Sweet Bondage (7 page)

She wished he didn't think so badly of her. She knew that she wasn't perfect by any means. She had a quick temper and an unexpected jealous streak that needed watching, which she hadn't known about until he started talking about Fiona. She made mistakes—didn't everyone?—and had abided by the consequences. That was perfectly fair.
She
didn't mind paying for her own mistakes and even held the belief that it made her a stronger person. But she objected most forcefully to shouldering the burden of someone else's mistakes, misdeeds, or whatever heading most appropriately fitted Glenda's mysterious transgression.

Her head came up. ‘Maxwell?'

‘Yes?'

‘I'm right, aren't I, in thinking that we're not connected to the mainland by phone and that we're cut off from the outside world?'

‘You're right about the phone, but we're not completely cut off. We do have contact—by boat, remember? Angus will bring a regular supply of fresh produce plus, of course, things like newspapers.'

‘Mm—that's what I was getting at—newspapers. Do you agree that Clifford Channing wouldn't take his daughter's disappearance lying down? If she was missing it would be reported in the newspapers, right?'

His eyes narrowed and he adopted a tone of chilling tolerance as he said, ‘I'll go along with that.'

He was talking down to her, pandering to her as he would a child. He was doing this quite deliberately to humiliate her, and she wondered if anyone had ever been able to disrupt his impregnable calm. She could have taken it better if he'd blown his top with her rather than spoken condescendingly to her.

‘And
when it isn't . . . ?' She refused to be incited to anger, although it took all the composure she could muster to match his control. ‘When there's not one word about her disappearance in the newspapers, then will you believe that I'm not Glenda Channing?'

One black eyebrow lifted derisively. ‘I would certainly have grounds for a serious re-think, but that possibility is hardly likely to arise. You are Glenda Channing and your name will be blazoned across the front page of every newspaper to prove it. The press will have a ball.'

How could he be so positive? So calm in his disbelief? If only she could shake him out of his righteous complacency, rouse him to anger—anything but this glacial smoothness that set her teeth on edge.

‘You won't even admit that you just conceivably might be wrong.' Despite her good intentions she was biting back frustration and temper.

‘Isn't this conversation rather a waste of time?' he drawled, evincing lazy boredom.

‘Obviously. Because you're like those mountains out there; you never melt. You can't see the truth when it's staring you in the face. But that's not important anymore. It doesn't matter who you think I am. I demand that you come out of the Dark Ages, stop this petty vengeance, and take me home. Hasn't it occurred to you that someone might be
worrying
about me?'

The sardonic twist of his mouth summed up his grim satisfaction in being able to agree with her. ‘I should imagine that your parents will be extremely worried. Your father, in particular, will be tearing his hair out by the roots because his carefully laid plans have gone awry. Please forgive me, but as his influence over you is partly to blame for my having to bring you here, I can't feel too much regret about that.'

‘I forgive you nothing!' she spat at him. ‘You can't feel regret because you're incapable of human emotion. You're inhuman and bigoted. I've never met anyone like you and I hate you for what you're doing to me. I know I've got a temper, but for the most part I manage to keep it under control. But you goad me with that look of yours. I must have reacted the first time you looked at me like that and so you know just what to do to get at me. Just be careful you don't give me such a weapon, because if you do I'll turn it on you. I'll . . .' The threat died on her lips, swallowed in a gasp of dismay, because she could not envisage a time when she would have the upper hand. No one, man, woman, child or beast, would ever get the better of him.

She achieved something. The ‘look' left his eyes to be replaced by concern.

‘You're getting distraught. It can't be good for you.'

‘Getting?'
she questioned with rising
hysteria.
‘I am distraught. The only tiny bit of comfort I can find in the whole of this stupid situation is that my parents won't be worried. They died over two years ago, so at least they're spared that heartache. But there are people who care about me and who will worry and it isn't fair to put them to this kind of distress. There's Miss Davies at the library, where I work. My neighbors. Even Barry, in his own way.'

