Marriage by Capture

by Margaret Rome

'Embezzlement…!'

  'No, dammit,' he burst out. Showing his first sign of spirit, he dropped his eyes from the ceiling to glare. 'Your mind runs upon exactly the same lines as your father's—I did not embezzle the money, I merely borrowed it intending to pay it back the moment I was in funds, but my client appeared on the island unexpectedly and arrived at my office demanding to see the books before I'd had a chance to redress the balance.'

  Even before she asked, she knew with chilling certainty what his reply to her question would be. 'Wh-what's the name of your client?' Cold fingers were squeezing her heart long before he ejected bitterly, 'Rolf Ramsey—a man reputed to be a multi-millionaire, who can afford to buy a derelict farm for which he has no use, fill it with costly relics, and pay a caretaker handsomely for doing next to nothing, yet who intends to sue me, to ruin my career, my reputation, and possibly,' anxiously he searched her face, 'even my marriage, all for the sake of a trifling sum that means less than nothing to him!'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  'Father, couldn't you lend Jonathan the money he borrowed?'

  'Stole!' he corrected tersely, without lifting his head from his newspaper.

  Claire had bided her time, planned an especially good dinner and had waited to introduce the subject until her father was settled in his favourite chair with a cup of coffee and a glass of brandy near to hand. At such times he was usually at his most receptive, but the moment she had mentioned Jonathan's name his relaxed mouth had adopted a grim, forbidding line.

  'I think you're being very dogmatic,' she chided gently, 'nevertheless, if that's how you choose to view his unfortunate lapse it doesn't alter the fact that he is your future son-in-law and that a small act of charity could avert a major scandal.'

  She felt hopeful when he lowered the newspaper on to his knee to give her his full attention. She swallowed hard, determined not to be intimidated by his cold stare.

  'Am I hearing aright?' She jumped when the question scythed from his mouth. 'Do you seriously believe I would countenance a thief and embezzler as a son-in-law? Are you so lacking in family pride that you can contemplate marriage to such a man?

  'You speak of him as if he were a criminal,' she defended hotly. 'You're biased against him, Father, you will allow no justification for his actions—already, in your eyes, he's been tried and sentenced!'

  Garff Foxdale projected awesome authority when his judgment was challenged. Rising to his feet, he towered over her, resentful of being taken to task by his usually amenable daughter.

  'You dare to accuse me of bias, of knowing only half the facts!' his voice trembled with barely restrained anger, 'whereas, in actual fact, I've followed my usual practice of collating, sifting, probing all the evidence available, and as a consequence I've been appalled by my findings! On only one count will I admit that my judgment has been at fault—my assessment of Jonathan Heywood's character was utterly and completely wrong!'

  'Just because he borrowed a trifling sum of money?' To Claire, Jonathan suddenly appeared as a martyr, a whipping boy for her father's lacerated pride.

  'Because I've discovered that he prefers gambling to working, and as a consequence an old-established, highly-respected business is on the verge of bankruptcy! And as for the money that was purloined,' he snorted, 'by anyone's standards, five thousand pounds is quite a hefty amount!'

  'Five thou…' Her eyes widened with dismay. 'Father, did you say five?'

  But her father had strode angrily out of the room.

  After a fraught hour of stunned conjecture, Claire reached a painful decision. That Jonathan had erred could not be disputed, but the punishment hanging over him owed most of its weight to her own involvement. If he had been merely a casual acquaintance her father would have shrugged off his lapse as a youthful misdemeanour, and if Rolf Ramsey did not see him as an obstacle that was preventing him from possessing something he coveted he would not be half so determined to sue. Both of Jonathan's accusers meant to see him ruined; each one had a vested interest that was inextricably bound up with herself.

  'I want you!' Rolf Ramsey's words echoed in her ears, 'and I always get what I want!'

  She went thoughtfully up to her bedroom to study the contents of her wardrobe, despising her motives, yet conscious that an appealing look would help to achieve success. Rolf Ramsey had an eye for beauty. Often she had noticed how his attention was held by the sight of shapely ankles, a voluptuous figure, or a seductive walk. He had made no secret of the fact that he considered her own attractions far superior to most—his weakness could become her strength, a strength she intended to exercise on Jonathan's behalf.

