* * *
After they finished their meal, Martin left the room, leaving Storm to clean up and re-stock the cupboards. She stacked the boxes in neat rows, emptied the bags of sugar and flour into the appropriate bins, knowing she had performed this task many times before. Closing her eyes, she grappled with fuzzy recollections of life before her capture by the gypsies. A white rose bush grew near a bluestone water trough, but within seconds the images disappeared and the amnesic curtain settled into place once more.
I should write down everything I remember, so the pieces of the puzzle will one day come together. How she knew she could read and write was a total mystery.
In the sitting room, Martin poured out another whisky and skimmed through the local paper he had picked up in town.
“Thank you for the beautiful clothes.” Storm danced into the room with the gowns and undergarments in her arms. “Will I try them on?”
She fingered the silky material with an awestruck expression on her face. “I’ve never worn pretty clothes like this before.”
“What did you say?” He flung the paper aside and leapt to his feet. “Can you remember anything else?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Well, go up to bed, I’ll join you in a little while.”
The thought of other men claiming her body caused enraged jealousy to surge through him. He could afford to buy any number of whores, so why lust after this one?
No woman ever held his interest for long and he hated the fact he wanted Storm with a desperation bordering on madness. Tonight, she would share his bed in every sense of the word. He would wait no longer to get her out of his system. The longer she stayed the harder it would be to send her away. This little storm girl threatened his peace of mind, luring him into a honeyed trap with her womanly wiles.
Fueled by anger and desire, he strode upstairs. Storm lay on her back with the sheet pulled up to her chin. His rage died a sudden death when her eyes brightened at his approach, her soft sweet lips parting in a tremulous smile. Now. This very night. No power on earth could stop the consummation of this strange union between them.
He walked across the floor, disposing of his clothes as he went. Naked, he climbed into bed and drew her into his arms. It took a moment to register she wore one of his shirts. She recoiled as his aroused manhood speared into the soft warmth of her upper thighs.
“Don’t be afraid. See what you do to me?” he said with a groan, as he fumbled with the shirt buttons.
When he slid the shirt down over her shoulders, she gasped. His hand cupped her breast and she cried out, her body bucked then went still.
“Don’t be afraid,” he soothed. “I won’t abuse you like Darius did. I’ll take you to paradise.”
To save his life he could not deny himself a taste of her exquisite mouth. His impatient thrusting tongue forced her lips apart. She tasted so good. Warm, with the sweetness of honey. His tongue moved inside her mouth, tasting, savoring, until her lips softened and allowed him deeper access. He was a past master at seducing women, and Storm would be no different if he exercised patience. She trembled as he took her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and laved it into a hard peak. His mouth followed her jawline until it reached the soft hollow of her throat. He nuzzled her warm flesh. Inhaled her perfume. Slowly, with great reluctance his mouth moved further down her smooth, flawless body. He caught her nipple between his teeth and suckled it.
Storm trembled as Martin’s hot mouth explored every inch of her. He wasn’t a brute like Darius. He had been kind to her. Tenuous swirls of excitement started to flutter in the pit of her stomach, butterfly soft at first, growing in intensity as his hands and mouth caressed her. Warmth seeped through her body. Her nipples tingled. His touch sensitized her skin. Music filled her ears or maybe it was her surging heartbeat. He coaxed the folds of her womanhood open with gentle fingers. Suddenly an urgent need, a raging furnace-like heat of desire surged through her, wiping out coherent thought.
No! No! A voice yelled from the deepest recesses of her mind. Don’t allow him such liberties. Run for your life. The snowy haired old man floated through her consciousness; she ignored his pleas to escape.
Martin guided her trembling hand over his body. She tried to draw back as he wrapped her fingers around his rigid shaft. “Our joining will be good,” he reassured tightening his grip on her hand. “Forget about that insensitive brute’s violation. He’ll never touch you again, I swear it.”
