Marriage by Capture

by Margaret Rome

  For a moment Rolf's mother looked so shocked Claire thought she was mortally offended. But then to her amazement she began to laugh, a merry trill of genuine amusement.

  'I'm sorry, my dear,' she finally gasped, control-ling her mirth with difficulty, 'but I had no idea that that old chestnut was still doing the rounds!

  Who told you, for heaven's sake? The fable has circulated for years around Montreal, but I never dreamt it had hopped the Atlantic!'

  'Fable…?' Remembering all the taunts she had thrown at Rolf about his affinity with the Indians, Claire's cheeks grew even more fiery. 'You mean it isn't true?'

  'Certainly not,' Madame chuckled. 'The rumour erupted many years ago, spread, I suspect, by people envious of Angus Ramsey's phenomenal success, and was lent credence by his—at that time—unusual friendship with the Indians. The Ramseys themselves are not blameless, they could easily have proved the scandalmongers wrong, but either because of flattered egos or of tickled humour they omitted to do so, thereby allowing the tale to be accepted as true. Angus Ramsey was a literate and extremely God-fearing man who would not have dreamt of desecrating the family bible with a lie— which is why his entry, written on the day of his marriage to one Hannah Monroe, can never be doubted.'

  Dimly Claire was beginning to realise how wrong she had been, how badly she had misjudged Rolf Ramsey. The man his mother had described was a total stranger to her, yet in an indefinable way she felt she had met him in passing, that they were on nodding terms, sharing a relationship that fate had decreed should never be allowed to deepen.

  The thought prompted a deep sense of loss, a feeling of utter desolation that made Rolf's mother gasp when she glimpsed it in Claire's eyes.

  'I've treated him disgracefully,' Claire gulped, white to the lips. 'I must go back and apologise, try to explain.'

  She had expected an overjoyed response, but felt a terrible fear when Madame Ramsey frowned, her expression pained. 'I wish you well, chérie, but I suspect that it may be too late.'

  'Why…? I don't understand…?' Fear thumped a hard, heavy message upon Claire's heart.

  'Every complaint you have made against my son I have denied,' Madame admitted, the merry twinkle completely absent from her eyes, 'except one, a fault so strongly stitched into the fabric of Ramsey life that no mother or wife has yet managed to unpick it. "Never forget a favour—never forgive a slight." In common with all Ramsey men my son is possessed of the devil's own pride, and I am very much afraid that an absconded wife will have inflicted a burden of humiliation he will find impossible to forgive!'

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  No one who knew her would have recognised the wild-eyed girl speeding like a woman possessed along quiet roads leading towards the south tip of the island as the erstwhile cool, aloof Claire Fox-dale.

  But she was beyond caring what anyone thought —anyone, that was, except Rolf Ramsey, the man whose kisses had brought alive a sleeping beauty. When, during the silence that had fallen after his mother's prediction, she had remembered his promise : 'I shall return at nightfall' she had experienced the same sort of relief as a condemned man granted a last-minute reprieve, and in that same enlightening moment she had realised that life without Rolf would be no more than a living death. His mother had been understandably shocked when Claire had leapt from the couch and grabbed the car keys from the table. During her rush towards the car she had spared only a few breaths with which to toss incoherent words of explanation across her shoulder, but they had been enough to bring a smile of relief to her lips and a hopeful lilt to her voice as she had called out above the sound of the revving engine: 'Good luck, chérie, my love to you both!'

  Instinct, or fate, guided Claire along the right roads, directed when she should turn off or carry straight on, so that when she eventually tumbled out of the car, parked it on the exact spot behind the outhouses where she had found it, and burst inside the cottage, she could hardly believe the hands of the clock that were insisting that only half of the afternoon had gone.

