Marriage by Capture Read online

  Claire ignored the outrageous innuendo. She looked anxiously around for Jonathan and, seeing him a mere pace away, grabbed him like a shield for protection.

  'J-Jonathan,' she stumbled, terribly conscious of the twinkle in Rolf Ramsey's eyes, the slightly jeering smile curling his lip. 'You haven't met Mr Ramsey.' Then, with her attention fastened firmly on her plate, 'Mr Ramsey, meet Jonathan Heywood, my fiancé.'

  She placed only the slightest stress on the word, yet like an arrow aimed at the heart it landed straight on target. Only she was aware of his jerk of surprise, only she was able to compare the stilted chilliness of his tone with its previous teasing warmth. Whatever his background, she admitted grudgingly, breeding showed in the manner in which he acknowledged the introduction.

  'My pleasure, Mr Heywood.' He inclined his head, but as Jonathan was struggling with a couple of plates, did not proffer his hand. 'I had intended to call at your office tomorrow,' he continued lightly, once more in complete control, 'to discuss various items of business that are still outstanding. However, if it's not convenient perhaps you could name another day?'

  'Tomorrow will be fine.' Jonathan's face changed suddenly from ashen white to fiery red.

  'Good! Then shall we join the others?'

  The modicum of satisfaction Claire had gained from the encounter disappeared completely when, in spite of her efforts to prevent it, Rolf Ramsey managed to annexe the seat next to her at the table. She was nervous of his close proximity, of the sloe-dark eyes sending startling messages whenever she was foolish enough or careless enough to allow her eyes to wander higher than the cleft in his very determined chin.

  Charity, however, was a great help. Intoxicated by the success of the evening, and delighted by Rolf Ramsey's arrival, she monopolised his attention completely, leaving him little opportunity to torment the pale, dignified girl sitting quietly by his side.

  Because not to have done so would have caused comment, she managed by degrees to swallow the small amount of food on her plate, listening without interest to the conversation ebbing and flowing across the table.

  Aunt Effie was airing her favourite subject, the derivations of names. 'Take, for instance, my brother's name. Garff is a derivation of the Scandinavian "Grafir" whose origin means "valley of the waterfall".'

  'Claire…' When Rolf Ramsey spoke her name she looked up to meet the challenge of his mocking derision. 'To a Frenchman that means "clear". Claire Foxdale—Clear Running Water! Many Indian girls have similar names, because it's the custom for a squaw to name her child after the first thing she particularly notices after childbirth. Did you know that, ma petite?'

  To the others, his remark could not have seemed in the least offensive, yet it jabbed within her a raw, hidden nerve. For the first time in her life she experienced fierce anger, anger with Jonathan for showing a deference to this intruder that was almost obsequiousness; anger with Charity and her aunt Effie for making no secret of the fact that they found him charming, and anger with her father who was beaming approval upon this man who thought money could buy him anything, whose eyes, when they fell upon her, seemed to be staking out a claim, who wore his thin veneer of civilisation like a coat of clear varnish—showing signs of savagery underneath. The man who with a few lightly spoken words had reduced her to the level of a squaw.

  Pride of race showed clearly in her face when abruptly she rose to her feet to stare imperiously down at him.

  'No, Mr Ramsey, I did not know. But when I think of it, your own name gives credence to the tale. Rolf—derived from "Hrofulf" the Old German name for wolf ! I've heard it said that if a pregnant woman receives a sudden shock her child will be born showing some relevant mark or characteristic, which is why I find it very easy to believe that some time during your family's history a pregnant Ramsey female was frightened by some such animal!'

  CHAPTER THREE

  Claire allowed her mare to pick its own way down a steeply-descending bridle path that led through a belt of trees, then levelled out into a heather-carpeted glen that was isolated, silent except for a river gushing and frothing over boulders that over the years had crashed down from the surrounding mountainsides and for ravens screeching a warning to any feathered interloper that dared venture too close to their nesting sites.

