Forced To Kill The Prince

by Hollie Hutchins

  “Very good, M’Lady.”

  But at half past ten that morning the boy returned with the news that Professor Dreki had, as far as the museum was aware, left London, and they had no forwarding address for him.

  What then? This had been an elaborate ploy so that he could have his way with her, and now he had fled? Even for a woman of her acknowledged vanity, she told herself, that was hard to believe. There must be easier ways to seduce a lady.

  Was she sure he had even been there? Had his infernal insolence merely caused her to hallucinate, in some exceptionally vivid dream? No doubt Mr Freud, another damned foreigner, would say she had expressed her repressed desires in an hallucinatory fantasy. Perhaps he would be right, at that!

  She had his published works in the library. She would go and check them now. She read his essays and leafed through his book on dreams, but found no answers and no satisfaction in their pages. She wondered why everybody could not be as sensible and reasonable as the English.

  She forced herself to eat a light luncheon, though she had no appetite, and spent a desultory afternoon wondering what to do. She wanted above all else to forget this monstrous man who had so upset her. Yet – and she was aware of the impossible grammatical contradiction - even more than this, she wanted to see him again. Even if it were only one more time. But not in a dream, not in a wild hallucination, in the flesh.

  It was while she was thinking this that she heard a soft tap at the door.

  “Yes!”

  Smythe stepped in with a small frown upon his face.

  “M’Lady, there is a man with a carriage. He claims he is expected. Apparently, Professor Dreki has sent him.”

  Four

  Had Smythe and her maid not been on hand, Emma would undoubtedly have stepped out to the carriage without even putting on her hat, such was the degree of her distraction. As it was they fairly scampered after her, placing her bonnet on her head, her shawl about her shoulders and her parasol in her hands as she half-ran to the front door.

  Outside she found a black Brougham and waiting beside it a tall, lugubrious-looking man in a top hat. He bowed as she approached and muttered, “M’Lady,” He opened the door and assisted her in.

  They drove for perhaps half an hour, south towards the river and the Temple. Bye and bye they came to a tall, redbrick house set back from the road behind iron railings. The coachman descended and assisted her down, but before he could ring on the bell it was opened but a butler of equally lugubrious appearance.

  He took her shawl and parasol, muttering, “M’Lady, the professor will be down presently. Will you wait in the library?”

  “Very well.”

  Large, dark doors gave admittance to a library of surprising proportions. The ceilings were high, and the book shelves ascended as far as that ceiling on every wall, save the far right, where two tall, narrow windows overlooked the street. A fireplace stood cold and empty, though there was a lingering smell of wood smoke.

  “May I offer M’Lady some refreshment?”

  “No, thank you. I merely wish to see Professor Dreki at his earliest possible convenience. I do not wish to be kept waiting.”

  “Very good, M’Lady.”

  She did not have to wait long. Within barely two minutes she heard the clatter of feet on the stairs and moments late the door burst open. Sigurd stood gazing at her, a large smile upon his face.

  “My Lady, what great joy I feel on seeing you. I trust you are well and you have been looked after!”

  “Professor, Dreki, you may dispense with the pleasantries. I expect a satisfactory explanation, and I expect it now.”

  He frowned.

  “You are not happy.”

  “I most certainly am not! What do you presume by sending a carriage to my house unbidden?”

  “I thought you wished to see me.”

  “And what, may I ask, gave you that idea?”

  He watched her a moment, and slowly a smile creased his eyes.

  “Magic!” he said, and laughed. Then he gestured at her with an open hand, “And here you are! Had you not wished to see me you would have dismissed the carriage, and me with it, with no more than a derisive snort. But you did not. You came.”

  She stared at him aghast.

  “A derisive snort!”

  “Would you not?”

  “I came, Professor…”

  “Sigurd!”

  “I came, Professor, because I require answers from you!”

  “Indeed,” he stepped towards a chair and gestured at another with his hand, “Please, sit, Emma, will you have some tea or some coffee?”