  No definite plan had formulated in her mind, yet she began, feeling guided by unseen hands, to prepare for the homecoming of the 'dooiney mooar' the head of the household. As confidently as if she had done the chore every day of her life, she scanned the depleted dresser and decided that there were sufficient ingredients left to provide a potato salad to accompany the fish Rolf would no doubt be bringing. Nimbly she peeled potatoes, placed eggs in the kettle and hooked it on to the slouree to boil. A weary head of celery was dunked into a mixture of vinegar and water to crisp, and as an afterthought she added green onions, in the hope that the marinade might help perk up their limp tails. Then she concocted a salad dressing from thinned canned milk seasoned with salt, pepper and mustard, but the problem of what to have for dessert defied solution. She was just about to settle for sugared grapefruit when inspiration struck. Sensing a spirit from the past leaning over her shoulder with a envious sigh, she unearthed a packet of gingerbread mix from the back of the dresser and carefully studied the instructions before mixing the contents. The batter smelled delicious, good as real, when she pushed it aside to turn her attention to the grapefruit. Slicing about a third from the top of each, she scooped out the fruit until she was left with two empty shells which she then filled with the cake batter before replacing the grapefruit lids. A foil container preserved from a previous instant meal would, she hoped, provide sufficient insulation when placed in the heart of the peat fire to prevent burning during the short time she had calculated the cakes would take to bake.

  She worked feverishly, one eye upon a clock with hands that seemed suddenly to have begun racing around its yellowed dial, setting two places at the table with the prettiest crockery she could find, sparing precious minutes to arrange a centrepiece of wild flowers, then, as an afterthought, placing pewter candleholders, one either end of the table, with the intention of igniting the wicks immediately she received warning of Rolf's approach. Candlelight was romantic, and a lifetime of future happiness depended upon her ability to communicate to Rolf that his captive bride, far from being resentful, was now very willing.

  Shadows were just beginning to lengthen when she decided that it was time to turn her attention upon her own appearance. She glanced around the room made cosy by flickering firelight; made welcoming by a table laden with salad tastefully arranged on a wooden platter, platefuls of crisply-baked bread, and ginger cakes that had turned out surprisingly well and were filling the kitchen with a spicy aroma guaranteed to put an even greater edge upon the appetite of a ravenously hungry man.

  Blushing at the thought that Rolf's appetite might demand repletion from a very different kind of 'dish', she hunted through her still-unpacked trousseau until she found the very special dress she was seeking. With a murmur of satisfaction she stroked her hand across material pink as a flamingo's wing, downy as a feathered breast, then with shaking hands laid it across the bed before delving again into the suitcases for items of underwear which, when she tossed them on to the bed, fluttered through the air and settled, transparent as moth-wings, on top of her dress.

  A shower took mere seconds, but she spent a long time deciding which way to style her hair before opting for the Indian braid that had so fascinated Rolf he had been unable to resist a compulsion to wind and unwind the golden rope, noosewise, around her neck. With her hair parted severely from the middle of her forehead and smoothed tightly back into the confining plait her profile stood out clear as a cameo, tender as a child's, yet her grey eyes, lightly shadowed, held a fascinating depth of mystique and lips, softly-rounded, quivering pink, were made tantalising by the type of enigmatic smile made famous by the Mona Lisa.

  The full-skirted dress, when she wriggled into it, bared a deeply-hollowed cleavage, hugged a tiny waist, then rustled past her knees with a satisfied sigh that she involuntarily echoed when she looked into the surface of a speckled mirror and decided that she had never looked more approachable.

  She had barely had time to light the
candles and blow out the flaming taper before the cottage door opened and Rolf strode into the kitchen. He looked nonplussed at the sight of her and stood for a moment, his back against the door, schooling indefinable emotions in eyes that looked storm-black beneath knitted brows tossed by wings of tousled hair.

  'Hello…!' She had intended her voice to sound mellow as a flute and was annoyed when it came out highpitched as a tin whistle. Pulling herself together, she tried again. 'Did you manage a good catch?'

  Speculatively, he eyed her, then unnerved her by striding mutely across the floor to drop a string of fish into a bucket.

  His reaction was fiercely disappointing; Claire had expected a more definite response to her efforts, but without a sign of having noticed anything unusual he calmly began gutting the fish. All during dinner he remained silently uncommunicative, casting calculating glances upon the salad, the sourdough bread and the ginger cakes, sparing a longer look for the flowers and flickering candles yet at the end of it all saying not one surprised, appreciative nor even sarcastic word.