  An hour later, when she arrived at his hotel and asked to be conducted up to his suite, she felt confident that she was looking her best. Her dress of leaf-green silk had been chosen deliberately in the hope that he might be softened by a reminder of the environment he preferred—cool green forests where breeze rustled softly through virgin leaves. Frivolous sandals, mere strips of kid and high spiked heels, were guaranteed to draw his appreciative eye to dainty feet and slender ankles. And then there was her master-stroke, an exercise in psychology of which she felt inordinately proud, the way in which she had unpinned her hair, fashioned it into a single plait and tossed it casually across her shoulder in the fashion favoured by nubile Red Indian beauties.

  Nervously she waited to be announced, then stepped with calm dignity into the sitting-room of his suite. He was seated at a desk studying a sheaf of papers, his tousled hair, casual shirt unbuttoned to the waist, evidence that he had not been expecting visitors.

  Yet he did not look surprised when he rose to greet her.

  'Beauté du diable!' Her heart soared in triumph. He had a tendency to lapse into his mother tongue whenever he felt deeply moved. 'You're so beautiful I can hardly trust myself to be alone with you!'

  When he moved closer with a grace that was almost feline, triumph gave way to panic. Too late, she realised the danger of bearding a beast in his den, of putting herself at the mercy of dark predatory eyes that were transmitting signals she dared not try to interpret, holding her mesmerised by a gaze so intense and prolonged she felt involved in the deepest intimacy. In spite of herself she blushed, and felt transparent as glass when he gave a deep-throated chuckle.

  Come, sit down.' Taking pity on her, he took her by the hand and led her towards a couch. 'Tell me the reason for your most welcome but unexpected visit.'

  Consoled by the thought that at least his mood was as mellow as she had wished, she sat with hands clasped loosely in her lap and tried very hard to sound coolly reasonable.

  'I've come—without my fiancé's knowledge—to plead for mercy, Mr Ramsey.' She felt proud of the even tenor of her tone, but became immediately disconcerted when with a swift wave of his hand he interrupted.

  'Stop calling me Mr Ramsey—I shall refuse to listen to another word unless you call me Rolf.'

  Sweeping down a curtain of thick lashes to hide quick resentment, she conceded, 'Very well… Rolf.'

  'Good!' He hooked an arm along the back of the couch, making no contact, yet instinctively she stiffened, feeling herself teetering on the brink of a yawning trap.

  'Please take me seriously, Mr… Rolf,' she pleaded in a nervous rush. 'I came here after long, serious thought, to ask you to overlook Jonathan's… er… lapse. I promise you that every effort will be made to repay the money that's owing to you. He's abjectly sorry and determined never to be tempted into such foolishness ever again, so what possible satisfaction could you get from allowing the scandal to break? I assure you,' her voice lowered to a whisper, 'that I intend to marry Jonathan whether you ruin him or not.'

  'Don't scar your too-tender conscience with the thought that you've in any way influenced my decision to bring Heywood to justice,' he rapped.

  She blinked, finding it hard to equate his previously unruffled manner, his teasing drawl, with a voice that sounded full of venomous intent. Wide-eyed, she stared at a profile that looked carved from ston
e, at flint-hard eyes, and lips set straight and unyielding as steel.

  'You and I share one common belief, Claire, and that is that traits of character are passed down from generation to generation. The first Ramsey to leave these shores did so with his pride shattered, his pockets empty, and bearing a burden of disgrace that would have shattered the spirit of many a lesser man, and all because of his dealings with a lawyer—an ancestor of Heywood's who founded the family firm—who hid his crookedness behind a cloak of respectability and who managed, with the aid of influential friends, to brand Angus Ramsey a bankrupt and a liar! To have a grudge is to have a purpose in life—I inherited Angus Ramsey's grudge, together with a determination to see him revenged!'

