Marriage by Capture Read online

  'The place will look much more homely once the fire gets going,' he encouraged with a grin. 'There's a cupboard beneath the dresser full of provisions, why don't you have a forage,' he suggested casually, 'and see what you can rustle up for supper?'

  Seizing upon the opportunity to demonstrate what she thought of him and his suggestion, Claire sauntered across to a hard wooden settle, sat down, then stared in front of her wearing an expression of disdainful hauteur.

  Rolf was quick to decipher her message. She felt his eyes upon her face, thoughtfully probing, and caught the tail-end of a long, almost soundless whistle.

  'So that is the way it is going to be—mute rebellion, eh, ma chérie? So be it!' he suddenly crisped, turning back to his chore of tending the fire. 'If you don't work, you don't eat—we shall soon discover whether or not hunger can breed reform!'

  He continued chatting, seeming unconcerned by her silence, while he tended the fire, directing a draught from ancient bellows until the peat was glowing red. 'You will soon develop the particular skills needed to turn out a meal without all the paraphernalia of a modern kitchen,' he assured her.

  She could have told him that for the past few years her only connection with the kitchen had been the daily planning and discussion of menus with her father's very able housekeeper, but she resisted the temptation and stared fixedly ahead, trying not to listen.

  She sensed that he was smiling when, crossing over to the dresser, he began rummaging among the surprising amount of provisions. 'I've been living here for the past two weeks,' he surprised her by saying. 'Hotel rooms invariably become irksome, so at the first convenient opportunity I moved in here and found it the next best thing to living out of doors. Getting down to basics offers a challenge I'm sure you'll enjoy, Claire, if you will give it half a chance.'

  He actually sounded serious!

  'There's a challenge in learning to use the skills and the imagination needed to cope with what some might term the "inconveniences" of primitive life.' He straightened, closed the door of the dresser with his foot, then crossed over to dump the items he had chosen on to the table. 'Why be stubborn?' he coaxed the back of her proud head. 'Why not decide, instead, to co-operate? One of the best ways know for two people to develop a relationship is for them to work closely together in a situation where there are ample opportunities for giving and taking, sharing chores, discovering those things that give mutual enjoyment, and those that don't, indulging in pleasant conversation. Living close to nature presents an ideal opportunity to recognise one's faults and failings—in such a situation it should not be difficult for us to get to know each other—intimately.'

  She stiffened, alarmed by the meaningful stress he had placed upon the word. She was not fooled by the slyly proffered olive branch; whether she cooperated or not the outcome would be the same. But if, as he had claimed, living rough was an aid to insight, then he would soon discover that she was not the type to give in without a fight!

  She remained tensely alert when he lapsed into silence, knowing that he was willing her to respond and quite determined that she would not. She heard the crisp slicing of a knife as he worked at the table behind her, caught a pungent whiff of onion, and was reminded that she had eaten practically nothing throughout the long, traumatic day.

  The kettle was simmering on the slouree and as he bent down to unhook it and to hang in its place the lugged iron cooking pot, firelight leapt along the planes of his face, sharpening his profile, deepening the hollows beneath his cheekbones, igniting his dark eyes with a leaping, saturnine glare. The pot sizzled when he tossed in a spoonful of dripping, followed seconds later by minced meat, then the thinly sliced onion. The aroma that rose from the pot was almost unbearably delicious.

  Claire looked away, drooling, as he stirred, browning the mince and onion in the hot dripping, but her hungry eyes would not be thwarted and were drawn back to feast upon the can of mushroom soup, the milk, the pepper, then finally the noodles that Rolf tossed into the pan before he covered it with a lid and left it to simmer.

  'Sorry I can't offer to switch on the television,' he apologised, dropping into a cushionless wooden rocking chair and stretching his feet in front of the fire. 'I could have brought a radio, I suppose,' he frowned, 'but to be honest, the thought never occurred to me. There are books and papers around somewhere,' he waved a vague hand. 'As you don't seem inclined to talk, perhaps I should look them out for you?'

