Dangerous Encounter

by Flora Kidd

  On the other hand, if he wasn't at home, if what Magnus had told her was true and Blair had gone off with his wife somewhere, she would try to find out from his housekeeper where he had gone and then try to contact him at that place. And she would ask him outright if he was with Wanda.

  Hanging up the tea-towel she had been using, she left the kitchen to go in search of a telephone. There wasn't one in the hallway on the small antique table and she couldn't recall having seen one in the dining room. Where might there be one? On the desk in the lounge, she suspected. Crossing the hallway, she pushed open the lounge door. Two lamps were on, the table lamp on the desk and a standard lamp behind one of the big armchairs. Magnus was sitting in the chair, his feet resting on a small footstool. He was reading what seemed to be a thick sheaf of papers. Beside him on an oval rosewood occasional table was the decanter of whisky and a glass half-full of liquor. Helen cleared her throat, but he didn't look at her.

  'Is there a phone in the house?' she asked.

  'No.' He went on reading.

  She frowned, sure that he was lying. After all, he had phoned her this morning. Perhaps he had hidden it. She went over to the desk and began to move the books and papers which were scattered about.

  'What are you doing?' he demanded sharply. 'Leave those things alone!'

  'I thought the phone might be hidden under them,' she replied, turning to look at him. He hadn't changed his position, but he had lowered the sheaf of papers and was scowling at her.

  'Didn't you hear me say no to your question?' he said.

  'Yes, I did, but I didn't believe you. How could I? You tell lies all the time,' she returned coolly.

  'Damn!' He grated the word out through thinning lips and his eyes blazed blue murder at her, 'There isn't a phone in this house,' he enunciated very coldly and clearly, and picking up the glass he drank all the whisky that was in it.

  'Then where did you phone from this morning?' Helen challenged, advancing towards him.

  'From the Macleishes' kitchen,' he replied, and picking up the decanter poured a generous dram of whisky into the glass.

  'Oh.' Feeling deflated because she was unable to phone Blair and speak to him or find out from his housekeeper where he had gone, Helen sat down on the edge of the sofa. Now she felt really stranded—in more ways than one. She felt absolutely cut off from reality, trapped in a nightmare with a strange man, whose character kept changing so that she couldn't be sure he was real at all. She glanced sideways at him. He was reading again, taking no notice of her at all, and that in itself was an affront.

  'I wish I knew how you knew that Blair had invited me to go away with him this weekend,' she said with a sigh.

  'Wanda told me,' he replied laconically, but didn't look at her.

  'But how did she know? I didn't tell anyone. And I don't think Blair did either.'

  Magnus raised his head, pushing back dishevelled hair from his forehead, and looked at her with a touch of exasperation.

  'Of course you told someone. You told the secretary at the hospital lab you'd be off this weekend. And the personnel department would know you had a holiday due,' he said curtly.

  'But I didn't tell anyone I was going away with Blair,' she insisted stubbornly.

  'You didn't have to. Blair's receptionist and his housekeeper knew he was going away for three days too, and it wouldn't be hard for a good private enquiry agent to acquire such information about you and Blair and give it to Wanda. She put two and two together, basing her calculation on what she already knew about you and Blair. And you confirmed her suspicions when I phoned you this morning. What was it you said? "Are we still going away for the weekend?".'

  He imitated her way of speaking again and picking up the glass drank more whisky. Over the rim of the glass his eyes met hers mockingly.

  'I think you're hateful,' Helen muttered. 'You're a deceitful liar, pretending to be what you're not all the time!'

  'I can't say I think very highly of you,' he retorted contemptuously. 'You meet another woman's husband on the sly and you plan to go away with him for two whole days and nights. I suppose you were hoping to seduce him, get pregnant by him so that he'd be forced to marry you—'

  'I haven't! I wasn't hoping to… to seduce him of get pregnant,' she gasped, her cheeks flushing scarlet again. 'Oh, I'm not like that at all.'

  'No?' His eyebrows went up derisively and she would have given anything to have been near enough to slap his face and wipe the mocking sneer from his shapely lips.