His manhood speared into her soft belly, straining for release of the pent up need from self-imposed celibacy. Holding back, he stoked the fires of her passion until she writhed under him, raking his shoulders with frantic fingers. With tenderness, he didn’t know he was capable of, he parted her quivering thighs and slid into the Garden of Eden.
He had bedded many women in his thirty years on earth, but never saw or tasted such perfection. Her body stiffened under him for a moment or two. “It’s all right my sweet,” he crooned. “I’ll take you to paradise.” He started moving in a slow sensual, rhythm, letting her take him in a little at a time. His desire built up to a crescendo. Excitement surged through him when he felt a hot surge of moisture in her love canal. His seductive routine had not lost any of its potency. No woman ever left his bed unhappy or unsatisfied.
Poised on a knife edge between reality and fantasy, his control snapped and he thrust hard and deep into the very core of her womanhood. A shudder racked her body. From a million miles away, her strangled cry of pain and fear sliced into his passion.
The shock of breaching her maidenhead made him come. He tried to pull back, but his seed had already exploded inside her. “I’m sorry, storm girl, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He rolled away, bringing her with him. How could he be expected to know she was a virgin? He had attributed her fear to being raped by Darius. “I’m sorry.” He whispered endearments, words of comfort never to be repeated in the light of day.
She rested her cheek against his bare chest, curled her body so trustingly into his he despised himself for the raw need, which surged through him once more.
Holding her in the circle of his arms, he rested his chin on her hair. He didn’t utter a word for a time, tried to take her by surprise. “Tell me about Darius.”
The trembling started up again, and his grip tightened as at last the story poured out. Those Sonsofbitches were not fit to walk the earth. You’re a dead man, Darius if our paths ever cross. She had escaped them just in time. When her story had finished she was exhausted. Would the memory of her life before the gypsies ever come back? And if so? What would she be like?
Chapter Three
Several weeks after Storm’s arrival on his doorstep, Martin awoke to sleeting rain lashing the windows. Storm still slept, worn out from their torrid passion. So young and vulnerable. He eased himself out of bed and felt a sudden surge of compassion. What must it be like to have spent time with those brutal gypsies? To have no memory of your previous life? The fear, the loss, the absolute bewilderment.
After he washed and dressed, he strode downstairs. “Sam!” His father’s cousin, Sam Bainbridge sat in the kitchen sipping a cup of tea. “How are you?” Martin clapped the wizened old man on the shoulder. “Profitable trip?”
“Yes, I sold all my sketches.”
“Good, I’m pleased for you. When did you arrive home?”
“Last night. I must say, you’ve done a fine job with the kitchen, or is Mrs. Irvine back?”
“No.” Martin grinned. “I had help.”
“One of your women friends from Melbourne?”
“No. I still can’t believe what happened myself, but I answered a bang on my door one stormy night and found a girl slumped on my doorstep.”
“You’ve been drinking again.”
“I swear I did find a fey young woman on my doorstep. Actually she’s upstairs.” He gave a low chuckle on seeing the shocked expression on Sam’s face. “You can meet her i
n a few minutes.”
“Where did she come from?”
“I had no idea when I first found her. Because of the stormy weather, I named her Storm. She had suffered a blow to the head and had amnesia. The only words that made any sense were ‘Black Stallion’, so I assumed she’d come from there.”
“What!”
In reality she’d escaped from a gypsy encampment.”
“For heaven’s sake. You brought some gypsy’s whore in off the street. Martin, are you mad?”
“She wasn’t a whore when she came here, pure as the driven snow, in fact, but she’s a whore now, for my exclusive use. I taught her everything I know. A man could travel the world and not find better.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“No. Well, maybe I have. My little storm girl drives me to the point of insanity. I’m like a rutting stallion around her.”
“Don’t be crude,” Sam snapped. “Didn’t you make any effort to find out her identity?”
“Yes. I did. She can’t remember what happened to her prior to stumbling into the gypsy encampment. They abused her so she ran away. She’s good in bed.” He laughed at the old man’s grimace of distaste. “And an excellent cook and housekeeper, too.”
