Sweet Bondage (6 page)

‘Domestic, I suppose.' A few seconds elapsed before he elaborated on his reply. ‘She's been with us so long that she seems more like family.' He had quite recovered himself now and the return of his equilibrium was marked by the resumption of that scathing tone she found so intolerable. ‘We might be here for some time, and as you didn't bring a change of clothing with you—'

‘Was I likely to have brought anything with me?' she cut in, retaliating in a rush of annoyance, matching his sarcasm. ‘I'm not in the habit of waking up and saying to myself, I'm likely to be kidnapped today, so I'll pack a suitcase on the off chance.'

‘As I was saying—as you didn't bring anything with you, I'll scout round and find something else for you to wear.'

‘Of Morag's?' she said, unable to resist that poke as an impression of Morag's short but voluminous nightgown flashed into her mind.

A similar picture must have presented itself to him, because the dourness of his mouth almost, but not quite, slid into a smile. It would have been the first proper smile she'd seen and she was disappointed when his lips tightened again.

‘No. Of Fiona's.'

‘And
Fiona is . . . ?'

‘Very clever.'

‘Is she?' she inquired, thinking what a strange reply that was.

‘She's not in the least academic. She's got more going for her in the way of looks than brains. I meant your stratagem. Very cunning of you to pretend not to know who Morag and Fiona are when Ian must have mentioned them to you on many occasions.'

His face went sad and she knew that she'd lost him to Ian who was apparently, she remembered, his brother. She also recalled the inquiry he'd made about Ian's condition, which seemed to be causing some concern. And then his gritty retaliation to Angus's doleful expression of sympathy, ‘He's not dead and buried yet.' Was Ian expected to die? Something obviously had happened to him. He'd either been struck by illness or accident And Glenda, apparently, was supposed to know Ian. Did Maxwell blame Glenda for Ian's misfortune? There had to be a connection somewhere, but what was it?

At that point Maxwell announced brusquely that he was going outside to chop some logs. She washed the dishes and put them away, hung the tea-towel to dry, and lifted her eyes from the kitchen sink to look out the window at a suggestion of descending mist, the sort she'd prayed would come down yesterday with sufficient vengeance to make sailing
impossible.

The vaporous swirls parted for a moment, an unseen hand dragging back a curtain, to give her a brief view of brooding purple mountains with their frozen caps of snow that never melted. Bleak, yes, yet in some indefinable way a compellingly beautiful scene, its stark majesty softened by the gentle drift of daytime mist.

Not caring that Maxwell might have made the necessity to chop logs an excuse to get away from her, she pulled on her sheepskin coat and opened the door. It was a prison without locks for the simple reason that there was nowhere to escape to.

Standing beside a tidy pile of logs—excuse or not he'd got on with the task—Maxwell looked up in inquiry as she slammed the door shut behind her.

‘I thought I'd like to stretch my legs and see something of your island. Has it a name?'

‘It's called Iola,' he said, nodding at what he apparently accepted as a sound idea. He threw down the ax. They fell into step together, Maxwell leading the way.

Talk was sparse. The lack of it didn't seem to bother Maxwell in the least. The expression ‘taciturn Scot' suited him admirably, along with a few more adjectives she could think of without any great difficulty. She had fun bringing them to mind. Feudal. Stubborn. Impossible. Bossy. And bigoted beyond belief.
The
poor girl who married him would have her work cut out. Which raised another question. Was he married already? Or engaged? Perhaps to the mysterious Fiona?

In the preliminary stages of getting to know a person the conversation generally takes the form of question and answer. Stubbornly holding the conviction that she was Glenda Channing, he was convinced she knew all the answers already through her relationship with his brother, Ian. Because of this, any question she put forward was received in anger. She could have resorted to social chitchat, she supposed, making some banal comment about the weather, but she was no more the type to talk for talking's sake than he was, so she remained silent. If he wanted conversation it would be safer to let him initiate it

Strangely enough, it wasn't a strained, separate silence, but a shared one, enfolding them in a deep pocket of content as they tramped along together. On her side she was engrossed in the sleeping beauty of the island with its trees and mountains and gray, glittering lochs. She sensed two things. First, that the full force of winter was hovering on the horizon, ready to come in fast, wiping out this bland calm, threatening ice and snow. And, secondly, that Maxwell was soaking up memories of years past.

