Prisoner of Love

by Jean S. MacLeod

  Laura had been taking food up to the lodge, partly because fishing all day gave Lance a gargantuan appetite and partly because she considered that Blair needed extra nourishment apart from the rather rough-and-ready fare Callum prepared for him. Culinary art was hardly Callum’s strong point. He could make tea and stir coffee powder into a cup, filling it up with hot water, but eggs were his specialty. He boiled them hard or soft, but never medium, the three-minute art being something he did not understand. When they looked ready, Callum took them out of the water. It was as simple as that, and Blair never thought to complain.

  “I can’t go till after the post gets here,” Laura told him. “But you go ahead and I’ll join you at the rocks.”

  There had been no letter from Julius for the past three days, no indication of when he was likely to be back, and the postman was the only link between them. She had often wished that Dunraven was connected by telephone to the outside world, yet probably that would spoil its sense of isolation and peace for Julius. There was no telephone line near the coast at this point, in any case, so they were very dependent on the visits of Will-the-Post. They could see him coming a long way away, cycling down the glen road and up toward the causeway, and always, when he reached the bridge, he would hail them with his unmistakable blithe whistle that went gaily up and down the scale.

  Laura found herself listening for it with a swiftly-beating heart after Lance had gone. If a letter came from Julius heralding his return it might only arrive a couple of hours before he came himself. Not that they had any need to prepare for his coming—not especially. He was accustomed to coming backward and forward as he pleased.

  “Here’s the post!” Morag called, looking out of the dining-room window as she cleared the table. “He’s early today. There couldn’t have been anything for the lodge.”

  Laura walked out toward the bridge, but there was nothing for her but a circular and a picture postcard from Gillian Davis, who had gone to Majorca for her summer holiday. The other letters, most of them official-looking documents in foolscap envelopes, were addressed to Julius.

  With a peculiar sense of release she had no right to feel, she made her way to the glen for the picnic. It was easy enough to trace Blair and Lance by the sound of the latter’s ready laughter, and she followed the path along the burn with a smile.

  “No self-respecting fish would ever get himself hooked in an atmosphere of this kind!” she chided when she came upon them fixing new flies to their rods.

  “You’ve no idea how difficult it is!” Blair grinned. “Here! Have a try with this.”

  He thrust a rod into her hands, but she drew back.

  “I’m no good,” she protested. “Besides, I don’t like to see a fish on the end of a line.”

  “No?” He looked at her and something in his eyes made her look swiftly away. “Better get hold of the landing net, then,” he said casually after a minute. “The burn’s full of big fellows this morning.”

  They were in a coolly shaded spot where birch and alder met across the narrow channel that the water had gouged out of the solid rock, making deep pools of still, dark water between the scattered boulders. The sun filtered through the thick foliage in a desultory pattern of light and shade, dappling the water with little yellow pools of light. Blair took up his stand on one of the rocks.

  There was no sound apart from birdsong and the murmur of the hidden burn, no break in the healing quiet of the hills. She felt that she could sit on here forever, unmoving, not even thinking very much, with her face turned to the sun.

  Half an hour passed—an hour—and she felt the true endlessness of time stealing over her. But suddenly it was rudely shattered by a discordant yell from the bank.

  “I’ve got one! I’ve got one! Blair! Blair! I’ve got a whopper!”

  “You won’t have it for long,” she heard Blair say, “if you jump about like that and lose your head! Play him to this side of the pool—that’s it! Make him think he’s getting away and then secure your hook the way I showed you!”

  His voice had risen to almost the same pitch of excitement as her brother’s, and Laura smiled as she went down the bank.

  “Do you need any help?” she asked.

  “No—no, stand back in case you slip in!”

  “Which would mean losing a good fish!” she suggested with a laugh. “Oh well, call out when you want me to return, won’t you?”

  “We may need you to bring the net,” Blair said, without taking his eyes from the struggle in midstream. “Ease him up a bit, Lance—toward you. That’s the way!”

  It took them twenty minutes to land the salmon and it seemed like five. Laura found herself caught up by the excitement at last, standing on the bank above the pool with her heart in her mouth every time the reel spun out and the plunging fish seemed to gain a new lease on life. Blair had vaulted across to the bank to help Lance, and she saw the animation in his face and the sureness of his hands as further proof that the glen was setting its quiet seal on his recovery. A week or two of this—

  “The net! Quick—the net!”

  She ran quickly and the salmon was flung into the net, but suddenly the ground beneath her feet seemed to give way. She clutched out helplessly, the glittering, bucking salmon beside her and then above her. She felt no more bank, only a desperate sensation of sliding rapidly down slabs of smooth rock to plunge straight into the ice-cold water below.

  She heard Lance cry out before she was swept into sudden darkness through a long tunnel of rock with only a narrow opening to the sky. The deep water of the burn surged through it with a quick, dark deliberation, pressing swiftly onwards in its journey to the sea.

  For an eternity, it seemed, she struggled before acceptance came, a vague, numbing acceptance that paralyzed both movement and thought. Her attempts to strike out toward the bank were futile, because here, there was no bank, only the sheer gray sides of the rock channel closing her in.

