Marriage by Capture Read online

  'No, Claire, you will not!' The sudden grating of his voice made her heart lurch. 'For if, by some miracle, you should develop into a warm and loving woman, I'll take you as a wife only if you come begging to me—on your knees!'

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Idly, Claire stirred a panful of porridge with a large ladle fashioned out of horn. She had slept surprisingly well and had awakened early to the sound of hundreds of squawking seabirds and a patch of sky hanging like a spotless blue curtain across tiny, squared windowpanes. With difficulty she had managed to push up the bottom half of the window to sniff early morning air heavy with the smell of seaweed and to listen to the suck and drag of shingle far below at the bottom of the cliff, as the sea carried out her daily chore of swilling and scouring all manner of flotsam from the shore.

  As the day promised to be warm, she had unearthed from her suitcase a pair of cotton slacks and a navy-blue sleeveless top with a white anchor embroidered on one shoulder—which was perhaps accountable for Rolf's dry observation when tentatively she had stepped out of her bedroom and into the living-room.

  'The sea is woman—implacable most when she smiles serenely!' He straightened up from the fire he had been tending. 'Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen you smile. If ever I do, I shall consider it not at all a bad beginning to our friendship.'

  'It ever I do,' she replied, feeling much less composed than she looked, 'it will be because I consider a smile the best way to end an unwanted relationship.'

  Demonstrating his lack of both malice and conscience, Rolf had abandoned the subject to question with a grin. 'I feel like fish for breakfast, don't you? If you make a start on the porridge, I'll go out and see what I can catch.'

  He had then sauntered out, giving her no time to argue, and she had waited until the sound of his cheerful whistling had faded into silence before reaching a decision and moving thoughtfully towards the dresser. He had left her with no option but to co-operate, or starve. She could have attempted an escape by trekking the few miles to the nearest road in the hope that one of the few motorists to penetrate this far south would offer her a lift home. But the thought of the gossip that would ensue when word spread, as it surely would, that a bride of mere hours had fled from her husband, offended her dignity, as did the thought of her father's displeasure, his stern, probing questions.

  'An experienced hunter studies the habits and nature of his prey so closely he knows exactly how it will react!' The fact that Rolf Ramsey felt confident enough to leave her unguarded in the cottage was proof that already he found her as readable as an open book.

  She rummaged in the cupboard and with great relief discovered a packet of instant porridge oats that required only the addition of water before cooking. With intense concentration she tipped a measured amount of oats and water into the heavy pan, stirred briskly, then heaved it up on to the slouree that was dangling over the open fire.

  Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades as earnestly she stirred to prevent the mixture from sticking to the bottom of the pan. Outside, the air was balmy, not a hint of draught penetrated through the open doorway so that, as the peat glowed increasingly hotter and steam rose from the bubbling pan, the interior of the cottage grew uncomfortably warm and moisture trickled in rivulets down her face and neck, disappearing into the valley between her breasts. Deciding that the porridge was ready, she began struggling to lift the heavy pot from its hook. Heat seared her bare arms and shoulders as she leant across the fire, wrapped a protective cloth around the handle of the pan and positioned herself for the necessary mighty heave.

  'Leave it…!' The command rang out just as she was bracing to take the weight of the heavy pot.

  Rolf crossed the floor in a couple of strides and with an ease she envied plucked the pot from its hook and set it down at the side of the hearth.

  'It looks good.' His smile of approval had a puzzling effect upon her pulse rate. 'Can you milk a goat?'

  'Of course I can't!' She flushed, feeling herself the butt of his wicked humour.

  'In that case, I'd better show you how. Porridge without milk is an unappetising prospect.'

  She realised that he was serious when he began edging her towards the door. 'But I couldn't…' she flustered. 'I don't like goats… they… they smell!'

  'But their milk tastes good,' he insisted firmly, propelling her outside, 'and I need hardly point out that in this remote area we can't expect a milkman to call.'