She was totally unsurprised, yet at the same time pleased, to be allowed into his memory,
to
hear him say, ‘It looks different.'

‘Different?'

‘In winter.'

‘Don't you come in winter?'

‘Used to. Not recently. It's come to be regarded as a spring-to-autumn retreat. But in my grandparents' time . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘It was usual to come all the year round. Iola was populated then, and no one needed much excuse for a
ceilidh.
That's a gathering where yarns are spun and vast quantities of food and drink are consumed and everyone is expected to contribute his or her party piece.'

‘Even a Sassenach like me knows what a
ceilidh
is
.
I bet you had fun.'

‘We did. From Burns Supper to the most minor family event, you name it and we celebrated it. The men in Highland dress, the women in pretty gowns with tartan sashes, and Hamish McBride on the pipes because he had the best ear and could handle the ‘warbles'—the grace notes. He was a character, all right Couldn't read a single note of music, but he could throw the drones over his shoulder and pull out a tune to set the feet tapping.' The vibrancy in Maxwell's voice brought it vividly to life for her. She felt the warmth and the camaraderie and was in step with the music and the merry-making. And then he was off on another tack. ‘When the small loch froze, out would come our skates. We'd test the ice daily,
hourly,
sometimes, in our impatience for it to hold our weight. Once, Ian—' He stopped abruptly. The magic spell was broken as he said his brother's name and recalled who she was, or, more correctly, who he thought she was, and his grim expression was like a door slamming in her face. And it was all the more painful after being let in, even briefly.

She found herself damning Glenda Channing for whatever she'd done to Maxwell's brother, and so spoiling the harmony of the moment for her. Why, oh why did she have to get involved in Glenda's invidious affairs? And yet, if she hadn't got involved, she wouldn't have had reason to meet Maxwell and that wouldn't have suited either.

His stride quickened and she had to put in twice as many steps to keep up with him as they climbed out of the glen, following a line of Scots pine with trunks like the foremasts of sailing ships, deep-rooted to stand up to the fiercest gale. In contrast, the alders, birch, and rowan were pliant and at the will of the wind, bending before and not standing up to the gales.

The mist turned spiteful. Its gentle softening-the-landscape effect became a damp obliterating blanket and Maxwell said it would be as well to turn back. Several times she stumbled and almost lost her footing on the rough and unfamiliar ground. He reduced his
pace,
but not once did he offer a steadying hand. But whether it was from repugnance, because he couldn't stomach the thought of touching her, or because he was afraid to touch her because he was not total master of his feelings, she had no way of knowing.

By the time they arrived back at the house Gemma felt very cold and sorry for herself indeed. Warm as her sheepskin coat was, it only reached just below her hips, leaving the lower part of her dress exposed to the damp.

Looking her over, Maxwell said in grudging apology, ‘I should have found you something more suitable to wear sooner, rather than later. I'll sort something out now. But first I'll put some soup on. Only the packet variety, I'm afraid, but it will serve the purpose of warming you through.'

Despite his disparaging opinion of packet soup it smelled delicious as it simmered gently on the stove. Perhaps it was something to do with the air, but she was looking forward to sampling it. She also felt that she could do full justice to one of the large steaks which Maxwell had taken out of the deep freeze that morning.

While he went to find her some alternative attire she took a curious peep into the freezer and gasped to see it so well stocked. He had mentioned that nowadays the house was only visited between spring and autumn, so the freezer wouldn't be in all-year-round use.
When
the house was unoccupied she imagined that the electricity would be switched off, in which case the freezer had been stocked in anticipation of their arrival. If the amount of food was anything to go by, he intended to keep her here for quite some time.