Martin glanced up. Storm hovered in the doorway. “I thought I heard voices.”
She wore one of the gowns he had bought her. The navy taffeta complimented her blue eyes. Her silver hair, draped like a cloak across her shoulders, shimmered when she moved her head.
“Come here and meet Sam, my cousin about three times removed.”
As he stepped over to draw her into the room, the old man rose to his feet. Sam’s face turned red, then changed to white, leaving him haggard and sick looking.
“Are you all right?” Martin dropped Storm’s hand and strode over to the old man. “What’s wrong?”
Sam struggled to speak, but no words came out. Veins bulged in his neck to such an extent Martin feared he might have a seizure.
“Hurry, Storm. Get him some brandy.”
She dashed off, and on her return placed the half-full glass into Sam’s shaking hand.
“Drink this.” She patted his arm. “It will make you feel better.”
The old man’s hands trembled so much she guided the glass to his lips. He swallowed the contents in a couple of gulps, causing him to cough and splutter.
“This is the girl?” Sam’s mouth dropped open, a pulse convulsed in his jaw. “Oh, Martin. What have you done?”
“What’s the matter with you?” Martin tried to hide his worry. Had the old man lost his mind?
“Would you like more brandy?” Storm asked.
“No, no thank you. Drink has been the ruin of the Mulvaneys.”
“What in damnation is wrong with you?”
“Your, your, Storm is named Elizabeth,” Sam said in a harsh whisper. “Elizabeth Campbell, old Fergus’ granddaughter.”
“What!” The statement was like a mule kick to his stomach and Martin almost doubled over with shock.
“No! She can’t be,” he rasped.
“Didn’t you see the resemblance?”
“What’s the matter?” Storm asked in a panic-stricken voice.
Martin ignored her distress. “You’re a Campbell,” he snarled. “Get out of my sight.”
“But, Martin,” she pleaded, “what have I done?”
“Done?” He gritted his teeth to stop himself grabbing hold of her. “You’re the granddaughter of my mortal enemy.”
“Stop it,” Sam intervened. “Go to your room, girlie, until we sort this mess out.”
As she fled, Martin hurled a string of curses at her.
“I’ve made a whore out of Fergus Campbell’s granddaughter. Better than killing the old sonofabitch.” He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “I heard somewhere he doted on those twins of his. I ought to grab her by the scruff of the neck, drag her to the Black Stallion and tell everyone in the public bar what a talented little harlot I turned her into.” He enjoyed the idea for a moment.
“Listen to me, son.”
“No. You listen to me. I’ve waited years for a chance to destroy old Fergus. He ruined my life. Oh, revenge will be sweet. Took a whip to me once, did you know that? I want his Scottish Highland pride ground into the dust. I want him to be so humiliated he’ll want to crawl off somewhere and die.”
“What about the girl? You said the gypsies abused her.”
“They did, but she’s a Campbell.”
“You can’t blame her for what happened years ago. Bury the past for the love of God,” Sam pleaded. “This thirst for revenge will destroy you.”
“Oh, I’ve waited, bided my time for an opportunity like this.” Martin’s heart filled up with such bitterness, he wondered why it did not burst wide open and spill on to the floor.
“You’ve ruined the poor girl’s life, isn’t that enough?”
“No,” he ground the word out. His hatred reverberated around the kitchen chilling the air.
“How long has she been here?”
Martin shrugged. “Several weeks. Why?”
“And you were, er, um with her every night?”
“Yeah.” His lips twisted into a vicious smile. “Every single night.”
“No, um, er,” Sam spluttered, red faced with embarrassment, “monthly ailment?
“What!”
“No monthly…”
“I heard you.” Martin’s gut clenched.
“And?”
“No.”
“You should do the decent thing and offer marriage.”
“Marriage!” Martin rocked back on his heels. “I’ve no plans to marry. If I did it wouldn’t be to a Campbell.”