  Gradually her waves of anticipation developed into a humiliating flood, rendering her so nervous as she sipped her milk that her hand jerked, slapping the liquid against her mouth so that she was forced to gulp more than she had intended. Rolf was morosely studying the contents of his plate, but looked up when she spluttered.

  When eyes of fathomless black met startled grey he smiled, the swift teasing smile that invariably made her toes curl up. It disappeared as quickly as it had come, yet there was a hint of kindness behind the gravity of his tone.

  'Your milky mouth and wide-eyed stare remind me of a guilty schoolgirl caught out in some misdemeanour, Claire.' Then, infinitely delicate, he prompted, 'Tell me, what have you been up to? Have you done something you shouldn't while I was away?'

  'No, of course not,' she lied, hoping desperately that he would not think to check the petrol gauge.

  'You've remained in the cottage all day?' he insisted, forcing a second lie upon her conscience.

  'Yes… all day,' she stammered, a fiery blush giving her away.

  He shocked her by jumping to his feet with a violence that sent a dish crashing to the floor. Clamping hard hands upon her shoulders, he shook her without mercy, gritting out the demand, 'Tell me the truth, you lying little cheat! Shortly after I left this morning I returned, my conscience plagued by the reminder of your stricken face, determined to apologise, to try to make my peace, only to find that you'd taken off in the car the moment my back was turned! There and then,' he blazed, 'I decided that I'd had enough, that a wife so lacking in loyalty was not worth fighting for, so I went back to my fishing,' his mirthless jerk of laughter hurt more than the fingers hooked into her shoulders, 'and spent hours mulling over the problem of how to fill an empty future. Can you wonder at my surprise when, instead of the empty cottage I was expecting, I returned to discover that you'd spent hours preparing your version of the fatted calf and that you'd tarted yourself up with the obvious intention of seducing your way back into my affections?' He felt her flinch, yet far from softening he rammed home his advantage with the cruel taunt, 'Why did you come back, Claire, was it because you found out that Heywood no longer wants you— doesn't dare to want you—because of his fear of retribution? He's right to be afraid,' his voice dropped to a pitch of intense menace, 'because if he hadn't sent you packing I would have broken him both socially and physically!'

  As he now intends to break me! she thought wildly, mesmerised by eyes burning in a face set expressionless as a mask. Further punishment was inevitable, but she could stand no more—loving him was punishment enough!

  Desperation prompted the sort of guile that once she would have considered beneath contempt. With a low moan of distress she collapsed against him, deliberately allowing her smooth cheek to stroke across his chest. She heard his sharp intake of breath, then the second he relaxed his grip upon her shoulders she twisted out of reach, jerked open the door and fled blindly out of sight.

  Night had fallen, but a bright full moon lit her way along the path leading to the cliff top, so she sped onward, stopping only once to kick off spindle-heeled shoes that were a hindrance when she leapt deep fissures veining the cliffs. But the folly of her flight hit her when she reached the edge and realised that there was nowhere else to go. Far below, waves were pounding the shore, the tide encroaching more than halfway up the path she had intended to use as an escape route. Knowing Rolf would be mere seconds behind in pursuit, she gasped a sob and flung herself down into a patch of shadow thrown by a crescent of rock and curled up tight, hoping against hope that he would not find her.

  As she crouched, immersed in misery, she became conscious of a slight sound alien to the cry of the birds that were the cliff's only inhabitants. When it came again, a thin whimpering bleat, she stiffened, imagining Pete's ghost had returned to haunt her. Shaking off the fanciful notion, she crept on her hands and knees towards the edge of the nearest fissure and as the moon sailed high caught sight of a brown fleecy body teetering on the edge of a shelf halfway down the jagged chasm.

  As it sensed her presence, the animal's bleating grew more insistent and as its head lifted she recognised a terrified lamb—Pete's twin sister.

  If she had stopped to think she would have waited for Rolf who was almost certainly within yards of finding her, but the thought of the lamb starving without its mother chased all thought of caution from her mind. Flint-sharp rock cut into the soles of her feet as she zig-zagged a precarious path downwards towards the lamb using tufts of coarse grass for handholds, feeling with her stockinged feet for hollows deep enough to ensure she did not slip.