  “No.” She sat and he sat opposite her, leaning back in his chair with an agreeable smile upon his countenance. She went on, “I wish to know…”

  “Yes…”

  “What…” she could feel her cheeks burning and was furious at herself for being unable to control it. “What,” she went on, “You did last night.”

  He looked surprised. “I? Well, I returned home and had a light supper with my guardian…”

  “Professor!” Now he looked startled. “My dear Emma,”

  “Do not play games with me! I shall not have it!”

  The humour left his face and a trace of that predatory lust she had seen before touched his eyes. “Perhaps,” he said, “you should be a little more precise in your question.”

  They stared at each other. She sat very erect, but now she stiffened her back.

  “Very well, did you drug me or hypnotise me last night?”

  He lowered his head and looked at her under his brows. There was no mistaking the intent in his eyes. Her heart began to race.

  “I don’t know, Emma. Did I? I can tell you that you have certainly hypnotized and intoxicated me.”

  She clenched her hands in her lap. Her voice was tremulous. She said, “I shall have no more of your impertinence, Professor…”

  But she did not rise to leave.

  He said, “What will you have, Emma?”

  “I would beg you, Sir, whatever it is that you are doing, to stop…”

  “And yet,” he said, still regarding her under his brows, “last night you begged me to continue, and to go further…”

  She stared at him in horror.

  “Then, you did…you were…”

  “But you know I was, Emma. You invited me in, remember?” He stood and approached until he was standing over her. “I told you I wanted you and I would take you. And you said, ‘Yes, oh God, yes…’”

  A dark dread gripped her and seemed to drain her of all her strength. She shook her head. “How?”

  “The magic power of the Dragon.”

  She stood, though her legs trembled and she was not steady. He did not move back to giver her space, so their faces were almost touching. She said, “I wish to go home now.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

  “You will not be going home, Emma. I told you. I have taken possession of you. You are mine now. I own you.”

  “You are insane!”

  “Completely, totally and joyously so. Come…”

  He held her face in her hands.

  She said, “Where…?”

  “To your bedroom.”

  He took her by the hand and led her up the stairs.

  On the fourth floor there was a galleried landing, and above the stairwell a copula with a series of skylights. Her room was on this floor, at the back of the house. The key was in the door. He unlocked it and let her in. The room was spacious and very comfortable, with a tall window overlooking the gardens at the back of the house. There was a bureau, a large armchair, a fireplace and, at the centre of the room, a vast, mahogany, four-poster bed. Beyond it a door stood open onto a bathroom.

  “Dinner,” he said, “is at eight o’clock. We shall have cocktails at half past seven. I shall introduce you to my guardian. He is keen to meet you. I can send maids to attend you at your toilet if you wish.”

  She shook he
r head.

  “No.”

  He bowed and left.

  Five

  She did not make use of the toilet, but sat in the armchair, thinking about the situation. It was clear to her that Sigurd was in some way insane. He had kidnapped her and, by the use of some diabolical form of hypnotism, and perhaps hallucinogenic drugs gathered upon his no doubt extensive travels, managed to induce in her these powerful feelings of attraction. Granted that the man was exceptionally handsome, and indeed attractive; for it was entirely possible for a man to be very handsome and yet lack that animal magnetism which Sigurd had in such ample abundance…

  She stopped herself. It would not do to think of him in this way if she was ever to recover her freedom. She forced herself to think of dear Richard, who was also very handsome, but most certainly lacked that animal magnetism that Sigurd had in such…

  Again she disciplined her mind. Granted – she returned to her original line of reasoning – that he was attractive, but by no means attractive enough to induce such bizarre behaviour in her. There had to be another explanation. She would no doubt find out in due course. Meanwhile she was confident that, on seeing that she had not returned, Smythe would inform the police, and it would not be long before they came looking for her. She had sufficient connections at the Home Office for the search to be given a very high priority.

