Sweet Bondage (18 page)

He had to tell them sometime, but not like
that.
It was too soon, and the words were too matter-of-fact, like a business arrangement, and because the table was between them he couldn't take hold of Gemma's hand. The announcement should have been made later, much later, when she'd had time to get acquainted with both Fiona and Morag, because although Morag was an employee she seemed so much a part of the family. And it should have been done with Maxwell's arm sliding round her as he pulled her to his side, the grief he felt at the loss of his brother softened under a glow of pride, perhaps giving a self-conscious laugh as he said, ‘Gemma—' by then she would have convinced him of her real identity, of course—‘Gemma and I are very much in love and we are going to be married.'

This way wasn't fair to her, and it wasn't fair to Fiona and Morag and Angus, either. Particularly to Fiona, who looked as if the bottom had suddenly fallen out of her world.

Gemma cast her eyes down and pretended to be absorbed in the plate of cold meat before her, but all she could see were the uneasy glances that passed between Morag and Angus and Fiona's stricken disbelief. Although Morag's and Angus's approval mattered, because she was family, Fiona's reaction was the one that counted most and Gemma knew she would be haunted by the look she had seen on Fiona's face for a long time. Not only had
Maxwell
done it all wrong, but he'd got his facts wrong, too. Fiona hadn't been interested in Ian in the way that Maxwell thought. It was too early for Gemma to tell whether or not Fiona loved Maxwell, but one thing was absolutely certain in her mind: Fiona's sights had been set on being his bride.

As soon as the meal was over she was dismissed and sent to her room so that the remaining foursome could talk. At least, it seemed that way to Gemma.

‘You must be tired, Glenda. Jeanie will show you to your room,' Maxwell said, and it had the peremptory ring of a command.

Perhaps it was silly of her, selfish even, to want to drag Maxwell away from the others when he'd only just got back, but she had hoped that he would come with her. She had anticipated a good-night kiss and a kind word to say that everything was going to be all right, because people in love sense things and he would know about her fears. Then she wouldn't feel so lost and frightened. But he hadn't mentioned the word love. Yet why else would he want to marry her? If it was only physical he would have thought in terms of an affair. He wouldn't have proposed something as long-standing as marriage. But he should have said that he loved her. That wasn't something a girl could take for granted.

Jeanie took her up to her room. It was spacious, despite the large and cumbersome,
by
current standards, bedroom suite, which was handmade and had that satin patina you only find on old and cared-for furniture. It was a much grander room than the one she had occupied at Iola, but it didn't make her feel as welcome.

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.'

‘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.