  'It was Blair's idea that we should go away together,' she added lamely.

  'It takes two to tango,' he jibed, setting down his empty glass. 'You could have refused to go away with him.'

  About to open her mouth and make another angry retort, Helen subdued the impulse, wondering how she had managed to become involved in a slanging match with this irritating man. Why should it matter to her what he thought of her? He was, after all, only the caretaker of the castle—and a drunken one too, judging by the way he consumed quantities of neat whisky, she thought scathingly, flicking an underbrowed glance in his direction.

  'You said this morning that this place is owned by a relative of Blair's,' she said.

  'I did.'

  'You said also that you're the caretaker. At least, when I asked you who Magnus was you said, "You could say he's the caretaker of the castle." '

  'That's right. That's what I said.'

  'Well, I can't imagine that the owner of the castle would be any too pleased with you if he walked in now and saw you loafing in this room, drinking his whisky,' she said acidly.

  'The whisky is mine,' he replied coolly; returning her accusing stare with a cold one of his own. 'And I have permission from the owner to treat the castle just as if it's my home.' He tossed the sheaf of papers on to the floor, swung his legs down for the footstool and leaning forward, resting his folded arms on his knees, he stared at her more intently, the expression in his eyes changing, becoming warmer, kinder. 'Look, Eilidh,' he said softly, 'I realise you're hurt, upset by what you've found out about Blair this afternoon.'

  'I still don't believe what you've said about him,' she said woodenly, looking away from him. 'And I won't believe it until I've spoken to Blair himself, given him a chance to deny the lies you and Wanda have made up about him.'

  'They are not lies, Eilidh,' he said wearily. 'I only wish they were.'

  'My name isn't Eilidh,' she muttered, still looking down at her hands which were clasped together tightly on her knees. 'It's Helen.'

  'Eilidh is Gaelic for Helen. My grandmother was called Helen and my grandfather who came from the Hebrides and could speak Gaelic used to call her Eilidh. It means "light", a light shining in the darkness, I've always assumed.' He leaned closer to her and stroked the softly shining swathe of blonde hair which fell against her temple and her cheek. His knuckle brushed against her cheek and she jerked back from that gentle unexpected caress, her head lifting sharply, her eyes encountering the intense blue stare of his. 'You are well named, Eilidh,' he said softly. 'And you've come here a light to lighten my darkness.'

  Suddenly she felt a strange tension, an awareness of him she hadn't felt before. She felt she was being pulled towards him. The feeling was electrifying and for Helen, who was still somewhat ignorant about sexual affinity, that spark of attraction which so often happens unexpectedly between two people who have never met before, it was frightening. Fighting off the desire to touch his cheek and then perhaps to slide her fingers through the silky strands of the dark hair which had slipped forward over his brow, she withdrew quickly, hiding behind the defence of her sharp tongue.

  'I knew Magnus means great, but I don't think you're well named,' she remarked acidly. There's nothing great about deceiving a woman into coming here, forcing her to stay here and then… to add insult to injury, sexually harassing her!'

  Magnus drew back from her as if she had in fact hit him and his eyes narrowed warily.

  'And when have I sexually harassed
you?' he demanded with a touch of haughtiness as if he were insulted in his turn by what she had said.

  'When you kissed me in the kitchen.'

  'Good grief!' he exclaimed, and getting suddenly to his feet paced away from her into the shadows and back again to stand in front of her and frown down at her. 'You call a kiss like that sexual harassment? Ha!' His head went back as he laughed scornfully. 'Oh, Eilidh, you don't know what you're talking about,' he said, and with a lithe twist he sat down beside her on the sofa, so close she had to shift away from him into the corner beside the wide stuffed arm because his hard muscular thigh had pressed against hers— either by accident or on purpose, she couldn't be sure; so close that her senses, which for some reason were alive and tingling in a way she had never experienced before, were almost overwhelmed by the pulsing warmth of his lean body, by the scents of his hair and skin, by the blueness of his eyes, and the curve of his lips.