  This was her escape hole, the secret retreat which supplied solace and accommodated her needs—a soft bed of fern on which to relax taut limbs and to disperse without trace tension-ridding tears; a void of silence into which she could pour out her fears without danger of hearing them repeated; the song of the river that had many times soothed her into relaxed sleep, and the towering backcloth of mountains whose permanent solidarity acted as a reminder that human troubles and fears were transitory.

  She dismounted, allowed the mare to wander to the river's edge to drink, then flung herself down on to a cushion of fern, resting her head upon her outstretched arm, determined not to weep. Life, since Rolf Ramsey's arrival on the island a week ago, had become intolerable. Claire knew she had deserved to be reprimanded for the insult she had hurled upon his head on the night of the ball, but as familiar as she was with her father's moods, she had never imagined him capable of such cold, intense fury.

  'You will apologise abjectly to Ramsey!' he had iced, 'as I've already been forced to do. How could you, how dared you humiliate me so! Since childhood you've been tutored so that when the time came for you to fill the gap left by your mother, to act as hostess in my household, there would be no danger of your embarrassing me by committing some unimaginable social gaffe. Up until this evening,' he had charged, 'I had felt able to congratulate myself that I'd achieved my aim, that the many hours I'd spent on your social training had resulted in perfection. Perfection!' He had thrown up his arms in a gesture signifying that words alone were not sufficient to register the extent of his disgust. 'The whole island must now be aware that my daughter possesses the manners of a guttersnipe!'

  Claire stirred restlessly among the ferns, shying from the memory of the effort it had cost her to remain coolly unrepentant in the face of such criticism. Even Aunt Effie, usually the most understanding of creatures, had registered shocked disbelief, as had Jonathan and Duncan MacLeod. Only Charity had not conformed. In retrospect, her expression of triumphant delight was extremely puzzling. But regretful though she was about the upset caused to each of them, their reactions impinged as mere gnat bites compared with the attitude adopted by the one who had born without rancour the full biting lash of her tongue, the attitude that was responsible for her presence in the glen, driven into hiding by the man who for seven nerve-racking days had stalked her every movement, who had appeared at every function she had attended and remained like the shadow of Nemesis close to her side, who was impervious to snubs, impossible to ignore, and who had threatened to shatter her manner of cool disdain with penetrating looks and outrageous whispered advances that had sent fiery colour rushing to her cheeks.

  'If he must behave like a rutting stag,' she moaned, rolling over to bury her face in cool fern, 'why, oh, why did he have to pick upon me as a likely mate?'

  'Do you mind if I join you, chérie?'

  She went very still. Only one man of her acquaintance possessed the impudent effrontery to intrude into secret places, only one man sprinkled his remarks to her with endearments learnt at the knee of a French-Canadian mother!

  She rolled on to her back, staring dazed hatred into the face laughing down at her. 'You approach as silently as a snake through grass,' she choked. 'No doubt you were taught the art by your Indian brothers?'

  He grinned, white teeth dazzling against the deep tan of his skin, then levered himself down, stretching lithe limbs alongside of her. Ignoring her taunt, he propped himself up on one elbow, so close she gasped, feeling smothered by the threat of his dominance.

  'Why did you follow me? Are you so insensitive that you can't respect a person's wish to be alone?'

  'So that you might retire into your cocoon?' he mocked softly. 'You seek
solitude only because you're afraid of life—or rather of the glimpse of life that I've given you—because up until now you haven't lived, merely existed, like the statue of a Madonna waiting to have life breathed into her, waiting for kisses to soften lips of marble, for a man's passion to send blood singing through petrified veins. But to experience deep emotion one must be prepared to experience pain, and it's that that you run from, little coward, the pain of ecstasy, the threat of almost unbearable joy! It's my belief,' he reached out a lean brown finger to stab an errant curl, 'that the only affection you've ever known is the lukewarm feeling you share with Jonathan, a man as devoid of spirit as a neutered tomcat. Marriage to him would be a tragedy, your life would be lived in a state of wedded virginity and at the end of it you would be mailed back to your Maker, a pathetic little parcel labelled: "Unopened. Return to Sender".'