  In the meantime she intended to get a grip of herself and put an end to her schoolgirl infatuation with this insufferable madman.

  There was a tap at the door.

  “Enter!” she snapped

  The door opened and the butler stepped in.

  “Cocktails are being served in the drawing room, M’Lady. The Professor asks that you join him and Mr Vordr there.”

  She gazed at him with eyes like dark blue diamonds. She said, “Indeed. What is your name?”

  “Trell, My Lady.”

  “Trell? What a peculiar name. How long have you been with the professor?”

  “Longer than I can remember, M’Lady.”

  She looked at him a moment longer and thought that he looked ancient enough for it to be true.

  “Has he ever abducted ladies in this fashion before?”

  Trell blinked. It was probably, she thought to herself, the greatest display of emotion he had given in the last century.

  “Indeed, no, M’Lady. Never.”

  She stood.

  “Perhaps I should be flattered!”

  He stepped back to let her pass and said, “Quite so, M’Lady.”

  Sigurd was sitting. He held a glass of fino sherry in his right hand. Mr Vordr stood in front of a fire which had been lit in the grate. She judged him to be in his forties or fifties at most. As a specimen of manhood the only word Emma could think of to describe him was, magnificent. He was at least six foot six. His shoulders were broad and powerful. His arms and legs were strong and virile. His posture, unlike that of so many men who are exceptionally tall, was erect, indeed athletic. His jaw was strong, his cheekbones high, and a mane of thick, blond hair was swept back from a broad forehead. For a moment she thought he was vaguely familiar.

  But his eyes. His eyes were the coldest, most inhuman eyes she had ever seen. They were, she thought, like two pieces of ice, reflecting a pale blue sky.

  Sigurd got to his feet and gave a small bow.

  “My Lady, may I present my guardian, Mr Vordr?”

  Emma looked at Mr Vordr and held out her hand. He regarded it a moment and slowly took her fingertips in his palm, as though examining a butterfly. Then he raised his eyes to examine her face. His expression was insolent.

  “You will forgive me, My lady. I have injured my back and I cannot bend. We Norsemen, you know, are inflexible in this regard.”

  “I do not require your bows, Mr Vordr, merely your good manners.” She turned to Sigurd. “Professor. When you mentioned your guardian, I had imagined a man old enough to be…” she smiled without humour. “…your guardian. Mr Vordr, if you will forgive me saying so, looks young enough to be your accomplice.”

  Mt Vordr gave an odd, high-pitched wheeze of a laugh. Sigurd appeared not to have heard her and said, “What will you drink, Emma?”

  “Fino.” She sat and Sigurd poured her a glass of sherry. As he handed it to her she asked him, “Tell me, Professor, do you give all your acquaintances ancient Norse sobriquets?”

  He smiled mildly but did not answer so she went on, “Vordr is ‘guard’, Trell, ‘slave’. What, I wonder, shall you call me?”

  She was astonished to see a great tenderness come over his face as he gazed on her.

  “You are,” he said, “My Lady Gørsimi, my Meidmar.”

  “Don’t be absurd!” she snapped. “I am neither your treasure, nor your treasures!”

  “On the contrary!” he replied, “for you are the key that will bring me freedom. Tell her, Vordr.”

  Vordr did not look amused. He growled, “I choose not to, Sigurd. You are being absurd. She will have to go.”

  Emma stared at him aghast, but before she could answer the door opened and Trell said, as though announcing a particularly untimely death, “Dinner is served.”

  The first plate was a delicate salmon mousse accompanied by a light, crisp Riesling. When Trell had withdrawn she said, in the most amiable, reasonable voice she could muster, “Professor, you must realize that by now Smythe is already considering informing the police. When he does so, the first thing he is going to tell them is that you sent a carriage for me. The Home Secretary was at school with my father…need I go on? I suggest we enjoy this meal, you let me go home and we shall speak no more of it.”

