Marriage by Capture

  Marriage by Capture

  By

  Margaret Rome

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  MARRIAGE BY CAPTURE

  'I want you, and I always get what I want,' the formidable Rolf Ramsey has assured Claire—and the fact that she was already engaged hadn't prevented him forcing her to marry him instead. Claire promised herself that all he would get was a wife in name only— but she found that promise a surprisingly difficult one to keep!

  Books you will enjoy by MARGARET ROME

  CHAMPAGNE SPRING

  The legacy of a small piece of land in the prosperous Champagne country was just what Chantal and her brother needed to set themselves on their feet, and they were only too willing to settle there and work it. But the arrogant Marquis de la Roque, who owned most of the surrounding land, thought the worst of them and their efforts. Which was just the challenge Chantal needed to prove him wrong!

  CASTLE OF THE FOUNTAINS

  Very much against her will, Rosalba had been persuaded to go to Sicily to visit her grandfather. And all her misgivings were justified when she discovered that the old Sicilian custom of vendetta was by no means dead— certainly not as long as her grandfather's enemy Salvatore Diavolo had anything to do with it!

  ISLE OF CALYPSO

  The Most Noble Baron Falcon Falzon of Malta, handsome, rich, aristocratic, was a man to be reckoned with. But he had treated Tara's young sister shamefully, and she was determined to be revenged on him. But her carefully laid plan went disastrously awry, and instead she found herself married to him—with all that that entailed…

  SON OF ADAM

  It was to help her parents that Dove had taken a job for a year in one of the Arab oil states, in return for a large sum of money—but Marc Blais didn't know that, and didn't trust her an inch. And as Marc's attitude to women was virtually the Arab one—that they were less than the dust—it looked as if Dove was in for a very, very difficult year…

  First published 1980

  © Margaret Rome 1980

  Australian copyright 1980

  ISBN 0 263 09636 X

  CHAPTER ONE

  Smoke drifted from candles set in sconces fashioned from silver dug out of the island's own mines. Cutlery set out upon the tastefully arranged dinner table was stamped with the three-legged emblem of the Kingdom of Mann. Manx crystal fashioned into wine goblets radiated a myriad sparkles with each twirl of a stem, and napkins made of linen spun and woven in the kitchens of isolated cottages stood out crisply white against a flower arrangement of bell-shaped fuchsia, the late-summer flower that ran riot, splashing rich red and purple colour down hillsides, along hedgerows and inside every town and country garden.

  Pictures tracing the island's past were ranged around panelled walls, Viking longboats braving fierce seas, packed stem to stern with wild-eyed men wearing horned helmets, who had descended upon the island to sack, plunder and hurry before settling to stamp their names and influence upon its people, then in order of succession came portraits of every Scottish king and English lord who had proclaimed himself ruler of the tiny piece of land whose size and location had left it vulnerable to invasion from neighbouring English, Scottish, Irish and Norse raiders.

  A clue to the direction in which the allegiance of the Manx people lay was betrayed by the girl acting hostess at the foot of the table. Over a dress of white, expensive simplicity she had draped a sash of tartan that no Celt would immediately have recognised, a check as individual as the inhabitants of Mann, containing colours purple as the heather, green as the fields, gold as the gorse, white as the cottages, and blue as the sea surrounding their miniature kingdom.

  As Claire looked up to glance the length of the dinner table her eyes were caught and held by her father's frowning signal of displeasure. She bit her lip to suppress the answering grimace of resentment that threatened to disturb the flawless serenity of her expression, nevertheless slight colour rose in her father's cheeks when he recognised a hint of disdain in grey eyes levelling a return of censure over the heads of their unsuspecting guests. Garff Reginald Foxdale was not used to rebuke, however mutely extended. He was accustomed to laying down the law to everyone and not least his unshakably poised, infuriating self-possessed daughter.

  Having become highly sensitive to her father's reactions, and knowing full well that the objective behind this important dinner party could be gained or lost depending on the nature of his disposition, she decided to employ diplomacy and directed towards him one of the swift, rare smiles which since early childhood had never failed to achieve a desired result. As she had calculated, he reacted favourably, taken unawares once again by the miracle sweetener she reserved for just such fraught occasions, one that had to be used extremely frugally in order to retain the element of surprise, the impact of the unexpected, in the smile her father had likened to flame bursting from the heart of a diamond, and once—more waspishly—to dawn, firing, probing, melting the sharply-frozen profile of a glacier.

  The remark had hurt, as did the reminder. On impulse she turned to her companion, seeking assurance.

  'Jonathan, do people consider me to be a cold, unfeeling person?' she blurted, then immediately regretted her weakness.

  'Certainly not, my dear.' Though prompt, his reply was boringly predictable.

  Ashamed of harbouring disloyal thoughts about the man she was pledged to marry, she shrugged and attempted to dismiss the subject completely. 'It was a silly question,' she forced a light laugh. 'Father's glowering looks must be having more effect than I had imagined—I don't usually indulge in moody introspection.'

