Sweet Bondage (15 page)

They walked back to the house in brooding silence. Gemma was sorry that she had brought thoughts of Ian to Maxwell's mind.

A full week had passed since Angus had last
brought
any news and her nerves, as well as his, were stretched to breaking point. Browsing through the books Gemma found a copy of Robert Louis Stevenson's
Treasure Island
. Robert Louis Stevenson was a Scot, she remembered, whose own life, if not quite as adventurous as his books, had been full of travel. But he came back to Scotland long enough to write
Treasure Island,
a book intended to amuse his stepson, but which brought him fame as a writer and had been enchanting boys and girls ever since.

This copy could equally have belonged to Ian, but, just by the feel of it as she touched the binding, she knew that it was Maxwell's. She opened it and found a double reason to rejoice. Not only was her hunch correct that it was Maxwell's book, but the writing on the flyleaf told her that it had been given to him on his ninth birthday. The giver, his grandmother, had thoughtfully put the date in full. By her calculations he would be thirty-one—when? She scrambled to her feet and raced through the house to check with the pretty kitchen calendar. It was as she thought. Maxwell's birthday was tomorrow!

She remembered that penciled message she had come across about Maxwell's favorite chocolate cake, a thoughtful expression on her face. She lifted the cookery book down from the shelf and studied the recipe. The instructions were very detailed and it required
only
basic ingredients that could be found in the pantry. What had she to lose? She wrapped Morag's voluminous apron round her waist and began to make Maxwell's birthday treat

She set the kitchen timer and while the cake was baking she searched through various cupboards and drawers, hoping to find a child's paint box, having it in mind to make a birthday card for Maxwell. She found a stiffish piece of paper that was suitable, but no paints. She did, however, find the stubs of several crayons which would do almost as well.

She waited until the chocolate cake was baked and lifted it out of the oven. Then she took the crayons and paper upstairs to her room, where she wouldn't be interrupted while she worked on his birthday card. She wanted to have a stab at drawing the loch, and the window from her room provided as good a view as any.

She looked out for a long time, letting the scene paint itself in her mind, getting the feel of the ice-covered loch, the snow-heavy sky and burdened trees. Then she began. Considering the limited tools at her disposal she was not displeased with her efforts.

With the birthday card burning a hole in her mind, how she contained herself the next day she would never know. To have presented the card before bringing out the cake for his birthday tea would have spoiled the surprise.

The
moment finally arrived. ‘Happy birthday,' she called out, pouncing on him as he entered the room.

He looked from the card to the chocolate cake and back to Gemma's face. ‘Quite the little sleuth, aren't you?'

It was difficult to know if he was pleased or whether he thought her childish.

‘I got the date by reading the inscription in your copy of
Treasure Island
. I'd already found a penciled note in an old cookery book that this cake was a birthday favorite with you.'

‘That would be Grandmother's handiwork. She considered it too rich for a young stomach, so my intake of it was rationed.'

‘Obviously you preferred it to the traditional birthday cake with icing and candles.'

‘I got one of those as well.'

‘I'll make a note for next time,' she said foolishly, thrown off balance by something in his expression she could not identify. She was envious of his total ease as her nerves began to tighten up.

‘Next time? You intend to be around for my next birthday?' he teased, his dark eyes on her, causing her heart to thud erratically as she blinked in panic and surprise at his softer tone.

Not that she trusted it. It was benign on the surface, but there was a thread of something underneath she didn't much care for.

Of course she wouldn't be around for his
next
birthday. They would have parted company long before then. His mistake about her identity would have come to light and they would have no cause to meet again. Before she had the chance to get out words to this effect he had resumed speaking.

‘There was something else that I always got on my birthday.'

‘Oh?'

‘A birthday kiss. Which I'm afraid I accepted under sufferance. Kissing, I thought, was just for girls.'

‘In that case you won't feel deprived if we skip that part of the ceremony now.'

‘No,' he said, coming to stand by her, casting one arm round her shoulders in a light hold. ‘I would feel deprived. Put it there,' he instructed, tapping his cheek with his free hand.

What was going on in his mind? Would he hold his cheek steady while she reached up to give him the kind of circumspect kiss he would have received from his grandmother? Or did he intend something entirely different? If she twisted free of his arm would she be brought back and made to submit? She realized that by hesitating she was making an issue out of something that might be perfectly innocent. It was just remotely possible that he was teasing her without any devious intent. She quickly stretched to brush her lips against his cheek; the hand left her shoulders and she was free to
step
back.

‘There, that wasn't so bad, was it?' he inquired, coming out from under his mask of light pleasantry and dropping into heavy sarcasm.

‘No.'

She was furious with herself for allowing him to manipulate her into thinking what he had wanted her to think. There was no doubt in her mind that he had deliberately planted the suspicion that he intended to turn a meaningless peck into a moment of high passion. He had been playing with her, showing her that it was possible for him to hold his finger to the flame without getting burned. He had hated it when he lost his cool that time and he had kept his distance ever since. But that hadn't satisfied him. He'd had to prove that he could get into a clinch situation and still resist her. Big deal! She'd never considered herself to be irresistible anyway, so it was an empty victory. At the same time she thought it was cruel of him to have thrown her into frightened suspense like that, leading her on when he'd achieved his object, finding enjoyment in her petrified indecision.

‘In answer to a question you put earlier, no, I won't be around for your next birthday. I can't get away from you soon enough, and once I do, I hope that I never have to see you again.'

‘All
this because I didn't make a grab for you! Is this the woman scorned act?'

She glared at him, refusing to grant that comment the dignity of an answer, and instead accused, ‘You are the most arrogant, the most sadistic man I have ever met.'

His smile was crusted in ice. ‘And you are the most beautiful, the most desirable woman I've ever scorned.'