  Involuntarily she jerked away from a savage bluntness that would have been considered intolerable in any civilised society, hating more than ever the man who did not hesitate to strip her naked of modesty, to violate her tender dreams of a happy, companionable marriage by crudely introducing the subject of sex which, on the few occasions she had given it a thought, had presented an appealing picture of Jonathan as a gentle, considerate lover wooing her into shy submission.

  'How dare you lecture me on love when all you understand is lust!' she choked, barely able to mumble the words. 'Your prime aim is to satisfy your own selfish needs, therefore I won't waste my time trying to explain that giving and taking is the balancing act of marriage, acceptance of one another's differences is an essential ingredient of a good relationship.'

  He forced her round to face him, willing her to meet his eyes. 'The differences between yourself and Jonathan are too great and too varied, chérie. If you won't think of yourself, then think of him. An unfulfilled woman can never make a happy, loving wife —your own complex, sensitive nature can only be delved by a man of unusual perception.'

  'And you see yourself playing such a role?' She forced a peal of incredulous laughter. 'Your conceit is equalled only by your crude insensitivity!'

  Her heart leapt to meet the sudden dangerous flare that ignited the depth of fathomless eyes. 'Must I prove to you how well I understand you?' His head hovered so close she felt the coolness of his breath against her cheek. 'Must I demonstrate how easily your pulses leap to life beneath my hands, how your mouth quivers at the threat of being kissed, how easily your eyes darken to the grey of an unfathomable sea in which a man could thresh against a tide of sanity, then drown in an undertow of passion? Why are you trembling, mon ange?' His lips landed delicately as a moth against the corner of her mouth. 'As yet, I've barely touched you? Nevertheless, I sense your clamouring to be taken. Deny, if you can, my lovely valkyrie,' he laughed down tenderly into wide, stricken eyes, 'that at this very moment you're ready and willing to let down your hair.'

  'I can and do deny that such a wish is uppermost in my mind,' the words, forced through set lips, held a quiet intensity he had to believe, 'on the contrary, I find myself wishing that I were one of the maidens of Valhalla, because I can think of nothing that would give me greater pleasure than to hold the point of a sword at your throat!'

  'Aren't you forgetting, my lovely,' though his teasing expression had fled his tone remained light 'that the maidens who rushed into the melee of battle to select those destined to death were motivated not by vengeance but by desire, they wanted hand-picked heroes with whom they could spend eternity in joy and feasting and making love. I would feel flattered to be chosen as your hero, to have you wait on me and fulfil my every wish for all eternity.'

  Claire jumped to her feet, quivering with confusion and a weak desire to weep. With fists clenched hard, she dismissed him, imitating the hauteur her father used with devastating effect.

  'Why don't you go home, Rolf Ramsey! Go back to your northwoods, your grizzly bears, and to the simple-minded friends who presumably appreciate your humour. We Manx,' she charged defiantly, tilting a proud chin, 'being of a highly sophisticated culture, look for qualities of diplomacy, sensitivity and consideration from our friends, which is why you could never fit into our society. It's a pity,' she dared a patronising smile, 'that when your family emigrated from these shores they didn't possess a determination to uphold the morals they'd been taught in order that they might act as an example to the less fortunate inhabitants of their adopted land. Your own manners and behaviour are proof that what actually did happen was quite the reverse— that the Ramseys opted to go native!'

  He had risen to his feet and was standing in the classic pose of the Indian brave—legs astride, arms folded across his chest, face impassive. Claire suppressed a quiver of trepidation, wondering what form of revenge he would choose to inflict, but then was completely deflated by the slow-widening grin that preceded his shout of laughter.

  'Why, you unspeakable little snob!'

  When his hands descended upon her shoulders she cringed inwardly, yet managed to retain her defiant look in the face of threatened retribution. His response was sharp, decisive and very much to the point.

  'When I leave this island, ma petite, which may not be for some time yet, you will leave with me— as my wife! Don't fight the inevitable, Claire,' he shook her slightly, unmoved by her gasp of outrage. 'I want you, and I always get what I want. Not even the wariest of game can outwit the experienced hunter who studies the habits and nature of his prey so closely he knows exactly how it will react even before the trap is sprung!'