“You might have got her with child.”
The churning in his gut returned a hundred fold. He felt physically ill.
“You’ve ruined her chances of marriage to a respectable man. If she’s with child, God alone knows what will happen to her.”
“Fergus Campbell’s precious granddaughter having a bastard.” Martin bared his teeth into a snarl. “Yes, I like it.”
“The child will have Mulvaney blood in its veins, have you forgotten?”
“No.”
“Please, I’ve thought of you as the son I never had. How many times did I save you from those vicious floggings your father meted out?”
“Plenty of times.” Martin forked his fingers through his hair to get his anger under control. If it had not been for Sam he would have been beaten to a pulp as a boy.
“Then listen to me, son, I’m older and a lot wiser than you. I’ve watched hatred of the Campbells devour you over the years. Don’t let what happened in the past ruin the rest of your life. The past is dead and buried. Let it stay there.”
“You think old Fergus would let a Mulvaney marry his precious granddaughter?” Martin’s mouth twisted. “A snowflake in hell would fare better.”
“Not if she carried your child. He would have to agree, or risk her being an outcast once her condition became known. She’s his only granddaughter, the apple of his eye. He might hate the Mulvaneys, but worships her.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Martin,” Sam persisted.
“What?” He clasped his hands behind his back so Sam would not see them shaking. This would have to be one of the worst moments in his life. Why had he not seen the resemblance to old Fergus? The blonde hair. Those arresting pale blue eyes. Too inebriated and shocked when he first found her to notice the likeness, and later, too blinded by lust.
“You wouldn’t be sorry if you married her.” The old man went on. “A man needs a wife and you said she could cook.”
“I pay a housekeeper to cook and clean for me.” His lip curled with derision. “I can buy any number of women to satisfy my other needs.”
“Have those liaisons brought you happiness?”
“I get what I want out of them, so don’t preach to me.”
“Go and see the girl, she’ll be frigh
tened out of her wits by now.”
“I’ll see her later I’ve got work to do outside. I’ll walk back with you to your place, unless you want a drink first.” Martin hardened his heart. He was not about to give a scrap of sympathy to a Campbell.
“No, I don’t want anything to drink.”
He left Sam at his cottage and strode to the stables. Would Storm stay upstairs all day? Of course she would stay there until he told her to come down, would be too scared to do otherwise. It was cruel leaving her upset and alone, but he didn’t care.
Could she be with child? He cursed under his breath. Why hadn’t he sent her away the moment he clapped eyes on her, or taken her into town the next morning? He had let sheer unadulterated lust override his usual caution. He had always guarded his privacy, never brought whores into the house. Still time for it to be a false alarm, though. This was the only grain of comfort he had.
Distracted and sick with worry, he could not concentrate. He was a perfectionist and if he could not give a job his full attention, damn it, he would rather not do it at all. After a couple of hours, he conceded defeat and finished up for the day. Of course, hunger and cold drove him back to the castle. He tried to believe the lie as he hunched deeper into his coat. Winter had come early and it promised to be a long, vicious one.
No aromatic smells drifted out from the kitchen to greet him. The fire had burned down in the grate. He stepped over and poked at the embers before throwing on a couple of logs. Tossing his hat on the table, he shrugged out of his coat.
Out in the hallway, a cold mustiness assailed him. Damp patches stained the ceiling where the roof had leaked, and tiny flecks of mold grew on the walls. Why had he not noticed this before? Because he didn’t give a damn. An evil aura shrouded this place sometimes. Little wonder, given its dark, tormented history.
He took the stairs two at a time and entered the bedroom. Storm huddled in a chair, white faced, scared. He noticed this, in the split second it took before she jumped up and hurled herself at him.
“Martin, Martin.” She wrapped her arms around his waist, because she could not quite reach his neck, and pressed herself against him. Even through their clothes, he felt the coldness of her body. The freezing room had chilled her to the bone.
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