“You little fool. Why didn’t you keep the fire stoked up? You’ll end up with consumption.” Why should he worry about Fergus Campbell’s granddaughter? “Do I have to tell you everything?” He loosened her hold and moved away to toss logs on the fire. Taking several deep breaths to get his temper under control he said more calmly. “Come down to the kitchen and get some food for me.”
“All right.” She ran trembling fingers through her hair.
Purposely he let her go ahead of him. “Elizabeth.” No response. “Elizabeth.” He raised his voice as she hovered at the top of the stairs.
In the kitchen, he placed his hand over hers. “Elizabeth, is that your name?”
“I…I don’t know.” There was not one flicker of awareness or guile in her eyes, only blank despair. “It doesn’t sound familiar.”
“Don’t force yourself to remember. You’ll make yourself ill.” Lounging against the kitchen table, he watched her heat up stew and toast bread over the flames. If her memory returned, being a Campbell, she would be neither docile nor amenable. Would she remember the passion they had shared over the last few weeks or would it be erased from her mind? What about her ordeal at the hands of the gypsies?
“I have to go out for a while. You stay here.” Sudden fear darkened her eyes, but she didn’t beg him to stay, as she would have a few days ago.
“There’s a piece of beef in the pantry, cook it for dinner.” He turned away and she made no move to follow. He wondered whether to lock the door to make sure she stayed inside. Several of the men worked near the house and he didn’t want her wandering outside in case she ran into them, perhaps offered her body to them. Could she have already done so? The thought burned like acid in his stomach, paring away the lining, leaving it raw and bleeding.
“You’re my woman, aren't you?”
“Yes, I’m your woman.”
“You haven’t let other men do to you what I do?”
“No.” She shook her head and held her hands over her heart. “Only you,” she vowed with such sincerity, he believed her.
“And you’ll never let another man touch you?” Her hesitation enraged him. “If you ever let a man put so much as a finger on you, I’ll send you away from here.”
“No, Martin.” She looked stricken. “I want to stay with you.”
He turned on his heel and strode out of the house. Cruel to frighten her like that, but he didn’t want any more problems, he already had too many to cope with.
“Martin,” Sam called out as he strode past the cottage. “Everything all right at the castle?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be too hard on the girl.”
“Why didn’t old Fergus,” Martin spat his enemy’s name out because it tasted poisonous, “report her disappearance?”
“I passed him on the road near Wangaratta with a herd of cattle. Won’t be back for another couple of weeks, I’d say. Young Alistair has taken to the hill country, heard he’s been seen with the Kelly gang.”
“Alistair? Young wretch tried to steal one of my horses.”
“They’re twins,” Sam went on, as if Martin had not spoken.
Martin gave a derisive snort. How could he have been so stupid as to not realize? He had let lust overrule his brain. “Come up to the house for dinner tonight and you’ll see what a good cook Storm is.”
“Thank you. Better than the fried eggs I planned on having.”
“I killed a steer yesterday; it’s strung up in the shed so help yourself to some. See you tonight.”
Later in the afternoon, as Martin strode into the back yard, he sniffed the tantalizing aroma of roast beef.
Storm met him at the door. She went straight into his arms and kissed him on the lips. After a brief peck on the cheek, he pushed her aside.
“Set an extra place for dinner, I invited Sam over.”
“The nice man who visited us before?”
“Yes.”
When Sam arrived, Storm hurried over to stand next to Martin.
“Good evening, Storm.” The old man gave a slight bow.
“Good evening, Sam.”
“How goes it, Martin?”
“I’ve no complaints. We’ll go to the small salon and have a drink before dinner.”
As Storm served the food, Martin watched her dainty hands and graceful movements. She looked fair and exquisite, fragile as a rose. When she spoke, her voice sounded soft, almost tremulous. Her eyes, huge and shadowed, openly worshipped him. I’m an unprincipled sonofabitch, not worthy of such devotion.
