word, his icy composure once again intact, Maxwell turned on his heel, unlocked the door and walked out of the room.
She had no option but to follow his example. She couldn’t stay there forever, although she would have liked to. Goodness only knew what Morag must think, but she had to be faced sometime.
But it was Fiona’s contempt she ran into first. Trust Fiona to hear everything and then complete her humiliation by staying to crow.
‘Well?’ she said, squaring her chin to the older girl.
Fiona’s laugh was dry and brittle. ‘I’m sorry if I’m staring. We’re simply not used to slanging matches like that. Poor Maxwell, I feel so sorry for him.’
Gemma resolved not to let Fiona draw her. All the same, she couldn’t have been thinking straight because it was absurdly ill-timed to say, ‘I borrowed some of your things to wear at Iola. I hope you don’t mind too much.’
‘Some things I don’t mind your borrowing, and my clothes fit that category.’ The implication was, my clothes but not my man. ‘They must have looked ludicrous on you. You hardly match up to me . . . in height,’ she said, so belatedly that she might as well have left that addition off.
‘I don’t match up to you, period,’ Gemma replied.
Fiona’s eyes narrowed and glinted dangerously. ‘But it’s you whom Maxwell is marrying. Why don’t you say it?’ she taunted.
‘I don’t have to. You’ve just said it for me.’
‘Don’t sound so damned triumphant! How can he be such a fool? There’s no guarantee that the brat you’re carrying is Ian’s.’
‘Would you mind repeating that?’ Gemma said weakly.
Fiona didn’t have to repeat it. That was it, of course, the missing piece of the puzzle. Glenda was carrying a child. Ian’s child? That’s why Maxwell had asked her to marry him, not because he loved her, but to give the baby the Ross name. He only wanted to marry her to get control of the baby. No one expected the marriage to last. That’s what Morag had meant when they had spoken on the subject earlier.
‘You didn’t honestly think that Maxwell had asked you to marry him because he felt anything for you?’ Fiona asked, tossing her head back and laughing shrilly.
‘That’s enough, Miss Fiona,’ Morag’s voice cut in, startling Gemma, who hadn’t realized she was there. It was obvious, though, that she had been listening. ‘It’s wicked of you to make such an accusation. Of course it’s Master Ian’s bairn.’
‘Shut up, Morag, and remember your place,’ Fiona said, redirecting her venom. ‘You’ve b
een shown too much leniency in this house. It’s time you remembered that you’re only a servant.’
Morag’s head went down. She muttered something under her breath that Gemma didn’t catch and shuffled off to the kitchen.
Fiona sent Gemma a last killing look and flounced off in the opposite direction.
Gemma didn’t have to think about which one of them to follow, Morag, obviously. She had to get the answers from someone and Morag’s account would be fair and not barbed.
Morag was slumped over the table, a handkerchief to her nose. Gemma lightly touched her shoulder to let her know that she was there and pulled out a companion chair for herself.
‘I’m sorry, Morag. I feel responsible. Fiona was angry with me. I’m sure she didn’t mean what she said to you.’
‘T’wasn’t your fault She meant it, all right That’s been brewing for some time. If ever Miss Fiona becomes mistress here I’ll pack my bags and be out the door like a shot out of a gun.’
‘Morag, what you said about . . . about a baby.’
‘These things happen,’ Morag admitted on a sniff. ‘I’m not condemning you for that.’
‘So what are you condemning me for?’
‘Need you ask?’ Morag questioned in shocked indignation. ‘Abortion—that’s a word we never heard used in my day, praise be—is against the preaching of our good Lord. How you could even consider such a thing is beyond my ken! Of course, I know it’s what your father wanted,’ she said, wringing her hands in distress. ‘And with Master Ian, God rest his soul, not able to stand by your side, I can see how easy it must have been for you to fall under your father’s influence. But that’s no excuse for the sin you intended. Mr. Ross had to do something to prevent such a wicked deed, a transgression against everything that’s decent and honorable. The blood in me boils just to think about it.’
A strangled gasp came from Gemma’s lips. ‘So . . . Maxwell abducted me and took me to Iola, a place so remote that I’d no chance of escaping from it, not to be there when, if, Ian came round, but . . . until it was too late to have the abortion? Is that what you’re saying, Morag?’
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