  'I don't understand,' Claire breathed, wondering, as she stared wide-eyed, how she could have been misled by the quick smile, the lazy drawl, the easy manner he had used as a cloak to hide a core of iron. 'You were thousands of miles away, so how could you possibly have known what Jonathan was up to?'

  'You're right, I couldn't,' he answered grimly, 'but I played a hunch and it paid off. I singled out Heywood to take the responsibility of purchasing the farm together with a large amount of equipment, put at his disposal an unlimited amount of money, then sat back and waited to see what would happen. He didn't disappoint me,' she shuddered from a smile that was almost a snarl. 'Given sufficient rope, our friend Heywood very obligingly hanged himself!'

  She felt sickened to the very soul by the coldly calculated exploitation of a man's weakness. What a fool she had been to expect mercy from the descendant of a voyageur who had found pleasure in battling against vicious elements, pitting his wits against animals that roamed the forests, and who had gloried in dominating mortals weaker than himself.

  'You're despicable!' she croaked. 'Utterly lacking in compassion, incapable of decent feelings!'

  His arm whipped down, trapping her around the waist. Immediately her head snapped upwards, eyes stormy, but abusive words faded from her lips when she saw that once more his face had been transformed by the lazy smile, the glint of devilment she had come to know so well.

  'I have feelings for you, ma chérie—Clear Running Water—but I doubt if you would consider them decent.' Lifting her heavy plait of hair, he twisted it around his neck, dragging her head so close their lips were almost touching. 'There's one way that you can save your weak kitten from drowning,' he crushed the words roughly against her mouth. 'Marry me, Claire, and I promise that Heywood will be erased completely from both our minds!'

  'Never!' she choked. 'I refuse to be blackmailed into becoming your squaw!'

  She was released so swiftly there was barely time to breathe a sigh of relief before she saw him striding halfway across the room.

  'Take time to think about it,' he tossed across his shoulder. 'Tonight I'm dining at a house near to your home—I'll call in while passing for your final answer!'

  She had no need to consider the impudent proposition, Claire told herself a hundred times as she made her way home, rushed up to her bedroom and flung herself into a chair where for hours she sat gazing fixedly at the hands of a clock moving, inevitable as fate, towards the hour of Rolf Ramsey's arrival.

  'If only there was someone I could talk to!' she fretted, mentally ticking off and dismissing her few acquaintances. Her aunt was too much in awe of her brother to side against him, and Charity MacLeod, whose honest, forthright opinion she would have valued, was so biased in favour of Rolf Ramsey she would no doubt congratulate Claire on her good fortune at having found favour in his eyes. She heaved a heartfelt sigh. She blamed her isolated upbringing for the fact that friendship had passed her by; she had learnt to accept and to live with the knowledge that she would never know the pleasure of sharing joys, hopes, and fears with another human being, and had built around her sensitive soul a shell of cool aloofness into which she could creep to recover from the pain of rejection and to hide from the world the knowledge that far from her being poised, assured and completely self-contained, too much solitude had resulted in a paralysing shyness.

  It was a relief to be forced to change and dress for dinner. Mechanically, she showered, brushed and coiled her hair into its usual elegant coronet, then chose a starkly simple dress, dark brown as her mood. As listlessly she made her way downstairs her spirits lightened at the sound of a car drawing up outside. Suspecting that it might be Jonathan, she ran to open the door, then stepped back in dismay when without a word of greeting he strode past her into the hall.

  Ashen-faced, looking half demented, he croaked:

  'The situation is getting desperate, Claire!' His mouth was working, his features distorted by a nervous twitch, his pale blue eyes, usually so placid, held a glistening, panic-stricken stare.

  'Come into the study,' she urged quietly, holding out her hand. 'Father has a dinner engagement, he won't be back for hours yet.'

  Like a grateful child he clung to her hand, drawing eagerly upon her strength. Pushing him gently into a chair, she left him for a moment to pour out a large measure of brandy, then returned to push the glass into his shaking hands.

  'Drink this,' she coaxed, 'it will help you to pull yourself together.'

  His teeth chattered against the rim of the glass when he took his first sip, but after he had tossed back the remainder slight colour crept back into his cheeks, his mouth gained a little of its composure.