“What are you so somber about?” Martin frowned at Sam. “Food not to your taste?”
Storm stopped eating and placed her cutlery on the table. “You didn’t like the food, Sam?”
“Very enjoyable, my dear, apple pie is my favorite dessert.”
“I’ll make it for you again.”
“What will you do when Mrs. Irvine comes back?” Sam asked. “She won’t like another woman in her kitchen.”
Martin shrugged. “I’ll worry about it when the time comes. She won’t be back for another three weeks. I received a letter the other day, her sister is still ill, so she’ll stay a while longer. Anyway, it isn’t Mrs. Irvine’s whereabouts sticking in your craw.”
“Have you decided?”
“No, I haven’t.” He scowled. Sam’s questions pushed him into a corner and this corner felt very uncomfortable. One part of him railed against fate for depositing Storm at his door that rainy night, the other part of him marveled because she had come to him unsullied after living with the gypsies. Hatred of Fergus Campbell twisted his gut into knots. “You said the old man isn’t back yet, so I have another couple of weeks to make up my mind.”
“There’s nothing to decide. You have to take the honorable option.”
“Mind your own business.”
Storm stood up and darted over to Martin. “Don’t argue, please.”
“As for you…” He vented his rage at her. “Keep your mouth shut until you’re spoken to.”
“But, Martin.” She put her hand out to touch his cheek and he brushed it aside.
“There’s no need for that,” Sam said. “Come along, my dear, sit down, finish your dessert.” He put his arm around her trembling shoulders to guide her back to her chair.
She stopped dead. Her body became rigid. “No, no.” The sound came out in an agonized cry as she twisted herself free of Sam and flung herself at Martin. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she sobbed, raining desperate kisses all over his face. “I won’t do it again.”
Martin stood up and tried to push her away. “Control yourself.” She clung to him even tighter, her arms clamped around his waist.
“What’s wrong with the girl?”
“How do I know?” He thrust his fingers through his hair.
“I’ve upset her, but I don’t know why.” Sam wrung his hands.
“Please,” she cried out in anguish. “Don’t send me away.”
“All right.” Martin pressed her face against his chest. “I won’t send you away. Stop crying, you’ll make yourself ill.”
She sobbed in such a heartbroken way, once he realized she had believed his threats, he wanted to rip his tongue out.
“I told her not to let another man put so much as a finger on her, or I would send her away.”
“I don’t know how you could be so cruel when the girl’s terrified of losing you.”
“I wanted to make sure she didn’t go anywhere near my men.”
“I’d better go. She won’t calm down while I’m here. Take her up to bed, and be gentle with her tonight.”
Martin swung Storm up into his arms. “Let yourself out, I’ll see you in the morning.”
He climbed the stairs with Storm slumped against his chest, her tears soaking into his shirt. Shouldering the bedroom door open he carried her over to the bed, balanced her on one knee, and pulled the blankets back.
To warm the room up he threw several logs on the fire. She had no
t moved so much as an inch from where he left her, although her slender body shook with sobs. She was too distraught to take off her gown.
Kneeling on the bed, he undressed her. Her arms and legs felt limp as a rag. The only color in her ashen face came from the soft blue of her tear-drenched eyes.
What had he done? She cowered like a wounded animal waiting to be put out of its misery. He undressed in quick, jerky movements and slid in beside her.
“I’m sorry. I can be cruel sometimes.” Not like my father, never like Black Jack Mulvaney.
He rocked her gently, but the weeping continued. With her fragile state of mind, she must have gone into shock. How could such a tiny person possess so many tears? When she finally sobbed herself to sleep, he eased her away and ran the flat of his hand across her stomach. Had his seed ripened into fruition? Did his child grow in her womb?
Sam was right the hatred should be forgotten, his brain told him this, but his heart, so full of bitterness and revenge, had no room for anything else. He had never had anyone depend on him before. Never known anyone who needed him like this little storm girl did. He loathed himself for what he had done to her, any man with an ounce of decency would, but he would wound her again because that was Black Jack’s legacy to his son.