‘Barry?' he queried, his tone sharpening.

She didn't know why she had tossed out Barry's name. If he was tormented at all it would be because he didn't care for puzzles and he would be mystified by her disappearance, but she was sure he didn't care deeply enough about her to endure any real suffering. The relationship between them had been based on friendship. No vital spark or lovers' clashes, no heights and depths of feelings, no flights from tenderness to passion. The realization that there could be no shared future for them had been coming on gradually, yet for all that the moment of impact took her by surprise and stole her concentration. Therefore she wasn't giving much attention to what was going on behind the stony facade of Maxwell's face and she answered his question as to who Barry was in vague indifference. ‘A friend.'

‘A man friend?'

‘Obviously.'

His
face underwent an alarming change. The black rage in his dark olive eyes made her jerk back in sheer astonishment. Not in a million years would she have thought that the mention of Barry's name would foment such feeling. How ludicrous! After all her attempts to get under his skin and rouse him to this state of anger she had fallen upon the means by accident. Barry, dull, staid, slightly pompous Barry! It was so amazing that she almost laughed out loud.

‘You haven't been playing fast and loose with Ian, have you?'

He sounded too savage for her to crow openly about her triumph, but she couldn't prevent a little flicker of satisfaction from coming to her gray eyes as she said emphatically, ‘I don't know Ian, so how could I play fast and loose with him?'

‘Have you slept with Barry?'

‘Now really!' As her eyes slid away from his, as though concealing something, she realized that she was enjoying taunting him. But she would have enjoyed it a whole lot more if she hadn't begun to question the wisdom of provoking him to greater fury. Yet why should she back down? And why was he attaching such importance to the possibility that she might have gone to bed with Barry? ‘You surely don't expect me to tell you that. It's much too personal.'

‘I do, and you will. Have you slept with him?
Answer
me!'

‘No. I don't see why I should.'

‘Then I'll have to provide you with a reason, won't I?'

He grabbed her by the arms and pulled her out of the chair so fiercely that it crashed back on its rockers, collided with the table, catching the edge of the work basket, and began to rock wildly backward and forward. Cotton reels, needles, pins, scissors, a colorful assortment of buttons, all the ingredients of a well-stocked work basket flew everywhere.

‘I will not succumb to brutality,' she said, quivering with indignation, the sense of injustice she was feeling reaching an all-time high so that it not only came to her aid but overcame her fear of his anger. ‘Let me go!' she demanded.

But her defiance earned her a severe shaking and his fingers bit deeper into her arms; she thought that if he held her any tighter her bones would crack. In the end she had to cry out in anguish. ‘Stop . . . you're hurting me!'

‘God in Heaven!' His ejaculation was ground out in frustration and it was harsh and unrepentant. ‘I'll hurt you a whole lot more if you don't speak up.'

He was no longer the obdurate mountain with its frozen cap. Not only had she melted the ice off the top, but she had caused a volcano to erupt.

‘Damn
you, Maxwell Ross!' she sobbed, closing her eyes on a wave of weakness born of despair. ‘I haven't slept with Barry. There, you've got it out of me. I hope you're satisfied!'

‘I would be if I was convinced that you were telling the truth, that you're not lying about this just as you've lied about everything else. You'd better be telling the truth.' His tone was vitriolic. ‘That's one complication I can do without.'

4

Angus came the following day with fresh produce and several newspapers.

‘Dump everything on the table,' Maxwell instructed, his eyes urgently searching the older man's face in a questioning way that did not require words.

Sorrowfully, Angus shook his head. ‘The same. The laddie is still very poorly. Perhaps tomorrow when I come I'll have brighter news.'

‘I hope so, Angus. I hope so. Cup of tea and a bite to eat?'

‘Aye. That would be most acceptable.'

‘I'll see to it,' Gemma said and was rewarded by the kindly smile that Angus sent her way.

