Sweet Bondage (4 page)

She had always known that one day she would come to this land wreathed in mist and legend, but she had imagined herself doing so as a carefree tourist in the bonny season of spring when the colors are young and fresh. Or the autumn, which is said to be the best time to visit Scotland, when the tinctures deepen, the purple becomes more dramatic and the oranges, browns, and reds burn across the horizon. She hadn't thought to come here on a dank and dismal day in winter, the prisoner of a man who looked to the last proud inch of him as dour and forbidding as the fiercest Highland chief who had ever plagued and terrorized his unlucky enemies.

She couldn't in all honesty wish they'd never
met,
but the circumstances of their meeting could have been kinder. It seemed incredible that anyone could make such an impact on her in so short a time, and she realized with an indrawn gasp of astonishment that she didn't even know his name. Of all her thoughts, that was the most startling, yet why, she couldn't imagine. Abductors aren't noted for pausing to introduce themselves before carrying off their victims. In any case, this was no ordinary abduction case. She suspected that Glenda would know his name.

When she had impulsively offered Glenda the loan of her Mini and agreed to collect Glenda's car and drive it home for her she could never in a million years have envisaged that it would land her in a situation like this. Days drifted by, months marched ahead, with only the seasons changing to add any variety, then—wham—this!

‘May I know your name?'

‘I'll say one thing for you, you certainly stick to your guns.'

‘All right, I've had a shocking memory lapse. Humor me.'

‘Maxwell Robert Bruce Ross.' Although he used an ‘as if you didn't know' tone, he said his name with pride. And with complete justification. It was a good, strong-sounding Scottish name, and how well it suited him!

‘Mr. Ross,' she began tentatively, a pulse working in her throat and making her voice
quiver
just a little.

‘As we are going to be close companions, I think it would be better if you called me Maxwell.'

‘Thank you, I would prefer that.' She moistened her dry lips with her tongue. ‘In return will you call me Gemma?'

‘I would if it were your name—Glenda,' he tossed back over his shoulder.

Her fingers tightened at her own helplessness. There was nothing she could do—for the moment. She didn't know how she was going to achieve this, but when she got out of this car she had to make her escape. She must not get onto the ferry, or whatever kind of boat he had arranged to be there to take them to the island he mentioned, because her chances of finding someone who would help her get away would be considerably lower there than here on the mainland. There were hundreds of islands off the coast of Scotland. The ones nearest to the mainland, the popular resorts such as Skye or Mull, might still attract a few tourists, even in winter, but if he was taking her to one of the outer islands she could consider herself truly isolated from help. The people might still cling to the ancient Gaelic and not even speak her language.

They had to leave the car at some point. Hopefully someone would be about and she could call out for assistance. All she had to do was sit tight, watch carefully for her chance,
and
not be afraid to seize it when it came. Constructive thought gave her a tiny thrill of elation. She was doing something, if only planning, as they sped through the night.

The moon was not up yet but the sky was full of milky-white stars. On either side the mountains loomed, their peaks permanently shrouded in snow.

‘Would you go a little slower, please?' she asked, wondering how long her stomach was going to keep up with the pace.

‘I know I'm pushing it a bit, but I want to catch the tide. Anyway, I should have thought you were used to speed.'

By his tone this was obviously a reference to Glenda's lifestyle. ‘Glenda might be. I'm not,' she replied steadfastly.

All that she received in reply was a terse grunt.

So they were sailing tonight, she thought hollowly, even though her mind had already accepted this as a strong possibility by the way he kept his foot on the accelerator. If only a thick blanket mist, the kind that Scotland was noted for, would come down and obliterate the earth, so that they would have to put up somewhere for the night. An inn or hotel, where they would be with people who might help her.