He ran his hand down the length of her body, letting his fingers fan out across the silken fluff between her thighs. Desire seared his flesh in a white-hot flame. For the second time in a few weeks, he put her welfare above his own carnal need and shifted his hand away.
* * *
Sam’s knock on the bedroom door woke Martin next morning. “Is she all right?” he called out.
“Yes.” Martin eased himself out of bed and reached for his pants. Barefoot and naked from the waist up he padded to the door and slipped out into the passageway.
“Sorry if I disturbed you, but it’s nine o’clock.”
“Thanks, I had a terrible night. Guilt and Storm’s crying kept me awake for hours.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “The men will turn up for their wages soon and I haven’t even got them ready.”
“I’ve stoked the fire up and put the kettle on,” Sam said. “Get dressed. I’ll have toast ready by the time you come down.”
Martin stepped back into the bedroom and had a quick wash. The black stubble on his jaw and chin rasped against his palm, but he had no time for a shave. Putting on a clean shirt, he went over and tucked the bed covers around Storm’s shoulders. In sleep, she looked pale and vulnerable, with sooty smudges flawing the pristine whiteness of the skin beneath her eyes.
As promised, Sam had the tea and toast ready.
Martin gulped the food down. “Could you stay here until the men have been paid? I don’t want Storm wandering down while they’re here.”
She might be naked. The thought of another man’s gaze caressing her soft, creamy body was agony. Why hadn’t he thought to buy her nightgowns?
“All right, but I couldn’t enter your bedroom,” Sam spluttered. “You understand?”
“Of course not, I don’t expect you to. Just keep an eye on the stairs.” He strode to his study.
Mid-morning, Sam hurried into the study.
“Martin, she cried out for you.”
“I’m halfway through paying the men, she’ll have to wait.” He ticked off the head groom’s name in his ledger.
“You should go up and check on her.”
Martin dropped an oath. “You’re like a broody hen. She’ll be all right.”
“You better make sure, after last night. The men won’t mind waiting for a few extra minutes.”
With an angry snort, Martin stalked off. Hysterical damn women. He took the stairs two at a time, wrenched the bedroom door open and the angry words jammed in his throat. Storm knelt on the floor vomiting into a towel.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been sick.”
“Yes, I can see, probably something you ate.” He picked up a clean towel from the dresser. As he handed it to her, he pushed the soiled one away with his foot.
She shivered with cold, yet her back and shoulders shone with perspiration. When he leaned down to help her up, heat radiated from her body. She burned with fever. Her cheeks looked flushed, her eyes dull and heavy, her lips dry and cracked.
He helped her into bed. “Keep the towel in case you need it. I’m in the middle of paying my workers, so I can’t stay. I’ll be back in a little while with some tea for you, all right, my sweet?” He tapped her hot cheek with one finger and pushed back a swathe of hair that flopped across her face.
He started out of the room, stopped, turned around and headed for his dressing room. Criminal to leave her lying naked and sick in bed. Rummaging around in his drawer, he found a nightshirt, which would be much too big, but there was nothing else even remotely suitable. He would have to buy her more clothes if she stayed here.
She would have to stay for at least another couple of weeks until Fergus came back from the drive. Her useless brother would never be around when needed. Too busy tearing around the countryside with the Kelly gang.
“Here, wear this.” He handed over the nightshirt. She took it, yet made no move to put it on. Sitting her up, he slipped the garment on. The arms were much too long so he folded up the sleeves for her.
“There you are.” He eased her back on to the pillows. “Stay here until I come back.”
No sound passed her lips, but shadowed blue eyes pleaded with him to stay.
“I’ll be back in a little while, my sweet.”
“Everything all right?” Sam asked when Martin entered the study.