  She was made unaccountably furious when he nodded agreement. 'You do seem to be rather on edge this evening,' he considered thoughtfully. 'Don't make a habit of it, will you, my sweet? I rely upon your calm, steadying influence, the unruffled aplomb that makes you stand out in a crowd—like royalty, you exude an air of supreme dignity, a touch-me-not quality that one must inherit, as it can never be successfully emulated.'

  He did not seem to realise that he had just contradicted his previous denial. Her lips parted to protest, but before she could speak she became conscious once more of her father's condemning eyes reminding her of her duties. Father really is insufferable, she thought, composing her features before directing him a brief nod of acknowledgement. He demanded so much of herself, yet displayed little personal effort. Her position as one of the island's most successful society hostesses was unshakable, yet tonight she had taken extra pains in order to determine the success of the evening's party. Guests had been carefully chosen to ensure that the company was congenial; hours had been spent arranging the table, deciding who should sit next to whom, and already she had been complimented upon the excellence of the food and accompanying wines. Yet in spite of her efforts conversation was desultory—at times, even forced—and for this she blamed her father's ridiculous insistence upon standing on ceremony with their North American guests.

  She felt tempted to allow him to strangle in his own etiquette, but then, after a glance at Charity MacLeod's unhappy face, she changed her mind.

  'I hope you'll enjoy your stay on the island, Mrs MacLeod—no doubt you're finding it quite a contrast to your native Montreal?' she questioned politely.

  Eagerly, her guest grabbed at the conversational lifeline. Smiling her gratitude, she begged in an attrac
tive Transatlantic drawl, 'Please call me Charity! Although I have no personal connection with your island, I've heard many stories passed on by each generation of my husband's family about the homeland that was never forgotten, even though it's over a hundred years since the first MacLeod emigrated to Canada. Which is why, when we landed here, I felt able to share Duncan's feeling of being an exile arriving home.'

  Her husband, a bluff, kindly man who had somehow managed to retain a Scottish lilt to his tone, added with a chuckle, 'And we're merely the forerunners—there are many more to follow! There's a flourishing Manx-Canadian club in our Province, and when we heard of the plans afoot to celebrate a thousand years of the Parliament of Tynwald, the oldest assembly in the world, and of the island's wish to welcome as many exiles as possible to its shores, the appeal was irresistible.' With a twinkle in his eyes he turned to Claire's father. 'Are the islanders prepared, sir, to suffer once more a horde of Scottish invaders?'

  Garff Foxdale's smile remained austere. Projecting a dry type of hauteur that Claire deplored, he managed to reduce Duncan MacLeod's attempted humour to the level of impertinence. 'Our guests will not be here on sufferance, Mr MacLeod. Whether their roots be Celtic, Scottish, English or Scandinavian is secondary—indeed, as a perusal of our island's history will verify, though the origins of a man might lie in any one of those four cultures he can still claim to be of genuine Manx descent. My own family, the Foxdales, can trace back its lineage one thousand years to the first Norse invaders, yet,' his proud head tilted, 'I consider myself to be first and foremost a Manxman.'

  Duncan MacLeod could so easily have resented such a show of patronage. Claire had no idea what status he had achieved in his adopted country, but knowing that her father's aim was to interest as many wealthy exiles as possible in a scheme to benefit the island, the presence of Duncan MacLeod at their table was indicative of a background of financial security.

  But much to Claire's relief, he accepted with a good-humoured nod when his host proffered cigars and brandy. Correctly interpreting this action as a signal for the ladies to retire, she rose to her feet.

  'Shall we take coffee in the drawing-room, ladies? I suspect that the gentlemen wish to indulge not only in brandy but also in weighty conversation, so I vote we leave them to it.'

  With an alacrity born of long practice, her aunt Effie seconded the motion, with the result that Charity MacLeod found herself whisked from the dining-room, ensconced in a comfortable chair sipping coffee from a fragile porcelain cup, before quite realising how it had come about.

  Her bemused eyes followed Claire's movements as she sank on to a couch and leant back a head that seemed burdened by a coiled, braided coronet of flaxen hair. All evening she had tried not to stare at the girl who was so supremely beautiful, who moved with such regal grace, but at that moment she felt unable to resist the temptation to enjoy a visual feast.

  Mere seconds elapsed before Claire became aware of her concentrated stare. Delicately, her eyebrows arched, impelling Charity to respond to her mute enquiry. Made to feel ill-mannered by the girl who at first meeting had prompted within her a ridiculous impulse to curtsey, she cast about wildly in her mind for some subject of diversion.

  'I'd like to thank you, my dear,' she drawled, 'for the concern you showed when you suspected that my husband might have been feeling slighted. You needn't have worried, however—my Duncan wouldn't be where he is today had he lacked the protection of a hide thick enough to excite the envy of an elephant!'

  Shame on her father's behalf brought a slight tinge of colour to Claire's cheeks. 'My father has an unfortunate tendency to appear austere and abrupt, but it's quite unintentional,' she assured her guest with quiet dignity. 'As an important member of Manx society his responsibilities are heavy, and though I've urged him many times to relax, his mantle of authority has become so much a part of him it seemingly can't be discarded.'