She looked out the car window and saw no stars, and for a moment she thought that her wish had been granted and a sudden mist had
come
down. But then she realized that the sky was blacked out because they were traveling directly beneath a sharp overhang of rock. The road wound round a sleeping loch before plunging into a glen full of night shadows and an atmosphere of doom that tingled Gemma's skin and lifted the hairs at the nape of her neck. In daylight, no doubt, it was a place of serene beauty, but in this milky starlight it was full of ghosts and long-ago happenings. The sighing of the wind was like the shuffling of marching feet, and the shadows and grotesque shapes formed by rock and scrub were the souls of long-dead warriors who had trailed blood across the glen with their acts of villainy and were chained here, unable to find peace, forever searching to make expiation for their sins on earth.

Gemma wasn't sorry when they left this unreal, almost theatrical setting behind and came upon the outskirts of a town. Houses and shops replaced the mountain-guarded lochs and the wild, weird glens. The shops were in darkness, their windows shuttered for the night. The streets were empty. It was a port, but she didn't think the ferries would be running at this time of night, so it seemed reasonable to assume that her captor had made special arrangements for a boat to take them over.

He slowed down and pulled in beside the quay. He got out of the car, locking his door,
and
came round to help her out. Oh, please let someone come into view. It was no good making a run for it unless there was someone to run to.

After the warmth of the car the raw air took her breath away and froze on her nose and cheeks, making her face feel numb within seconds. She was glad of her sheepskin coat and warm boots.

His hand clamped round her wrist, drawing her to his side. If theirs had been a normal relationship it would have been a protective gesture. As it was she knew that he was holding on to her so that she couldn't escape.

‘Are you leaving the car here?' she asked as he started to lead her away.

‘I've arranged for someone to drive it home for me.'

‘Your home? Do you live on the mainland, then?' That was something else she presumably ought to know, but he merely said, ‘Yes.'

He wasn't forthcoming about where his home was and it didn't seem particularly important. Besides which, her ears had picked up the sound of footsteps. A woman's light steps and the heavier tread of a man. Her eyes reached forward into the night and her breath held to see a couple braving the cold and taking a walk. It would have delighted her more to see two burly men, but anyone was better than no one.

She
tentatively twisted her wrist; Maxwell's hold tightened and she knew that had been a mistake. The giveaway gesture had put him on his guard.

She had meant to wait until the couple came nearer before shouting out to them, but she knew that she must act at once before he did something to stop her. It was already too late. Even as she attempted to scream out for help his mouth came down on hers, blotting out the sound, including the tiny gasp of dismay she gave on realizing what a very effective way this was to prevent her from calling out for assistance.

She was inwardly blazing with fury at herself for letting him outwit her and for losing the opportunity to get help, and her eyes closed on tears of helplessness and frustration. She tried to close her mouth into a thin unyielding line, to no avail, because he was holding onto his advantage and the tenacious, silencing kiss forced her lips apart. She tried to stay immune to the invasion that was being forced upon her, reminding herself in aching desperation that he wasn't kissing her in ardor, but to shut her up. She trembled against the hard strength of him, gathering her resources and pulling herself together, then renewed her fight to break free. It was hopeless. The harder she struggled, the tighter his arms bound her, until she thought her bones would crumble. As he crushed her into submission she felt that she
was
being stripped of dignity, a subservient slave to the increasing pressure of his lips in that never ending kiss.

The footsteps drew level. She heard the man say, ‘That's one way to keep warm.' The girl's reply was muffled in a giggle. Then both voices and footsteps receded into the distance. Still Maxwell's mouth was welded on hers. There was no gradual awareness to act as warning, just an explosion of sensuality ripping her apart, a burning-all-over feeling that strained her emotions to unimaginable heights of sweetness. She lost her bid to remain aloof. Her lips began to stir under his, responding of their own volition. An ecstasy she had never known before drained her will to resist.

It ended as abruptly as it began. The cold night air cut her cheek as he straightened up and she was deprived of the sheltering warmth of his face.

‘Mm'm, not bad. Quite good, in fact,' he taunted.