  Luckily, the moon seemed curious and remained beaming light from above so that every outcrop of rock stood out distinctly as she worked her way down the chasm, narrow as the width of her shoulders, its shadow-shrouded depths pitted with boulders and frothing, hissing sea. Her feet were lacerated, her hands sore and bleeding by the time she reached the comparative safety of the ledge. Relief washed over her as she leant with her back against the rock face sucking in gulping breaths in an effort to steady her nerves and put stiffness into her wobbling knees.

  On hesitant, spindly legs the lamb teetered towards her, mutely grateful, then once again gave a small despairing cry that went direct to Claire's heart.

  'Come here, poor darling, let me warm you,' she coaxed, intending to pick the lamb up in her arms. But with a cold thrill of terror realisation struck. The ledge was too narrow for a forward bend, all it would allow was a sideways step either side, resulting in the fact that not only was the lamb trapped but so was she!

  'Oh, Polly,' she quavered, appalled by her predicament, 'how did you get down here in the first place?'

  Relieved of its loneliness, the lamb bleated joyfully, then, as if eager to show her how, it nosed its way behind a weatherbeaten tree clinging to the ledge and with a wriggle of its bottom and a flick of a plump tail it disappeared behind it. Thinking it might have fallen into a hole, Claire gasped and pulled the bush aside to discover a long foot-wide crack running right through the rock, splitting it in two. Helplessly she watched the lamb's hindquarters disappearing round a bend as the animal tripped along a well-trodden, obviously familiar path that was too narrow for all but the tiniest of creatures.

  Then to make matters worse the moon became engulfed by cloud, leaving the chasm black as pitch, cold and eerie as a tomb.

  'Claire, where are you?' The blessedly-familiar voice was faint but nearing.

  'Rolf, I'm here, halfway down a chasm, please come and get me!' she screamed, teetering on the edge of hysteria.

  'Keep on shouting!' He sounded much closer. 'Loudly, so I can pinpoint your position!'

  'Rolf… Rolf… I'm here… I'm here…!' Her words bounced against the walls but before reaching the surface seemed to fade into extinction 'Rolf,' she sobbed, pressing her cheek against cold, hard stone, 'give me one last chance to tell you how much I love you!'

  Enshrouded
in fear and pitch-black darkness, she lost all track of time, but encouraged by Rolf's frantic shouts she kept on calling him, knowing that somewhere up above he was searching every one of the many fissures hampered by darkness and by misleading sounds as her voice echoed through the honeycombed chasms. She was hoarse and numb with cold by the time his harsh, strained voice called out directly above her.

  'Claire, are you down there!'

  'Yes, yes!' she sobbed, 'please get me out of here!'

  'Sacré Coeur!' The imprecation sounded strangled. 'Hang on for just five more minutes while I fetch a rope from the dinghy.'

  She doubted if she could, but did not dare to say so because he sounded so angry, so full of impatience of her stupidity. For one insane moment she found herself wondering if it would not be better to allow herself to slip into oblivion rather than face his murderous mood of fury. But the choice was taken from her by a tersely shouted order.

  'Tie the end of the rope around your waist and begin climbing slowly, a foot at a time, and don't worry, chérie, I won't let you slip!'

  As if to his command the moon reappeared, spilling like a searchlight into the chasm. Claire looked up and as she saw Rolf's face, grim as the surrounding granite, her courage almost failed her.

  'Well, what are you waiting for?' he bit savagely.

  Sensing that he was incensed by her timidity, she swallowed back a plea that her hands and feet were numbed and swollen and, gritting her teeth to combat pain, she applied pressure to the rope and felt herself being hauled slowly to the surface.

  It must have taken the strength of a madman to lift her dead weight at the end of a rope and yet at the same time to encourage calmly:

  'Watch out for that outcrop on your left… keep your head back… hang on, Claire, you've almost made it!'

  When her knees made contact with the ground she fell forward on to her face, sobbing her thankfulness, but he allowed her no respite. A thick sweater was pushed over her head and her arms thrust into sleeves so long that over a third of their length was left dangling past her fingertips. Then she was plucked from her feet into arms that promised strength without comfort and carried in grim silence along the cliff path, down the lane leading towards the cottage.