  'Please don't bother,' she refused frostily, driven almost to distraction by the delicious smell permeating the room. 'I'm feeling rather tired,' she snapped, 'is there somewhere in this hovel where I might try to get some sleep?'

  'You know the layout of the cottage as well as I do,' he mocked. 'As they're all identical in construction you must be perfectly well aware that there's one bedroom only.'

  'And a storage loft!' she flashed, then reddened when he grinned, conscious that she had been tricked into a neatly-laid trap.

  So there is!' he agreed lazily. 'A cramped piece of space beneath the roof where the crofters' children normally used to sleep. How fortunate for me,' he drawled, glancing the length of his outstretched legs, 'that we won't be needing to use it.'

  Willing the trembling from her knees, Claire stood up to leave him, attributing to his remark the importance it deserved by ignoring it completely. 'Are you gentleman enough to fetch my suitcases from the car?' she requested stiffly, 'or must I get them myself?'

  'Of course not.' With languid ease he heaved out of his chair. 'I'm prepared to make that small concession to ensure the comfort of my bride.'

  Claire began to shiver the moment she entered the small dark room in which a plain deal chest and one rickety chair were dominated by ,a four-poster bed made up with coarse, homespun sheets and pillowcases yellowed with age, and a covering of heavy woollen bed quilts that had almost certainly been woven on a hand loom by some weaver in a previous century.

  She slid out the top drawer of the wooden chest and shuddered from the sight of a calico nightdress, wondering about the woman who had spent many painstaking hours inserting tiny stitches along yards of seams; had hand-stitched buttonholes so meticulously that there was not the least sign of fraying even today, and speculating most of all on the thoughts she must have been entertaining when she had decided to edge the very functional collar with a strip of incongruously dainty lace.

  'Deprivation of the body can be easily forgotten if the heart is rich in love!' Rolf spoke softly behind her, demonstrating an uncanny ability to read her mind.

  She swung round, startled, and cannoned into him when he stepped into the restricted space between the chest and the bed. Dropping the suitcases to the floor, he shot out his hands to steady her, then held on, staring through the gloom as if he was finding it difficult to let her go.

  She felt trapped inside a tomb. Not so many miles away her very civilised father would still be entertaining their wedding guests; people would be ensconced in comfortable homes doing everyday, mundane things such as filling a kettle from a tap, then boiling it on a stove; pressing a switch to flood a room with light; undressing in warm, heated bedrooms and padding barefoot across carpeted floor to slide appreciatively into a comfortable bed. Such reality seemed a thousand miles away as she stared into the hatchet-carved face of the man she had been insane enough to marry. Why had she done it? She had felt bitterly hurt by Jonathan's betrayal, but not heartbroken nor even, if she were truthful, terribly surprised. But she had imagined that he loved her and the discovery that she had no one—that there was not one person in the whole world that she could really rely upon—had rendered her hopelessly uncaring of her future. But now the numbness was wearing off, the awful reality of her folly was beginning to register and the fear, the dismay, the sheer blind panic, was written plainly on her face as she stared up at him.

  He expelled a hissing breath and released her, stepping sharply away. 'Get undressed, Claire,' his tone was expressionless, 'the bed is comfortable and well aired, whe
n you're ready I'll fetch you in some supper.'

  Her relief was tremendous, yet still her fingers moved panic-swift as she fumbled her way out of her suit and into a nightdress, ruffled, silk-bowed, and diaphanous, a mere wisp of almond-pink gossamer that had been meant to be worn under very different conditions.

  The sheets felt rough when she slid between them yet held no hint of chill, and the mattress filled with down and goosefeathers moulded her inside a warm cocoon so that when she snuggled deeper, heavy eyelids drooping, she felt a sensation of floating, borne on a thousand tiny wings. She had almost drifted into sleep when the door opened and Rolf walked into the room carrying a tray holding a bowl full of the stew he had concocted, a glass of milk and a guttering candle balanced inside a dull pewter holder.

  Setting the candleholder on top of the chest, he approached with the tray, ordering gruffly, 'Sit up. Today you've eaten less than would fill a sparrow, you'll feel much better after this!'