  Vorder said, “Do it!”

  “I am afraid that will not be possible.” Sigurd smiled again. “You are my Gørsimi. What man, what hero, what Viking, ever gave up his treasure without a fight?”

  She had barely touched her salmon. She noticed absently that Vordr had finished his in barely two mouthfuls. She laid down her knife, fighting the growing irritation inside her.

  “I am not a thing, Professor…” She took a deep breath. “Sigurd… I am not a thing. I am a person. I am an especially independent, free-spirited person. You may not, you cannot own me.”

  Vord said, “She is right. Let her go, Sigurd, before it is tool late.”

  “Thank you,” she said, inclining her head to him. But he was watching Sigurd who was shaking his head.

  “You shall learn to love me. You know that the love is there. I have seen it in your eyes. And when you learn to love me we shall both be the key to each other’s treasure. We shall both be free.”

  Emma expostulated, “Oh, for goodness sake! Get a grip, Sigurd!”

  And with shocking violence Mr Vordr slammed his huge fist down on the table, making the cutlery jump and the glasses ring.

  “Enough, Sigurd! This talk of freedom and love! These are not for you! You are committed! You belong to…”

  “No!” Sigurd roared and the power of his voice silenced Vordr. “Do not say it! I belong to no one yet! I have my choice to make!”

  He looked as though he going to continue speaking, and Emma was fascinated to hear what he would say next, but the door opened and Trell entered carrying a large, silver tray, followed by two young maids who cleared away their plates.

  Trell served them with sirloin steak, very rare, and poured claret from a crystal decanter. Sigurd dismissed him, then raised his glass to Emma and smiled.

  “To love!” he said.

  Emma sighed and looked down at her steak. It looked exquisite, but she had no desire to eat it. She did not return the toast. Vordr made a dismissive noise and she glanced at him. To her horror, he picked up the meat on his plate in his right hand and devoured it in three, large gulps, then licked his fingers. He watched her as he did it and grinned. Then he drained his glass and belched.

  Sigurd scowled at him and to Emma it seemed the room turned dark. He snarled, “You will treat my woman with her due respect, Vordr…”

  Vorder d
id not look at him, but wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and leered at Emma. His voice was husky and his eyes smouldered with an icy lust.

  “I grant you she is tasty. Keep her as a trell, Sigurd, then we can both enjoy her…”

  “Enough!”

  Sigurd got to his feet. His face was like thunder. His chair fell back to the floor. Vordr seemed not to notice. He was still grinning at Emma. He raised an eyebrow.

  “What do you say, wench? Would you take your pleasure with two Vikings? I’ll warrant you have never had men like Sigurd and me. We can make your pussycat purr and meow.”

  Emma was too astonished to answer, not by the man’s boorish behaviour, which she had fully expected, but by the thrill which she felt on seeing the bold insolence in his eyes, and the depth of lust and vitality which he radiated. She felt her breath quiver and her heart race.

  Sigurd roared like a lion and she turned to look at him with her breast on fire and her eyes sparkling.

  “You will respect her, Vordr!”

  Vordr did not even look at him. His eyes flicked across her face and she knew he was reading her like a signpost.

  “Respect?” He said. “But you do not want to be respected, do you, wench? You want to be taken and ravaged, chewed, licked, eaten, disrespected and left whimpering on the straw.” He leaned forward and whispered in a voice like gravel, “Will you tell me I lie?”

  Sigurd’s voice had become dangerous. He snarled, “I warn you for the last time, Vordr…”

  Vorder stood. He moved so that he was standing half by her side and half behind her. He leaned down and growled in her left ear. “What do you say, girl? Shall I whip this whelp into submission, and then take my pleasure with you? I think it will please me to hear you scream.” He drew closer, so that she felt his lips move on the skin of her neck. She trembled and fought to control the hunger that was rising in her belly and in her loins. He rasped, “And I warrant you would like to scream with me chewing on your meat, wench!”