“Yes.” Gnawing his lip, he tried not to let his uncertainty show. He hated not being in control of his emotions. “I guess so.”
After the men were all paid, and the details jotted down and tallied in the ledger, Martin walked out to the kitchen. Sam sat at the table with a cup of tea.
“Want one? I’ve made a fresh pot.”
“Thanks.” He let the old man pour. “Storm’s sick.”
“What?”
“She vomited all over the floor.”
Sam raised his eyebrows.
“Burning up with fever, too. It’s a pity Mrs. Irvine isn’t back to tell us what to do.”
“Weak black tea and sponge her down,” Sam said. “Probably caught a chill.”
“Yeah.” What if she got really sick? Her memory was gone, what if her body broke down as well? Maybe he should send to town for the doctor.
* * *
Storm did not hear Martin enter the room. Her fitful sleep had been peppered with nightmares. Clear as day, she saw Darius mounted on a huge black horse. Heard Bridie’s screams of pain. A snowy haired old man carrying a gun, appeared. She ran to the old man, but Darius dragged her back to the gypsy camp. She forced her eyes open when Martin spoke.
“I’ve brought you warm black tea. Sam said it would make you feel better.”
He helped her to sit up, stacked pillows behind her back and handed over a cup of tea. Her hands trembled as she gulped the liquid down.
“Slow down, you’ll be sick again if you drink too fast.”
“I had the most awful nightmare.” She shuddered. “Am I losing my mind?”
“Of course not. You’ve got a fever, makes you delirious.” He pushed a damp swathe of hair back from her cheek and curled it around her ear, letting his fingers linger.
“Don’t you want to hear about my dream?”
“Not now, my sweet, I’m too busy. Tell me later.”
Sam brought up a jug of cool water with lemon juice squeezed into it, to help ease the dryness in her throat.
Instead of going outside to work, Martin caught up with bookwork in the study in case Storm needed him.
* * *
Within two days, the fever abated, although the vomiting and Storm’s lethargy persisted.
“I think Storm’s making up these symptoms,” Martin complained to Sam as they repaired several yards of fencing, destroyed by fera
l pigs.
“You said the fever and chills were gone.”
“They are, now she complains of dizziness and nausea on getting out of bed each morning.”
Sam’s skin turned pale beneath its tan. “You know what this means?”
Martin slapped his forehead with his open hand. “No, of course I don’t.”
“Nausea and dizziness in the morning are some of the signs when a woman’s breeding. Combine this with no monthly ailment, and I’d say without a doubt, she’s with child.”
Martin felt as if a giant vice had squeezed the air out of his lungs. He forced himself to take several slow, deep breaths. “Hell.”
“I tried to warn you what the consequences of your rashness might be and now, I’ve been proven right.”
Martin glared at him. “Don’t sound so pious.”
“You can’t leave it any longer. You’ll have to see Fergus Campbell.”
“Like hell I will.”
“For the love of God, I thought you agreed.”
“I agreed to nothing.” Sickness curdled Martin’s stomach because there was always a price to pay for reckless behavior. For years, he had got away with philandering and whoring now retribution was at hand.
Shaking with rage, he mounted his horse and spurred it into a gallop leaving Sam flatfooted in the paddock. On arrival at the stables, he threw the reins at the groom. “Give her a good rub down, I’ve ridden her hard,” he said curtly and stalked off.
He almost wrenched the kitchen door off its hinges. “Storm,” he yelled.
“Here I am.” She darted out of the pantry, dashed up to him and pressed her lips to his chin.
He slammed her body into his own and took her mouth in a savage kiss. His hand went to her breast, his fingers kneading her nipple through the material of her gown. She opened his shirt and her hands on the bare skin of his chest ignited his passion.
“You white-haired witch, you’ve cast a spell on me,” he growled. Picking her up, he strode upstairs, dumped her on the bed and disposed of their clothes. They came together in a frenzied coupling, which left them both exhausted by the time their passion had subsided.
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