He came back with an assortment of garments. Jeans and sweaters, a pleated skirt, and a cozy red housecoat, the latter being just the thing to keep drafts at bay. She could tell at a glance that the owner of these clothes was considerably taller than she was. She held the housecoat in front of her and it swept the floor.

Glenda, she recalled, was exactly her height. What was she thinking? She pondered for a moment. Everything about Glenda's kidnap had been meticulously planned. He hadn't grabbed her on impulse; every move had been well thought out in advance. He had known the road that Glenda would take to get home, even, Gemma suspected, the approximate time she would be there. Angus and Andy had been waiting at the quayside with a boat to bring them to the island, which had been visited beforehand and got ready for them. He had gone out of his way to see that her stay here would be as comfortable as he could possibly make it. Whatever else she had to say about him she could not fault him on that count. He had given her that lovely room, with that gorgeous four-poster bed, and he obviously
meant
to feed her well. His every action served to prove that her comfort and well-being were of paramount importance. It made her wonder why he hadn't thought to stock up with clothes in Glenda's size. It seemed a curious omission in view of everything else.

Or hadn't it been an omission? Could it be that that stupid comment of his about her not bringing a change of clothing with her hadn't been such a stupid comment at that?

What was she getting at? His assumption that Glenda would come prepared with her suitcase packed would suggest that Glenda was in on the plot.

‘Any good?' he inquired, looking dubiously from the garments to Gemma as if he'd only just realized that their rightful owner was so much taller than she was.

‘Better than nothing.' She hoped she didn't sound ungracious. It was apparent that he'd done the best he could. ‘These are Fiona's, I believe you said. Will she mind?'

‘Fiona? Not her. She's a generous soul; she won't mind in the least I'm sure she'd be only too happy to help out.'

His reply was touched with proprietorial pride, which made her wonder again about his relationship with Fiona.

‘I could do with a belt, to take in the waist and hitch up the skirt.' She frowned in pretend preoccupation with the length of the housecoat, attempting to cover up the
unreasonable
pang she had experienced at the way he said Fiona's name.

‘I'll dig something out.'

‘No hurry,' she said indifferently.

She asked him if he wanted help in getting their lunch ready. When he declined she didn't press the matter but went upstairs for a trying-on session.

Everything was much too big, just as she had known it would be. The waistband of the skirt didn't fit snugly; the same applied to the jeans, which sagged and bagged and had hopelessly long legs. She wondered if Fiona would mind if she made free with a needle and cotton and put in a few discreet tucks.

She changed back into her dress and trotted down to the kitchen to put this question to Maxwell. He said Fiona wouldn't mind, and produced a work basket

It was old and had obviously seen many years of faithful use. There was a handle on the lid which she lifted to reveal a pin-neat, velvet-lined interior in a pretty shade of deep rose. From the tidy rows of every color thread imaginable she made her choice.

She didn't have to ask; she knew instinctively that the work basket had belonged to Maxwell's grandmother. She sat in the big pine rocker, which had the feel of having been Maxwell's grandmother's favorite chair, her head bent industriously over her sewing. The homeliness of her actions took her back to
their
recent walk—more particularly to how Maxwell had mellowed as he let her into his life as it used to be, with all the comings and goings he knew as a boy. The warmth of his memories wrapped round her and she felt a nostalgic longing for the days of her own childhood and the carefree years before she lost her parents. She had been a tiny afterthought, a huge disruption of her parents' lives, coming as she did in her mother's late thirties, when all thoughts of having the child they had so desperately desired and prayed for had long since ceased. She had enjoyed her parents for close on twenty years. Her father had been older than her mother and when he died her mother had been inconsolable, and a few months later she had also passed on. A tear pricked her eye and she bent her head lower until she felt more composed.

If she hadn't been so engulfed in her thoughts she might have sensed that Maxwell was looking at her, the harshness of his features softened by the puzzled expression that had come to his face.