  'You didn't have to kiss me,' she argued weakly.

  'Agreed,' he murmured, moving closer to her. 'I didn't have to. But I wanted to and so I did.'

  'You kissed me against my will,' she muttered, staring down at her hands again. They were gripping each other tightly. 'I didn't invite you to kiss me, so it was sexual harassment. You did it to annoy me.' She turned her head to give him an accusing glare, then wished she hadn't because he was much closer to her than she had realised.

  'I did it because I couldn't help it,' he replied, his voice still soft. 'I did it to find out what you're really like behind that act you put on of being a cool, liberated type of woman about to indulge in an affair with another woman's husband.'

  Across the small space which separated them his eyes challenged her and she looked away quickly, disconcerted again. What had he found out when he had kissed her? Slowly and inevitably her glance was drawn to him again. He was sitting half turned towards her, one knee resting on the sofa cushion, one hand resting on the back of the sofa, and he was watching her, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, his lips curving in a slight half tender, half mocking smile, almost as if he knew about the confusion that was raging suddenly within her.

  The feeling that she had seen him somewhere before leapt up. His lean face with its prominent high cheekbones, romantically hollow cheeks, bold straight nose, firm yet sensually curved lips, stubbornly jutting chin and above all the intensely blue eyes, deep set under the broad brow, were all vaguely familiar.

  'Is Magnus your first name or your last?' she asked.

  'First.' He moved away a little, out of the light shed by the standard lamp so that his face was in the shadow. 'Why do you ask?' he asked warily.

  'I've this feeling I've met or seen you before somewhere. Have I?' Now she was leaning towards him, peering at him, trying to see his face more clearly.

  But he wasn't looking in her direction any more, and she experienced a wild and rather frightening feeling that he wasn't there at all; that only a puppet was lolling on the sofa beside her; a handsome man puppet, dressed in dark clothing, with lax arms and legs and empty unseeing eyes who wouldn't move until she pulled the strings.

  'Magnus!' she said sharply.

  'Mmm?' To her great relief he moved and turned his head to look at her. Even in the shadow his eyes seemed to blaze with a bright blue light.

  'Please, tell me,' she said. 'Have I ever seen or met you before today.'

  'Not as far as I know,' he replied slowly. 'Unless you've 'He broke off and his eyes were hidden momentarily as heavy lids fringed by black lashes dropped over them and he frowned. Then he looked at her again and smiled, a wide white smile that mocked her, but very gently. 'Unless you've met or seen me in your dreams, Eilidh,' he went on softly, shifting closer to her again. 'But I do know I haven't seen or met you before. I'd have remembered you if I had.' His voice deepened and the expression in his eyes was frankly sensual as their glance slanted down to her mouth. 'I would have remembered the sweetness of your lips, the fine texture of your skin, the shine of your hair. Oh, yes, Eilidh, I would have remembered you,' he whispered, leaning closer but not touching her.

  'But today I have met you for the first time, and kissing you in the kitchen was quite an experience, one I would like to repeat, here and now.'

  'No,' she murmured, but not very strongly, because she was mesmerised again by the magic of his voice and eyes.

  'Yes,' he retorted, laughing a little and stretching an arm in front of her to rest his hand on the arm of the sofa, effectively trapping her in the corner.

  'I… think you must be drunk,' she accused weakly, leaning back as far away from him as she could. She dared not let him kiss her again. She dared not let him find out too much about her.

  'If I am it's with being close to you,' he whispered, leaning even closer but still not touching her. 'Let's kiss and be friends, Eilidh. Let's improve on that first experience, go further than that first sweet kiss of recognition and get to know each other better. We're going to be here together for at least two days, so why not make it a time to remember?'

  'But I don't want to be kissed,' she protested, acknowledging to herself that she was lying. Now that his lips were within an inch of hers she was longing to feel them pressed against hers.

  'I don't believe you, I don't believe you one little bit,' he mocked, and his slightly parted lips swooped to hers.