  A great surge of water sang in her ears and the burn seemed to boil and tumble all about her. She struck out for the last time in an effort to swim, but the treacherous channel had narrowed, adding a power and ruthlessness to the surging torrent that buffeted her from side to side. Above the angry roar of the water there seemed to be no sound—no hope.

  She was hardly aware of panic, and soon there was the beginning of a deep, comforting silence.

  “Laura!”

  The voice seemed to come from some great distance—Blair’s voice. She made a feeble, almost a despairing effort to reach it.

  “Blair—”

  “Hold on!”

  He was in the water beside her, supporting her, keeping her head above the surface, and she clung to him desperately.

  Slowly, terribly slowly, they edged their way toward the bank. He had come into the river at a spot just above the bridge where it widened a little, letting in more light, and suddenly Laura felt her feet touch the gravelly bottom of a shallow pool.

  Blair was still supporting her and he, too, was on his feet. The darkness that had shadowed her brain suddenly cleared, and then, inexplicably, naturally, he held her close for a brief instant that defeated time. She felt his heartbeats strong and vital against her own, throbbing in unison with her swift return to life.

  “Laura!” he said harshly, “I thought you’d gone!” His arms tightened, crushing her to him, and his lips came down against her hair. “It was a terrible moment—”

  “Yes,” she whispered, aware of nothing but the continuing comfort of his arms, their unbelievable gentleness as he held her. “I—it happened so suddenly.”

  He held her for a moment longer before he released her.

  “All right now?” he asked with a forced casualness as Lance rushed up to them. “The main danger was knocking your head when you first went under. If you had lost consciousness—”

  “Laurie!” Lance cried in a shaken voice. “Are you all right? You went in so suddenly nobody had time to think!”

  “Blair did,” La
ura said with a wavering smile. “Oh I think—perhaps—I’d better sit down—”

  Reaction had set in and her limbs were trembling. She was also cold and very wet. Blair took the situation in hand with what appeared to be relief, glad, perhaps, of action after that moment of confusion when he had held her against him and put his lips to her hair.

  “On you go ahead, Lance," he commanded, “and tell Callum to stoke up the fire and get something hot ready to drink. Blankets, too,” he added. “As many as he can find. We’ll have to dry Laura out!”

  “And you!” Laura had tried to echo the lightness of his tone without success. “Blair,” she said, “I can never thank you enough—”

  “Don’t try,” he said gruffly. “You didn’t expect me to let you drown without making some sort of effort, did you?”

  “No,” she said, trying to smile. “But it was a near thing, wasn’t it?”

  “Very near,” he agreed, his mouth gone suddenly grim.

  Lance scrambled up the bank, racing off in the direction of the lodge, and Blair put out his hand to help her on to the bridge.

  “I’m going to make you run,” Blair said. “All the way to the lodge.” She turned to obey him, only to be stopped by the distinct sound of a car’s engine far down the glen. In the quiet, windless air the sound traveled clearly up to them, and as they listened, the car climbed from bottom into second gear and then into top, purring quickly away into the distance.

  Laura’s heart lurched forward with a little sickening jab, and Blair said: “It must have been MacKellar. I wonder if he was up at the lodge.”

  “Wouldn’t he have come down to the burn to look for us?” she asked shakenly. “Callum would have told him where you were.”

  “It may not have been important." He dismissed Zachray with a shrug. “What is important,” he added, looking at her closely, “is getting you dry. Come along!”

  They ran, hand in hand, Blair helping her up the steeper places because it was quicker to go over the heather than up by the twisting path that led more gradually to the lodge.

  Both Callum and Lance were standing on the verandah when they finally reached the small plateau, and Laura thought that Lance looked rather white and afraid. Callum darted indoors to throw more wood on the fire and make the cocoa Lance had ordered.

  “Julius has been here,” Lance said, as if that might be the most important thing now.

  “Julius!”

  The word left Laura's lips on a sigh that had the sound of acceptance in it. It did not hold surprise. There had been the sound of the car drawing away, almost furtively it seemed now, as they had stood down there beside the bridge; the car drawing away and driving swiftly toward Dunraven.

  “He came when he didn’t find us at Dunraven, I think,” Lance explained. “Callum told him we were fishing along the burn, but he said he preferred to wait for us at the house.”

  Involuntarily Laura shivered.

  “I’ve got to get back,” she said.

  “Not until you’re dry and have had time to relax a bit.”

  Blair was determined. She could see it in the hard set of his jaw and the grimly compressed mouth.

  “You’d better nip down to the house and explain what’s happened,” he advised as Lance stood uncertainly in the doorway. “Julius will want to bring the car up when he knows.”

  “No!” Laura protested. “I can quite easily walk down. Please, Blair—”

  “I think Julius ought to know,” he said firmly. “We can have you more or less dried out before he arrives, but bed is called for, I think, to help retard shock.”

  Yes, Laura thought, shock was the danger due to the suddenness of the events that had pounced upon her. Out of a blue sky so much that was dark and unfathomable had come to cloud her day.