  Charity nodded acceptance of the polite apology, but had to strangle an impulse to urge Claire to act upon her own advice, to unfreeze, to become less of a 'cat that walks alone' so that she might be accepted among the ranks of happier, less perfect mortals.

  'Is he a member of the nobility?'

  Claire and her aunt exchanged smiles, amused by such snobbery. Mainly in an attempt to maintain Charity's illusions, but also spurred on by family pride, Effie leapt delicately to her brother's defence.

  'Nordic customs were never allowed to die out completely on the island, which is why I can safely claim that the Foxdale strain has remained pure throughout the centuries. It owes its purity to the fact that, in the preliminaries leading up to courtship and marriage, the most interested parties played a very minor part. The negotiations were carried on by others—on the side of the girl, by her family, and on the side of the man by a representative who might have been either a friend or a relative. In an effort to keep the racial strain pure from contamination only parties whose suitability—decided by social position—were introduced to each other, any inequality being an absolute bar. This rule was rigidly observed almost until the present century, so you see, Mrs MacLeod, though the Fox-dale family can no longer lay claim to a title, its heritage of social distinction is unassailable.'

  Charity trained an enormous round-eyed stare upon Claire's amused face. 'And is that the way it happened with you?' she breathed, awestricken, busily filing in the archives of her mind, to be unearthed for the benefit of her friends back home, details of quaint Nordic customs being practised by the Manx people right up until the present day! 'Was your fiancé hand-picked by your father with the object of maintaining the purity of the Foxdale blood-line?'

  Claire recoiled from the crude suggestion. Her lips parted to voice an objection, but the denial died to a gasp on her lips as, like a flashback from the past, she recalled the commencement of her courtship, the manner in which her father had kept her isolated from youngsters of her own age until, without any preliminaries, on her nineteenth birthday Jonathan Heywood and his parents had been invited to dinner. Wrestling with feelings of shocked incredulity, she began unearthing from her mind other incidents that slotted together forming a picture of conspiracy that was as unbelievable as it was shocking.

  With one innocent, breathless question Charity MacLeod had ripped the blinkers from her eyes, revealing how stupidly ingenuous she had been in her belief that her father's approval of her dates with Jonathan had stemmed from the realisation that she had reached maturity and was entitled to a life of her own, that in his cold, dispassionate way he was trying to atone for imprisoning her in solitude during the joyful years of her teens, a time when, like a bird, she should have been free to soar. No wonder she had been grateful for any youthful companionship—however dull, however predictable, however lukewarm …

  Mercifully, the reappearance of the men saved her the effort of a reply. She felt certain that her eyes were betraying shock, that her face looked ashen and her mouth pinched with pain, but when the shrewdly observant Charity showed no sign of reacting she breathed a sigh of relief. Grateful, this once, for her father's teaching of rigid self-discipline, she turned towards the door, ready to resume her duties by greeting her guests in the composed tranquil manner of an expert hostess.

  The business proposition her father had planned tentatively to outline to Duncan MacLeod must have been well received, Claire thought, noting his almost affable expression as he took a seat next to Charity, prepared to indulge in polite conversation. Jonathan, too, seemed pleased with the outcome of their brief talk. With eyes that had become suddenly hyper-critical, she watched him approach, but was unable to fault the physical attributes of the man who was considered to be one of the best 'catches' among their elite social circle. Always impeccably dressed in outfits tailored to fit perfectly on to his slender frame, he epitomised the image of a man-about-town, one whose conversation was an asset to any gathering, a man who belonged to all the right clubs, who was passably proficient in all the fashionable recreations.

  His bac
kground, too, was as faultless as his image. The only son of a wealthy, distinguished English-Manx family whose roots in the island extended almost as deep as those of the Foxdales and, since his father had retired some years previously leaving him in sole charge of the longest established law firm on the island, his future seemed comfortably assured.

  She sighed when he relaxed on to the couch beside her, wondering why she felt no leap of the pulses when his hand clasped hers, why she felt no urge to caress the fair head bending close to murmur in her ear, why she shuddered from a mouth that had once seemed tender but which she now suspected was merely weak. It had been this illusion of tenderness, she realised, that had drawn her to him in the first place. Starved of love and affection since the death of her mother, she had been ready to fall into the arms of any man displaying qualities directly opposed to those of her father.

  'Miss me…?' Jonathan murmured, then continued without waiting for her reply. 'Old MacLeod seems very interested in your father's scheme. Not only has he implied that he is prepared to give it his personal backing, he has also promised to drum up interest among his friends. One fellow in particular has been mentioned as a sure-fire certainty—a Manx exile like himself who has managed to accumulate more money than can be spent in one man's lifetime.'

  She looked up quickly, puzzled by the note of bitter resentment contained in his words. But his expression was bland, his pale blue eyes unworried as they met hers.

  Duncan MacLeod's voice boomed across the room 'Charity,' he addressed his wife, 'do you happen to have Rolf Ramsey's telephone number? I'd kinda like to get in touch with him—the sooner the better!'