  As he led her past various outhouses chickens ran pecking between their feet, and in a field next to what once had been the smithy, Loghtan sheep were grazing, an ancient breed native to the island, with fleece the colour of dark Spanish snuff, the rams distinguished by their striking headdress of multiple curling horns.

  The goat, tethered to a stake in one corner of the field, looked up to eye them belligerently as they approached.

  'This is Margot,' Rolf introduced the goat, urging Claire forward with his hand beneath her elbow. 'Don't be timid, she's quite peaceable. Stay here awhile and make friends with her, I'll be back in a minute.'

  Waiting until she was sure he was out of earshot, she leant forward, staying well out of range, to plead nervously, 'You will make allowances, won't you, Margot? You see, I've never milked a goat before—as you'll very soon find out—and normally I wouldn't dream of attempting to, but that devil Ramsey thinks I need to be humbled—which is why you're about to suffer the sort of discomfort that ought never to be inflicted upon a lady. So will you please co-operate? Help me to wipe that condescending smirk off his face?' Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but she felt sure Margot's beady eyes softened and one lid drooped downward in the manner of a conspiratorial wink.

  Nevertheless, her confidence waned the moment she saw Rolf striding back towards her, carrying a bucket, a cloth, and three-legged milking stool.

  'I prefer to do the job without a stool, myself,' he told her cheerfully, 'but you'll probably manage better with this. However, you mustn't be disappointed if you experience difficulty at first; animals won't give milk as freely to a stranger as they will to someone to whom they've become accustomed. Now watch carefully,' he squatted between Margot's front and hind legs, then began gently rubbing her udder with a wet cloth before grasping a teat in each hand. 'Make the sides of the forefinger and thumb press upon the teat more strongly than the other fingers, use both hands at once, and press alternately but so quickly in succession that the alternate streams of milk sound like one continued stream. It must be done fast, to draw away the milk as quickly as possible, and you must continue as long as there's a drop of milk to bring away.' He straightened, placating the restless goat by patting her flank. 'Now you have a go!'

  He positioned the milking stool precisely, then when Claire had slid nervously on to it, keeping a wary eye upon restive hooves, he placed a pail between her knees and guided her hands on to the teats, clasping his own hands around hers to demonstrate the technique he wished her to emulate.

  She held her breath, almost overcome by Margot's pungent body odour, then experiencing an overwhelming urge to surprise him, she concentrated hard upon imitating his actions. When a steady stream of milk began hissing into the pail she almost fell off the stool with shock. Triumph such as she had never before known brought a glint of enthusiasm to her grey eyes and a tremulous upward curl to her mouth. By the time the last drop had been squeezed from the generous udder her back was breaking, her knees holding the bucket felt numb, yet there was a lightness in her step, a glow of satisfaction permeating her whole being, when Rolf retrieved the pail and helped her to her feet.

  'Well done!' he applauded, sounding slightly surprised, then annoyed her by explaining away her success with the grinning observation, 'Margot must have sensed a shared affinity—both of you have natures that are extremely sensitive.'

  Four speckled brown trout lay on the kitchen table where he had left them. Expertly, he gutted and cleaned the fish, dusted them with flour and salt, then laid them in a buttere
d skillet placed directly on top of glowing peat. After washing her hands in water drawn earlier that morning from an outside well, Claire ladled out the porridge, then, still feeling a glow of achievement, she set down upon the table a jug of fresh milk.

  Reading her expression correctly, Rolf sat down opposite, wearing a wide grin. 'Later, I'll show you how to stuff and prepare a chicken and to make a sourdough starter.' She hesitated with the first spoonful of porridge halfway to her lips, to raise interrogative eyebrows. 'Sourdough bread,' he explained, 'was part of the staple diet of the pioneers who opened up the Canadian wilderness. In those days, nothing was measured, each man devised his own recipe as he went along, but whatever method was followed the result was invariably delicious. There is nothing, ma chérie, to compare with the taste of golden-brown hotcakes straight from the grill.'