8

She had made the cake and the birthday card as a gesture of friendship, with no ulterior motive. He had misinterpreted that just as he did everything else about her and he had thought it was meant as a provocative trick. The way to a man's heart, and all that. Except that he didn't have a heart, or if he did it was so well hidden that she'd never caught a glimpse of it.

No, that wasn't true. A man without a heart wouldn't show such concern for his brother. That was the crux of the matter, his concern for Ian, his determination not to poach.

He might not like her as a person, but the physical attraction between them was strong. Perhaps, all things considered, she ought to be glad that his principles forbade him to steal the girl he thought belonged to his brother. In
a
straight contest, if she had been Ian's girl and if Ian hadn't been in hospital, she suspected that Maxwell would have shown no such scruples and would have considered it every man for himself. She remembered the violent explosion of feeling that had swept through her at his touch. He had only to look at her from under those dark brows to crack the foundations of a lifetime and when he kissed her . . . It was just too much. She wouldn't have given anything for her chances if he'd decided to make a determined play for her.

If she were honest with herself she had to admit to wanting him as much as he wanted her, but whereas lust was his total motivation there was more to it for her. Even though she hadn't properly analyzed her feelings for him—perhaps she didn't dare because that would make her more vulnerable still—she knew that heady kisses and entwining limbs might satisfy the requirements of an affair, but they wouldn't fulfill her. Moral principles kept intact for twenty-two years couldn't be carelessly cast aside. There had to be a commitment and, strangely enough, she wasn't necessarily thinking of marriage. She couldn't offer her body without a commitment of the heart. It had to be that—or nothing.

She lifted her eyes to meet Maxwell's penetrating gaze. He was holding the birthday card in his hand and it was obvious by his manner that he had just finished looking at it

His
mouth had a wry twist to it and his eyes were cold as he said, ‘You never cease to amaze me. I've already discovered what a talented actress you are. Now I see that you're no mean artist, either.'

‘Don't patronize me,' she said, her chin tilting.

‘I'm not.' The glint in his eyes told her that he knew he was getting under her skin and was amused by this, and so the placatory tone sounded false to her ears. ‘This is really very good. Excellent, in fact. You've exactly captured the mood of the loch.'

‘It's a very rough sketch, crude by artistic standards. You're being overcomplimentary.'

The icy smile remained firmly on his lips. ‘Fiona used to dabble in this line.'

She shrugged, indicating bored disinterest ‘I'm sure she was much better at it than I am.'

‘I was only going to say,' he continued, maintaining that irritating tone of forebearance taken to the extreme, ‘that some of Fiona's sketching equipment might be around somewhere.'

‘Thank you. With your permission I'll look round and see if I can find anything.'

‘Try the trunk. It's as good a place to start as any.'

She would have liked to go there and then, but he might think she was grasping at any excuse to leave his company. She disliked the smug, anticipatory lift of his eyebrows, as if he
expected
her to leap from her chair and run.

She would not give him the satisfaction. With deliberate indolence she rested her strained shoulders back against the upholstery and willed the stiffly held muscles of her face to relax. ‘Thank you. I will . . . tomorrow.'

It was one of the most uncomfortable evenings she had ever spent, but she stuck it out to the bitter end. Before getting into bed she sat for a few moments staring out the window at the white blots of snow, a blizzard of dancing dots in the darkness. When would the weather take pity on her and let Angus get through? It was an intolerable situation. She pressed her fingernails into the palms of her hands in frustration and hoped it would be soon.

By morning it had stopped snowing. She looked up at the winter sky and saw chinks of blue, but as the day progressed they were blanked out by the chilling mist that rolled in from the sea. Maxwell would have called it mist, anyway, but to her eyes it had the density of fog.

She went to the top of the house to look for Fiona's sketching materials. The trunk wasn't locked. She smoothed her hands across the satin darkness of wood that belonged to another century before lifting the heavy lid and letting it rest on its own hinges.

She tried not to pry unnecessarily, putting things to one side that she didn't think were
for
her eyes, although there didn't seem to be anything personal here. Sure enough, she spotted a box containing tubes of paint, an artist's pad and sketching pencils. As she lifted this out something else was revealed. A pair of ice skates. She judged them to be close to her size. She thought about the frozen loch with longing, but then she remembered Maxwell's instructions not to skate there. If she'd thought that he was cracking the whip of authority for its own sake she would have been sorely tempted to disobey his order. But defiance at the risk of personal safety was just not on. So she put the skates back and contented herself with taking just the painting materials.

Next morning there were a lot more blue patches in the sky and the mist had dispersed. She thought she would like to have another go at the loch, but from a different angle. She cleared the breakfast things away and then poked her nose round the door of the main room and told Maxwell that she was going to find something to sketch. She wrapped up warmly and set off. If she could get the outline down she could do the actual painting in the warmth and comfort of the house.

To get a different angle of the loch meant sketching it from another section of the bank. Not only would the opposite side be ideal but it would serve a dual purpose, because she would be able to get the house in as well. But it looked a long way round and the path was
steep
and possibly hazardous in these conditions.

All traces of yesterday's mist had cleared away and the surface of the loch was a mirror-glare of reflected sunlight. It looked solid enough. She cautiously tested it with one foot, then she stepped forward and put her whole weight on it, bouncing for good measure. No ominous cracks or creaks met her ear. She was at the loch's narrowest point and this was surely a much safer proposition than going round by the uncertain path.

She crossed easily and reached the opposite bank without a mishap, never once feeling the tiniest bit unsafe. She even lifted her arms and enjoyed the exhilaration of sliding. She wondered what Maxwell had made that big fuss about and wished she'd brought the skates she'd found with her so that she could have skimmed across, like the wind, all the way.