  The delicious smell rising from the bowl was too much to resist. Eagerly Claire slid upright, then remembering her near-nakedness she grabbed the top sheet and pulled it over her breasts, tucking one end under each arm.

  'Bare is beautiful,' Rolf rebuked gravely. 'You possess a figure many women must envy, so why not show it off, glory in your good fortune? A woman who is inhibited about her body has usually been taught that nudity is immodest—a word that should be deleted from our language. Forget your father's old-fashioned teaching, ma chérie,' he slid the tray across her knees and sent her into a state of utter confusion by relaxing on to the edge of the bed, 'try to be completely honest with yourself, to shed the niceties and inhibitions of everyday life, then you'll begin to experience a truly ecstatic sense of freedom. I doubt your capacity for greed, ma belle femme, but I feel certain that once you've taken a first tentative bite you'll discover that you possess quite a healthy appetite.'

  She blushed to the tips of her ears. They both knew that he was not talking about food. As he lifted a laden spoon to her lips, coaxing her to eat, his smile was provocative, his action symbolic of the serpent leading Eve into temptation.

  'There,' he approved when she had swallowed the first delicious spoonful, 'that wasn't so bad, was it? If you relax your hold upon your sheet of armour,' his glance derided the offending bedsheet, 'you'll be able to feed yourself. But perhaps,' his soft laughter jeered, 'you like to have me ministering to your needs?'

  The choice was a difficult one. He had no intention of leaving her alone, therefore she had either to relinquish her modesty or suffer the pangs of ravenous hunger which one spoonful of the stew had only served to aggravate. As she dithered, she wondered if there was any truth in the supposition that primitive tribes had the ability to extract tranquillising potions from everyday plants and herbs and, if so, whether Rolf was in possession of such knowledge, because just one spoonful of the stew had induced a beautiful euphoria within which she felt warm, contented and very much cared for—a likeable, unusual sensation she felt loath to relinquish.

  'Please stay…' she mumbled, keeping tight hold of the sheet, her pleading eyes upon the dipping spoon.

  He sighed. 'So beauty is not for sharing, eh? Very well, just this once I'm prepared to humour you.'

  Claire felt satisfied long before the bowl was empty. When, heavy-eyed, she turned her head away and slid beneath the sheets, indicating that she had had enough, Rolf returned the bowl to the tray. The bed creaked when he stood up and with a murmur of satisfaction she burrowed deeper into her pillow, then winced when a fine hairpin jabbed her head. Thinking he had gone, she raised a languid hand to pluck the remaining pins from her golden coronet, then tensed rigid when a low-voiced request reached from directly overhead.

  'Let me help you…'

  Condemning herself for her stupidity, she struggled upright, forgetful in her anger of the need to screen her near-nakedness from his glinting eyes. Fool that she was for being naive enough to be lulled by false concern and a clever change of tactics into thinking that he would be content to leave her in peace!

  'I always get what I want…!'

  The words hammered into her brain as she jerked erect, ready to storm, and found his lean brown face, his powerfully muscled body, much nearer than she had imagined.

  'I can manage, thank you,' she choked, her torrent of furious words smothered to extinction by his suffocating shadow.

  Predictably, he ignored her words. With the awkwardness of a man handling something fragile and precious, his fingers began probing through her silken hair, plucking out the fine pins and laying each one carefully aside. Denuded of their support, the heavy coils fell down around her shoulders, each strand tipped by a spiralling curl, pale and golden as her wedding ring.

  'I'm sure that as a child you were taught never to retire without brushing your hair,' he murmured, burying his lips among the silken strands.

  Feeling suddenly cold and very much afraid, she watched him reach for the hairbrush she had left on top of her suitcase and submitted in silence when with slow, tender strokes he began brushing her hair. She kept her head bowed, her eyes downcast, steeling herself to remain calm but becoming more and more conscious of strong fingers lingering against her throat, of his steady breathing and the rise and fall of his broad chest exposed by a shirt worn with a negligence he seemed to favour, unbuttoned to the waist and with sleeves rolled up above his elbows so that his pantherish movements were unrestricted. With a lock of hair tumbling rakishly on to his brow he looked the epitome of freedom, a man who lived by the doctrine he preached, a doctrine of uninhibited thought, word and deed, of healthy appetite and unrestrained passions.