She wasn't aware that as they'd kissed she had been straining up to him on her toes until she felt her heels dropping to the ground. The demonic glint in his black-olive eyes noted this fact, to her deep humiliation, so it would be true to say that she was brought down to reality with a painful jolt.

‘Didn't take the ice long to melt,' he said, a slow, sarcastic smile spreading across his lips.

Stung by his sneering, despairing because he
wouldn't
believe that she wasn't Glenda Channing, her chin lifted as she said hotly, ‘Why are you so horrid to me? I haven't done anything to offend you.'

He said autocratically, ‘When you offend my kin, you offend me.'

It was one of those telling remarks her mind hungrily stored to be explored later. It had about it the ghastly echo of feudal times when clan loyalty was fierce and honor had to be upheld, when vendettas were bitter and scores settled in blood. Her thoughts made her own blood run cold, and then, just as quickly, heat up in anger. Even if Maxwell Ross thought he had just cause to seek reparation he should do so through the proper channels. They weren't in the middle ages now, and he couldn't take the law into his own hands. But he had, she thought helplessly, and she was here as proof. And it was absolutely urgent to break away from him before getting on the boat. Once they left the mainland her chances of escape would be very slim indeed.

The moon had risen without her noticing it. It was a bright silver disk illuminating the night sky. Perfect weather for sailing, she guessed bitterly, despite the intense cold.

Her ears pricked up again. She could hear something—something apart from the suck and splash of the inky dark water that was such a short distance from her feet as they continued to walk along the quayside. She
could
hear footsteps other than theirs.

This time she was careful to avoid straining her neck and made no giveaway tug with her fingers. The lumbering outlines of two men came into view. True, neither of them matched up to Maxwell in physique, but there
were
two of them, so surely they would be able to overcome him. She had no intention of making the mistake she'd made in the case of the man and the girl. She wasn't going to wait until they were nearer and be silenced by a kiss. She was going to make the break now, while she had the chance.

She could hardly believe it when she managed to wrench free of his hold, and then she was running like the wind. Her feet seemed to have found an impetus of their own, moving as swiftly as if they were mechanized.

One of the men was a pace in front of the other. She threw herself at him, tearing her breath from her lungs to gasp out, ‘Help me, please. I'm being kidnapped.'

He laughed at her! He thought it was a joke!

‘It's true. You've got to believe me.'

He laughed even louder. It was a harsh, unpleasant sound, and her eyes flashed instinctively to the other man. He wasn't laughing; he looked puzzled. Would he help her?

By this time Maxwell had caught up. His hands came round her waist and she twisted
her
head to look up in dismay at his grinning, mocking face and she knew that the joke was on her.

The first man, younger than his companion by more than twenty years, more slightly built with slitted weasel-eyes, gave another loud guffaw and said, ‘It's a spirited wee lassie Mr. Ian has got for himself, Mr. Ross, sir.'

They were all in league. Maxwell had let her escape because these men were his accomplices!

The older man, the one with the puzzled look on his face, said, ‘What's the to-do, Mr. Ross? I thought—'

‘Take no notice, man. She's taken it into her head to play this tomfool game. What it amounts to is that she's changed her mind. Have you ever known a female who knows what she wants for two minutes together?'

‘Now that ye mention it, sir, I haven't.' Turning his eyes to Gemma he said, ‘It's for the best, Miss. Master Ian would wish it.'

Who was Master Ian? she wondered. ‘It's kidnapping,' she insisted furiously. ‘No matter what lies he tells you, it's kidnapping. If you help him, that's what you'll be aiding and abetting.'

‘Mr. Ross? You tell me it's not true. You said it was what she wanted. I won't be a party to kidnapping.'

‘She's overwrought, Angus. Anyone who can change her mind that quick can just as
speedily
change it back again. It will be right. In any case, man, would you rather be a party to the other?'

‘No, Mr. Ross, I wouldna,' Angus said, sending Gemma a sharp, admonishing look.