  “You must be wet to the skin.” She heard Blair’s voice, cool and practical, coming once again from a great distance, and when she swayed uncertainly he was there in an instant to steady her. “All right, Laura, I’ve got you,” he said. “Nothing’s going to happen. We’re back here at the lodge, quite safe.”

  Quite safe! She found herself repeating his words, again and again, clinging to them for the comfort she needed as she undressed in one of the bedrooms. Yet how could they hold any real comfort for her? Julius’s anger, which seemed inevitable, would be a terrible thing, crowding out any comfort that could be offered. The very fact that he had not come down to the burn in search of them made her curiously afraid.

  What was becoming of her, she wondered, that her nerves should be on edge like this all the time? There had been an accident and Julius had come home unannounced and had come in search of her and driven away again. That was all. Why imagine some sinister background of disapproval and anger on that score? Something had gone wrong—a letter as yet undelivered or an unexpected change of plans on Julius’s part—that had brought him back to Dunraven without warning.

  Without warning. Without warning! Why did the words have to drum so strongly in her ears? She peeled off her wet clothes and rubbed herself vigorously with a bath towel Blair had provided. He had also given her a set of pyjamas to put on, and she forced a smile as she struggled into them. They were much too big and she looked swamped in them, and it was even worse with the dressing gown he had produced.

  When she came out into the central lounge he laughed at the picture she made.

  “Little girl lost!" he grinned, although there was still a good deal of concern behind his gray eyes. “How do you feel now?” he asked.

  “Swamped—but gloriously dry and warm!” she tried to return lightly. “Why should you look so respectable,” she challenged, “when you were just as wet as I was two minutes ago?”

  “Because I’m fairly quick off my mark," he said, “and because I had dry clothes on hand.”

  Her own were already steaming in front of the stove in the kitchen, where Callum was still brewing cocoa as if he expected a regiment to turn up to the rescue at any minute.

  “I think I ought to make an effort to get back to Dunraven before Julius comes," Laura said nervously, holding a steaming beaker between her hands, partly to help to steady them. “If he has been traveling all night he will be tired.”

  “That’s entirely beside the point.” Blair’s voice was suddenly harsh. “You’ll have to wait here till someone gets back with dry clothes for you—even if it’s only Lance.”

  But Laura knew that it would be Julius who would come. When they heard the car she got to her feet, standing pale and tensed beside the window till he reached the verandah steps. She was conscious of Blair watching her and then, before Julius reached the door, he turned away.

  Julius came heavily up the wooden steps. There was no formal greeting between them. He stood in the doorway for a full second, looking at them before he spoke.

  “You appear to have had quite an adventure, Laura,” he suggested coldly. “I came up here an hour ago,” he added when she didn’t answer, “but I thought it—rather a pity to spoil your summery idyll.” He walked across the room, laying the clothes he had brought for her on the table between them. “A highly unconventional situation,” he remarked acidly. “When you have changed I shall take you back to Dunraven.”

  Blair moved as if to retaliate, but Laura looked at him beseechingly. He seemed to check himself with an effort and she saw that all the blood had drained out of his face. Julius was angry, coldly angry, and beneath the surface, showing only in the narrowed, watchful eyes, the fires of a dreadful suspicion leaped and burned. They could so easily consume him, she thought, and his jealousy looked as if it might break all bounds. Anxiety beat against her mind all the way back to Dunraven. “Julius,” she said when they were approaching the causeway, ‘Tm sorry. I wouldn’t have had this happen for the world. I wouldn't have upset you, but—it was an accident.”

  “Your surreptitious little picnic under the rowans was no accident, I gather,” he said, the suppressed passion in him showing clearly in the way he gripped the
wheel and sent the car leaping forward at a rapidly increasing pace. “That is what I find so irritating, Laura. Your disloyalty and disobedience.”

  “Disobedience?” She echoed the word stupidly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You know that I object to these casual friendships,” he said. "My patients are here under my professional care, not to—philander with my wife.”

  “Julius!”

  “What other construction do you expect me to put on it?” he asked as he pulled up at the front door. “You deliberately went out of your way to seek this friendship with Cameron.”

  “Because I thought I might be helping you!” Her voice was almost too low for him to hear. Something seemed to be chipping away the foundations of her love, attacking the pinnacle she had put Julius on ever since she had known him.

  Ever since she had known him? Not so very long, she thought, when it was measured in days and weeks.

  “I have no intention of prolonging this scene,” Julius informed her as Lance and Morag rushed out. “You had better get something to eat and go to bed for the afternoon.”

  Like a naughty child, Laura thought, and tried to smile.

  But she would not go to bed. Instead, she lay on the wide settee beside the windows in his study while he wrote innumerable letters and seemed to have forgotten her until their tea was brought in.

  Morag glanced at her anxiously.

  “Are you feeling all right, ma’am?” she asked, always more formal in Julius’s presence than when they were alone together in the kitchen. “Not shivery or anything like that? You’re very pale.”

  “No, nothing, thank you, Morag,” Laura said. “It wasn’t a very serious wetting.”

  She couldn’t have told Morag, in that moment, that Blair Cameron had probably saved her life. Julius looked up and across the desk at her.