  'I'm sure you're right,' she agreed politely, becoming wary of his air of easy camaraderie, conscious that once again she was in danger of becoming disarmed by this hunter who used charm to bait his traps. Carefully she scraped the last of her porridge from its bowl before continuing. 'What a pity you were born too late to join the ranks of the voyageurs you admire so much. Doubtless you would have been in your element ensnaring creatures of the wild, slitting their bellies to strip the pelts from their backs.'

  She had intended to sound sarcastic, scornful of barbarity, yet had not imagined that her words would have such an impact upon the man whose jaw went rigid, whose knuckles showed white as his fingers tightened around his spoon. She eyed him curiously, sensing that she had prodded a sensitive nerve. 'Well,' she insisted coldly, 'that was how the foundation of the Ramsey fortune was laid, wasn't it?'

  Strangely, she gained no satisfaction from his wince but felt startled and a little ashamed when in a low-voiced monotone he admitted, 'Yes, it was. I'm far from proud of the part my family played in destroying the culture of a proud Indian race during the quest for more and more furs. The Crees were a nomadic people who lived the life of forest hunters until they made contact with the first of the fur traders who tempted them into the large-scale trap-ping of furs by bribing them with guns and by developing and exploiting their craving for alcohol.' His grim face darkened. 'Because of a growing demand for beaver hats from the fashionable public of Paris and London, and for coats and stoles to drape across the shoulders of rich, over-indulged women, a proud race was deprived of its culture and some species of animals were brought dangerously close to extinction. Fortunately, laws were passed to protect the animals, but help came too late to save the buffalo hunters, the dwellers in tepees, the great horsemen and archers, the tribes of courageous warriors.'

  His tone was intense, his eyes sombre, yet dimly Claire recognised that she was seeing only the tip of the iceberg of scorn he felt for men who would stop at nothing to satisfy their greed for gold. Suddenly, it became easier to understand and forgive his harshness with Jonathan, his intolerance of his weakness. Feeling nervous of his silent brooding, yet at the same time encouraged by this glimpse of unsuspected sensitivity, she queried:

  'I assume that you're no longer involved in the fur trade?'

  'That branch of our business was sold off years ago,' he assured her quietly, 'and the proceeds were given to the Crees as a trifling recompense for all the harm they had suffered. And in return,' he surprised her by reverting with such suddenness to his habitual teasing that her heart lurched, 'I was made a blood brother, an honorary member of their tribe. During my initiation I was given this,' he plunged a hand inside his shirt and withdrew a blue clay medallion dangling on the end of a leather thong, its rim carved and scrolled, its raised centrepiece resembling an antlered stag. 'The blue elk,' he tapped it with a thumb nail, 'whose name I was given, and with whose virtues I was supposedly endowed.'

  'And they are…?' she queried, faintly overawed.

  'Bravery in battle,' he softly replied, daring her to drop her eyes, 'and in making love.'

  Fiercely, she blushed, reminded of the scene she had tried all morning to forget, resenting the re-stirring of pulses only just subdued, the return of a deep inner ache that had suffused her body from the first moment it had felt his touch. She hated him for what he had done to her, for disrupting her life, for arousing deeply-buried emotions—for sharing those emotions then having strength enough to cast them aside. Perversely, she resented his rejection more keenly than she had resented his attempted possession. But at least, she consoled herself, she could now feel safe, for, if nothing else, Rolf Ramsey was a man of his word. He had vowed never again to force his physical attentions upon her, and somehow she was able to believe him utterly.

  'I think,' she prevaricated, 'the fish is burning.'

  'Tiens!' He jumped up to rescue the trout from the sizzling skillet and laid them, crisp and succulent, on to a serving plate. 'Eat up, ma chérie,' he confounded her. 'You will need all your strength if you are to survive the battle that is already raging deep inside you.'

  To her furious embarrassment a deepening blush told him that this time it was he who had scored a hit on a sensitive target. She could have borne amusement, but felt unbearably transparent when gently he chided, 'Clear Running Water—how well the name suits you, mon enfant; being starved of love and affection has resulted in your becoming an emotional misfit in this permissive age. Obviously, you have been taught to believe that sex is a subject never to be talked about in polite society, thereby rendering an entirely natural and beautiful experience into a great taboo, never to be discussed nor even mentioned.' He leant across the table, his eyes darkly earnest. 'Loving need not always be serious, Claire. Sharing happiness, fulfilment and contentment can also be fun!'