  Claire's heart felt ready to burst with pity as she sat down next to him and captured his hands in a comforting clasp.

  'Now tell me what's happened?' she soothed, keeping her tone purposely light.

  'You're a great girl, Claire!' he husked, his look of gratitude reminding her for a second of a devoted spaniel. 'I'm the luckiest chap in the world to have someone like you, loyal, dependable, steady as a rock in an emergency. I need you, Claire,' his voice reached hysterical heights,' 'promise you'll always stand by me, that you'll never let me down!'

  It took all of fifteen minutes' calm, reassuring talk before he became sufficiently coherent to jerk out:

  'Two police detectives came to my office this morning—they questioned, they probed, politely of course, but with an insistence that brought home to me exactly what's in store. I never dreamt it would come to this!' To her horror he began to sob with a quiet hopelessness that underlined the depths of his despair. 'I was so certain that something would turn up to prevent disaster, but all my friends have deserted me, nobody wants to become involved, and Ramsey seems determined to hound me out of existence. Couldn't you speak to him, Claire?' The wretchedness of his appeal wrenched her heart. 'I've noticed the way he eyes you up— there's a chance, just a chance, that he might listen to you.'

  'I already have.' The admission was breathed, barely audible, yet he seized upon her words.

  'You have? What did he say?'

  He said,' she trembled a laugh, trying to sound contemptuously unconcerned in order to allay his justifiable anger, 'that he would drop all proceedings against you if I agreed to marry him!'

  She braced, expecting an outburst of outraged derision, but was shocked when she saw a look of hope spreading across his features.

  'What was your reply, Claire?'

  The fact that he should even need to ask such a question caused the pain of a dagger being driven deep into her heart. When she continued staring dumbly, her eyes pools of hurt bewilderment, he jumped to his feet and grated.

  'For God's sake, Claire! You hold my sanity in your hands, tell me, what was your reply?'

  Stonily, feeling no one would ever be able to hurt her quite so much again, she mouthed, 'Don't worry, Jonathan, your sanity is safe. I've decided to marry Rolf Ramsey.'

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was many years since the elaborate headdress fashioned from beaten silver had been put to its original use. This morning it had been unearthed from the vaults of a bank and delivered to the house in good time for the ceremony.

  Claire's father had been delighted when she had opted for a traditional Nordic weddi
ng and had immediately ordered that the silver crown, an essential ornament of the wedding regalia, should be polished in readiness to enhance the beauty of the bride. It was at that moment resting on the top of Claire's dressing table, but she spared its glistening glory barely a glance as, woodenly, she began dressing for the ceremony, due to take place in less than an hour, that was to make her Rolf Ramsey's wife.

  Charity MacLeod, who should have returned to Canada long since but had insisted upon remaining for the wedding, burst into the room after a tentative rap upon the door. She was overwhelmed with pride at having been allowed to help with the arrangements, yet not so blinded that she had tailed to recognise weeks ago that Claire possessed none of the radiance expected of a happy bride. She had shrugged off her fancies, telling herself that the girl, being of such a complex and withdrawn nature, could not be judged as an ordinary mortal.

  Only someone very close—as close as a lover—would be allowed to delve into what she suspected were very considerable depths.

  To look subdued was one thing, but as Charity stepped inside the room she glimpsed, for one unguarded second, a look on Claire's face that could only be described as stricken.

  'My dear, aren't you feeling well?' Charity darted forward, full of compassion.

  'I'm perfectly well, thank you.' Claire shrugged her shoulders erect and forced her stiff lips to smile.

  Luckily, Charity's attention was diverted, her fascinated eyes held, drinking in every detail of the outfit designed centuries ago for the brides of men, muscled and sinewed and clad in tough leather, who had pillaged and raped for pleasure and who had descended upon the island looking, in their twin-horned helmets, like reincarnations of the devil.

  Claire eyed her reflection in a full-length mirror, congratulating herself that she had followed tradition to the letter, thinking how appropriate it was that she should be wearing black for her marriage to that devil Ramsey.