  Movement never lies! Suddenly Claire realised the Meaning of the words once read and subconsciously retained. Although people might lie and deceive easily in speech and writing, their bodily movements reflected their true emotion. At that moment her bedroom seemed too small to contain the presence of a man who was generating all the strength and purpose of a forest prowler—a man who could cast off civilisation as easily as a snake casts off his slough!

  Fingers of panic squeezed her throat when Rolf threw down the brush and clasped a hand upon each of her shoulders.

  'Why did you marry me, Claire?' His voice was thick, rendered unrecognisable by deep emotion.

  The fingers around her throat tightened, forcing out the terrified admission. 'Because you gave me no choice. What other reason could there be—I hardly know you!'

  'That's irrelevant.' Slowly he drew her towards him.

  'It must be relevant,' she tensed to resist his forceful pressure. 'Unless you imagine I could fall in love at first sight.'

  'Why not?' he breathed, lowering over her as she gave up the struggle and dropped back panting upon her pillow, 'I did…'

  He captured her mouth with a kiss that was a stamp of ownership, a punishing reward for torment that drained every pocket of resistance, dragged response from every hidden part of her.

  'Je me consume pour toi, amour de ma vie!' At times of strain man's strongest trait emerges—he was at that moment wholly Gallic, a dedicated, desirous, hot-blooded Frenchman.

  Claire fought like a she-cat, spitting, writhing, clawing her way out of hands that seared her cool, virgin skin like a fiery torch; wrenched her mouth out of reach of lips murmuring words she did not want to hear; strained hard to escape the pressure of a body transmitting a virile plea for a passion to match his own, a passion that was driving him beyond the edge of sanity.

  When he laughed deep in his throat and caught both of her wrists in a determined hand, she knew that the battle was almost lost. A pink wisp of chiffon mocked her from the floor where it had been contemptuously tossed. Her body, bared to his flame-flecked eyes, glistened slim and supple beneath a golden veil of hair that was clustered into damp tendrils on her brow and at the tender nape of her neck. Making one last desperate effort, she wrenched a hand free and struck, ripping four sharp fingernails down the length of his face.

  His head jerk
ed back into a pool of candlelight and in spite of her white-hot fury, she felt sick with dismay at the sight of blood oozing from scars running in four straight lines from cheek to chin like some barbaric tattoo.

  'Manx cat!' he growled, making no effort to stem the flow of blood.

  'Savage Indian!' she spat, appalled by what she had done, yet aware that it would be fatal to show it.

  When his hand shot out to grasp her neck she sensed that he had been driven too far, and for the first time she felt the cold, implacable fury that Jonathan had experienced being directed towards herself.

  'I can ignore your contempt on my own behalf,' he gritted through clenched teeth, 'but I resent deeply the attitude of people such as yourself who are intolerant of others simply because they're of a different colour, have different customs, language and religious beliefs. No race, not even that of the high and mighty Foxdales, can be superior to others at all times and in all places—although the Indians themselves are not faultless in this respect because they, too, consider themselves superior to most. They tell a story of the Great Spirit who formed the world and then its inhabitants. His first attempt at making man was a failure, since all he achieved was a "very imperfect and ill-tempered being"—the white man. Displeased with this result, the Great Spirit then resorted to black clay and made the Negro. The black man was much better than the white man, but was still not perfect. So he then took a piece of pure red clay and formed the Indian, who was perfect in every respect.'

  With cold, concentrated fury, he spelled out, 'Tolerance is vital if racial conflict is ever to diminish, remember that, Claire,' he threatened hardly, 'if ever again you feel tempted to denigrate a race of people whose women could teach you everything you need to know about the obligations a wife owes to her husband!'

  Shamed by his loyalty towards friends whose race she had thoughtlessly used as an instrument of provocation, she croaked, 'I was forced into a legal marriage, but I will not be forced into a physical one!'