She
cut hefty man-sized slices of bread for sandwiches and raided the various cake tins in the pantry which someone had thoughtfully filled in anticipation of their arrival. She wondered whether to set a cup for herself and, after a moment's thought, decided it would be in order. The talk wasn't of a personal nature; it seemed to be concerned with the business of Maxwell's estate. She gathered that Angus worked for Maxwell and held a position of some importance. It didn't take long to realize that there were strong links of friendship between the two men based on a long acquaintance.

While Angus was there Maxwell kept a bright face. But when he'd gone he slumped into the big leather wing chair that was drawn up to the log fire in the main room, his face in his hands. She found it difficult to hold hatred in her heart for this man despite the fact that he was keeping her here against her will and that his manner, for the most part, was so cold toward her that it drove her to the brink of desperation. She realized just how great an emotional strain he was under. He cared deeply for his brother, that much was obvious. Although there was still such a lot she didn't understand, and the reason for her kidnapping was a complete mystery to her, she felt that he had been following the dictates of his heart. It might seem wrong to the outside world, but he had done what he thought was right, and who
could
condemn a man for being true to himself? Not she. As she looked at the hurt angle of that bent black head a stirring of compassion went through her, a tiny ache that he was not as invulnerable as he cared to make out. Although nothing could alleviate the frustration of being held prisoner, there was no animosity in her entire being toward him, and she wished she could do something to help him, if only to put her hands on the strong column of his neck and massage away the coiled knots of tension. So great was this longing to touch him that she actually took a step toward him before retracting in horror on realizing what she had almost done. She didn't like his brooding silence and wondered if she should speak to him, but for the time being decided against that as well. Yet she was strangely disinclined to leave him alone in his misery, and so she slid unobtrusively into the companion chair on the other side of the hearth, making her presence known by gently rustling the pages of one of the newspapers which Angus had brought.

It was the signal for his head to jerk up. The lost, bewildered look because something like this could be happening to him and his disappeared as he regarded her harshly. His countenance, reminding her as it did of his predecessors' meting out revenge in bygone days when clan loyalty was fierce, made her straighten involuntarily and square her
shoulders
against the onslaught she knew was coming.

‘Don't exult,' he flung at her in bitterness.

Her hackles rose. What kind of person did he think she was? Did he hold her in such low esteem that he thought she would find pleasure in his pain?

‘It's too soon to have got into the newspapers yet,' he snarled.

Then she realized that she had judged him too quickly. He wasn't referring to his distress over his brother. He was telling her not to crow because there was no mention yet of Glenda's disappearance. She wouldn't know either way because she'd only made a token gesture of turning over the pages to let him know she was there. She had been too engrossed in her own thoughts to take in a single word.

‘Even if Glenda had disappeared, it seems probable to imagine that Mr. Channing would wait a day or so for some word about her before making it public knowledge,' she said with deliberate emphasis.

His mouth turned sardonic. ‘That's right. Your father will stew for a few days, waiting for the kidnapper to get in touch with him, because the first thought that will spring to mind is that you're being held for ransom.' He showed no charity or mercy for a father's bitter anguish. Stony indifference would have been preferable to the gloating twist of his mouth as
he
said, ‘He won't dare to antagonize anyone or do anything to jeopardize his chances of getting you back. Every time the letter box clicks or the phone rings he'll break out in a cold sweat.'

He was reveling in the thought. How could he be so without human feelings? And to think that a few moments ago she had actually felt sorry for him.

‘It won't enter his mind that you came of your own free will. He'll think it inconceivable that you decided to stand up to him and go into voluntary hiding.'

‘I did not come voluntarily.'

Clifford Channing might not rate in anyone's books as Mr. Good Guy. For all she knew he might have done all the unspeakable things gossip accused him of doing. But there was one thing she did know for certain: his love for his daughter was beyond question. His life revolved round her. Nothing he could have done, short of murder, was bad enough to merit this kind of punishment.