  She wanted to lash out, to punish him for exposing her mentally and physically to ridicule, and she did so, making full use of the only weapon she possessed.

  'Of course I'm aware of that!' she blustered, her grey eyes turbulent. 'Jonathan and I often laughed and joked when we made love—but then he and I were so eminently suited, we liked the same things, were products of the same environment, shared the same principles and priorities. For selfish reasons of your own you spoiled all that, yet you have the effrontery to expect me to fall into your arms, to be prepared to make love to a man I hate, whose touch makes me cringe, whose mere presence causes me to shudder!'

  'If you're attempting to annoy me by implying that you and Heywood were lovers then you can save your breath, because I refuse to believe it,' he told her with infuriating calmness. 'You were never in love with him nor he with you.'

  'How can you even pretend to know?' she began, made furious by his perspicacity.

  'Only when the well-being and happiness of another person becomes as important as one's own well-being and happiness can the state of love exist,' he patiently explained. 'So how can you explain away Heywood's meek acceptance—I would even go so far as to call it his relieved approval—of your decision to marry me? And how could you have made such a decision,' he argued steadily, 'unless some inner voice was making nonsense of your argument that I cause you to cringe and shudder, insisting, cowardly little liar, that what you claimed to feel was the very opposite of the truth!'

  'I do hate you!' Claire stood up, quivering with rage. 'What hope can there be of us achieving a satisfactory marriage when we disagree every time we speak?'

  Rolf's usually merry eyes were stern, his face implacable, when tersely he told her, 'A wildly passionate union would be ideal; unswerving devotion would be desirable, but in the absence of either we can still achieve a perfectly good marriage provided we have mutual tolerance, respect, and some moments of shared contentment. And as for our disagreements, these are inevitable between two people of such widely different interests, attitudes and backgrounds as ours. We each have our faults, Claire, so when conflicts arise we must learn to compromise—that way we will survive. I much prefer a marriage that is disrupted from time to time by argument to one that exists peaceably but on a basis of deceit.'

  Suddenly Claire's overstretch
ed nerves snapped. She wanted to scream, to rant and rave, to rip wide open the scars of his face that were not yet healed.

  'You want, you think, you know!' She stamped her feet and stormed. 'What about me? Am I to have no say at all in this mockery of a marriage?'

  He did not rise to the bait, did not return fire with fire, but remained seated, his mouth curling upwards, the dawning of a twinkle in his eyes. 'Our marriage is a mockery only because you have made it so, ma chérie. Yet I am not despondent, because I see before me a woman slowly emerging from a cocoon of ice.' With shocking speed he jerked upright and appeared as if spirited to stand in front of her. Sunshine slanted through the open doorway so that her braided hair glittered like a crown as he took her chin between two fingers and tilted her head to study her furious profile.

  'There is hope for us yet,' he breathed. 'You are angry, you are dishevelled, you smell ever so slightly of goat, yet never have I seen you looking more beautiful, more desirable, more warmly human!'

  CHAPTER NINE

  An uneasy truce had been declared. The day had passed in comparative harmony, each of them striving to be polite and co-operative as they shared the chores and maintained cool, casual conversation. But the ability to keep a discreet distance vanished as inevitably as the sun vanished below the horizon. As they entered the cottage, closing the door against encroaching dusk, Rolf lit the lamp so that a warm pool of light flooded across the table and fell on to the floor, lapping the edges of heavy furniture ranged around shadow-shrouded walls.

  Claire shivered, imagining ghostly shapes lurking in dark corners. Rolf was quick to react. Mistaking her shiver for a sign of chill, he climbed up the ladder leading to the loft where he had spent the previous night and returned carrying a roll-necked sweater, one of the thick-knit woollen ganseys worn by fishermen to protect them from raw, biting winds.