  Warm, tasting a little of the whisky he had drunk, his lips moved subtly against the smoothness of hers and beneath that gentle yet provocative pressure her lips parted. A warm languorous glow spread through her and she lifted her arms about his neck to hold him closely, and they lay together against the back of the sofa and for a while time was lost, as, both drunk with desire, they kissed and kissed again, over and over, revelling in the taste, the feel and the smell of each other.

  Never, not even with Blair, had Helen experienced such deep delight in being kissed and in kissing back. Until that moment she had always regarded kissing as silly and had more or less put up with Blair's attempts to make love to her, recognising it was something he felt he had to do and never realising that she was supposed to feel anything. But now it was as if as soon as Magnus's lips and hands touched her the delicate film of ice which covered her emotions at all times cracked and melted and passion poured forth, sweeping away all her inhibitions.

  His breath was sweet and laced with whisky in her mouth. Against her cheeks, her throat and the cleft between her breasts his lips pressed in featherlight kisses. Responding to the caress of his fingers, her body arched taut and twanging like an archer's bow. She lifted her chin, to look at him again, wanting to know if kissing her made him feel the same way that kissing him made her feel. The slanted lamplight struck a deep dense blue from under the black sweep of his lashes. His lips, still parted from kissing her, were full and soft. Glints of gold glittered in the darkness of his ruffled hair. Helen had thought him attractive when seen at a distance, but now seen at close quarters, half drugged as she was with the demands of desire, he seemed to her to be the epitome of manly beauty, and she felt the surge of a new emotion; a craving to possess such a man, to make him hers for ever.

  'You see, Eilidh, you do want to be kissed,' he whispered, stroking the hair away from her throat with gentle fingers. 'You do want to be made love to, and you want to make love to me just as surely as I want to make love to you.'

  'But I don't understand,' she murmured, touching him too, tracing the provocative curve of his lower lip with her fingertips. 'We've only just met and… and we're not in love.'

  'Aren't we?' The blue eyes smiled dazzlingly into hers, blinding her with their blazing brilliance. 'How do you know we're not? What is this we feel for each other if it isn't love, of some sort?'

  Taking a handful of her silky hair, he pulled it across his face, drawing some of it between his parted lips, and the sight of his tongue tasting the strands shocked Helen, at the same time arousing in her a new eroticism that swelled within her, demanding some sort of outlet. Moaning a little with a craving for she kn
ew not what, she kissed his mouth while he was still tasting her hair, and from then on, their faces cloaked by the silver-gilt curtain of the straight silky stuff, they kissed even more deeply, became even more entangled with each other.

  Magnus was right, she did want to make love to him just as surely as he wanted to make love to her. This feeling, like fire in her loins, was sexual desire, a longing which could only be satisfied in one way, by complete union with him, the person who had aroused it so exquisitely and expertly. And it would be exquisite and perfect with him, she guessed instinctively, because he was strong yet tender, disciplined yet easy, his hands controlling her slender body, playing upon it subtly as they might play a musical instrument, drawing from it a response which was stronger than her will.

  And that was all she knew about him after all, this tantalising stranger who was teaching her something he knew about herself which she hadn't known until now, that she could be dominated by passion, whether it was her own or his.

  A stranger. He was a stranger, about whom she still knew nothing except that his first name was Magnus, so how could she let him do this to her? How could she even contemplate going all the way with him and reaching passionate fulfilment with him? How could she go against her own moral code and do something with him that she had never even considered doing with Blair whom she was supposed to be in love with?

  'Ah, no, no!' she cried out suddenly, twisting away from him. 'I can't do it! I don't know who you are… and… and I'm not in love with you.'

  Sitting on the edge of the sofa, her back turned to him so that he wouldn't see the tears that were scalding her eyes or the trembling of her lips, she fastened the buttons of her blouse that he had undone. After being so close to complete surrender to desire withdrawal was proving to be very painful. Even her fingers were shaking. Behind her she could hear Magnus dragging in deep breaths as if he was also having difficulty in coming down from a trip induced by some hallucinatory drug and when he spoke his voice was husky, the words a little slurred.