  She rode like a fury out of the glen, away from the man who had made no effort to detain her, the man full of frightening assurance who seemed determined to unsettle her calm, uneventful existence. 'But he can't!' she consoled herself, frantically urging her mare through a belt of trees, heading for the sanity of home. 'He's corrupted by wealth, intoxicated by a power to influence, but there's no possible way that he can impose his will upon me!'

  She saw two cars parked in the driveway as she cantered up to the house, Jonathan's Rover and her aunt Effie's battered Mini. She rode past them towards the stables and took her time unsaddling the mare, brushing her down, then leaving her comfortably installed with a bag full of oats before making her way inside the house.

  She was surprised to find her aunt sitting alone, drinking coffee at a table set out on a sunny patio. She looked up at Claire's approach, but her smile seemed forced, her brow wrinkled with worry.

  'Where's Jonathan?' Claire dropped into a chair beside her. 'I saw his car parked in the drive.'

  Her aunt opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated when the sound of raised voices penetrated the open window of Garff Foxdale's study. The words were indistinct, but the tone of anger was unmistakable.

  'What's wrong?' Claire questioned sharply. 'Surely Jonathan and Father aren't quarrelling?'

  The idea was unthinkable; she had never known Jonathan waste energy on argument and it was quite out of character for her father to forsake dignity to the extent of raising his voice to anyone.

  'I'm afraid they must be.' Her aunt's hand shook as carefully she set her cup back into its saucer. 'I do wish they'd stop it, they've been at it for almost half an hour.'

  'But why—what could possibly have gone wrong?' Claire gasped, feeling a strong premonition of disaster. She jumped when a door was banged shut with such force the noise reverberated through the house. When she heard her father's footsteps hastening across the hall she ran inside just in time to see his stiff-backed frame disappear from the top of the stairs and into his bedroom.

  Twirling on her heel, she raced into the study and found Jonathan slumped dejectedly in a chair supporting his bowed head between shaking hands. Overwhelmed by a wave of maternal pity, she rushed to kneel at his feet.

  'Jonathan dear,' she coaxed, 'you mustn't allow Father to upset you so. I know his fury can be devastating, but it's fatal to back down and allow him to suspect you feel defeated. It's so like him,' her voice rose indignantly, 'to create a major incident out of a
small difference of opinion that's all it was, wasn't it,' her voice sharpened, 'a storm in a teacup?'

  She was shocked when Jonathan raised his head to show a face haggard with despair. Unable to meet her look, he dropped his eyes to the floor, then after a long, silent struggle finally managed to whisper.

  'I wish it were a minor incident, Claire, but it's not, it's a major catastrophe! According to your father I've brought shame and ruin upon myself and my family, and also, because of our relationship, upon his too. I came to him seeking sympathy and advice,' he ejected a mirthless laugh, 'only to discover that your father is a hard, intolerant man. If the worst should come to the worst and I'm sent to stand trial I hope to God he's not the judge presiding!'

  He was so completely downcast, so drowned in misery, she knew that she would need to be firm if she were to get any sense out of him.

  'Stand up, Jonathan!' She rose to her feet, setting him an example. 'Stop wallowing in self-pity and tell me plainly and coherently what's happened.'

  Mistaking the asperity in her tone for contempt, he flashed a quick look of hurt, but then to her great relief he stumbled to his feet, shrugged his shoulders erect, and began addressing a spot somewhere above her head.

  'I've had a bad run of luck at the Casino,' he jerked, 'and lost quite a lot of money—some of which didn't belong to me…'

  She could have berated him, as she had done once or twice in the past, for his inability to resist the lure of the gambling tables, but it was not the time for recriminations.

  'How—' she began.

  'I borrowed it from a client,' he interrupted.

  'Then all you need do is pay him back,' she pointed out, bewildered.

  'It was borrowed from his estate without his knowledge.'