* * *
One
Lady Emma Daneby of Chidester contemplated her visitor with interest. It was rare to find such insolence and impertinence coupled with such ingratiating servility. And both were expressed quite shamelessly. The man wrung his hat and exposed blackened teeth in a smile which made his eyes all but vanish within the folds of his face.
“May I, then, M’Lady, inform my master that you will honour him with your attendance at his talk this evening?”
Miss Drake blinked, and managed to convey with this simple gesture, utter outrage. The man’s smile sagged a little.
“You may tell him no such thing. I am not accustomed, Mr…”
“Wormslip, M’Lady, simply Wormslip.”
“Wormslip, to being summonsed to public gatherings, particularly at a mere seven hours’ notice. You may inform you master that in future, if he wishes to issue me with an invitation, he might observe the usual formalities.”
As far as she was aware she had dismissed him. Yet he did not leave, but stood there turning his hat in his hands as though it were a set of rosary beads. She raised an eyebrow that had been know to make dukes blanch. The man was resilient. He exposed the tombstones of his teeth in the graveyard of his mouth and made a face of pathos.
“Was there something else, Wormslip?”
“Well, Miss, Ma’am, M’Lady, It’s just…” He was causing grievous damage to his hat now. “I may have…”
“Speak, man! What is it?”
“I may have, accidentally, M’Lady, misrepresented, quite unintentionally, my master’s intention.”
She frowned. “How so?”
“You see, M’Lady, he is, if I may express it thus, much taken with Your Ladyship on account of your Ladyship’s published works on the subject of ancient Norse mythology, and in particular, if I may make so bold, Nidhoggr, Jormungand and Fafnir.” He took half a step forward, as though to speak confidentially, and fearful that someone might overhear his confidence. “He is a great, and vocal, admirer of M’Lady’s work and was much excited at the prospect of conversing with M’Lady on the subject of Norse mythology.” He gazed down at the floor and screwed his hat into a small ball. “Sadly, M’Lady, we were until yesterday in the far north of Norway conducting research, and arrived by ship only twenty for hours ago. It has been impossible to send Your Ladyship an invitation until this very moment, though he has talked of little else for the last two weeks. I know he hopes fervently to discuss his finds with you. I shall no doubt be severely reprimanded and chastised, perhaps even beaten to within an inch of my miserable existence, for having failed in my task…”
“Oh for goodness sake! Do stop snivelling, Wormslip! And stop destroying your hat! I could not possibly have your chastisement on my conscience. Heaven knows you are blighted enough! Inform your master I shall attend his talk.”
Wormslip’s face lit up into an image of grotesque glee and his pale blue eyes sparkled over the warts on his disfigured nose.
“Oh,” he breathed, raising his twisted hat to chest height, “Oh, M’Lady, he will be pleased. Thank you so much, M’Lady…”
“Stop effusing!” she snapped. “Now, be gone! Before you completely mangle that bonnet.”
She watched the man make off, with the remains of his hat upon his head, at a quick scamper through the carriages, in the general direction of Hyde Park and Knightsbridge. When he was gone from view she penned a quick note and slipped it into an envelope which she addressed with the words: Lord Pastern, Wormholt Square, Mayfair. Then she pulled on the bell cord that alerted the staff bellow stairs. Presently there was a soft tap at the door and Smythe, her butler, entered.
“You rang, M’Lady.”
“Smythe, have this note sent round to Lord pastern. I shall require an immediate reply, so have the boy wait.”
* * *
Lord Pastern called for her in his carriage at five. As he handed her in, he said, “I hope you realize, Emma, I had to upset Papa for you.” He walked around and climbed in the other side. When he had settled next to her we went on. “He has invited lady Umbridge and her daughter Prudence to dine. He wants me to take an interest in Prudence.”
The carriage gave a small jerk and they began a leisurely trot towards South Kensington. He was a handsome young man, only a year or two older than herself. But close inspection showed he had a sensitive mouth. She had decided some years earlier, during her coming out, when she had first met him, that if she ever married she would marry him. Though he was too sensitive, he was of good Viking stock. She thought of his father, Lord Ranulf of Norwich, as a magnificent brute. Though this was a thought that she kept to herself.
“Then you can be grateful to me on three counts, Richard,” she said.
He smiled but didn’t look at her. “Three no less.”
“I have spared you from the ghastly concoctions your father’s cook produces in the place of food…”
“Come! They are not that bad.”
“Don’t interrupt, Richard. I have spared you the intellectual lobotomy of a conversation with Lady Umbridge…”
“My dear Emma!”
“And – I told you not to interrupt – I have saved you from the embarrassment of having to tell prudence Umbridge to go and swing. You know perfectly well that you are to remain single on the off chance that I may decide to marry. In which case I shall marry you and only you.”
“You are quite unspeakable. You know I am devoted to you, don’t you?”
“Don’t be silly.”
Something like wistfulness flitted across his face. He glanced at her sidelong and asked, “Do you realize it has been two months since you last spoke to me?”
She looked haughty which he knew meant she felt guilty. As well she might, he thought.
“Has it?” she said. “I didn’t know. You’ve been busy, and so have I.”
“How do you know I’ve been busy? You take no interest in what I do.”
“You said you were going abroad. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me you had returned. You neglect me, Richard. Which won’t do if you intend to marry me.”
“You little liar. Where are we going, anyway? Is it one of your intellectual soirées?”
“It’s a lecture by a chap called Sigurd Dreki, at the new museum, on the role of the dragon in Norse mythology. In particular Fafnir, the guardian of the treasure of the Nibelungs, as portrayed in the Volsung Saga.”
He watched her a while with an inscrutable smile.
“What an absurd name. Where is he from?”
“Norway, I should imagine. He happens to be very interested in the work I have published.”
“Does he, by Jove? It is very unbecoming in a lady, you know, to be quite so erudite, Emma. When we marry you shall have to mend your ways.”
She tried to wither him with her eyebrow, but he was apparently unwitherable. The coach came to a halt. They had arrived at the Victoria and Albert.
An attendant led them to the lecture theatre and told them that the two back rows had been reserved for her at the insistence of Professor Dreki.
“Is there anything I can get you, M’Lady? M’Lord? Professor Dreki was most insistent you be looked after.”
Richard spoke before Emma could respond. “Thank you, Burgess. We’ll holler if we need you.”
The man left and Emma looked at Richard in surprise. “You know that man?”
He looked at her mildly and said, “I have been known to attend a museum from time to time, Emma, darling. You know nothing about me, do you? Will you excuse me? I shall return presently.”
He had not returned by the time the lights went down. There was a spatter of coughing and rustling as people settled before the talk began. Then there was a hush, and after a moment a man walked onto the stage and Emma was instantly electrified.
He was tall, athletic and powerfully built. His hair was a rich golden blond, unfashionably long, and hung in dense curls down his back. He was clean shaven, but his jaw was strong and
angular. His eyes were deep set, direct and penetrating in their gaze.
He stood at the lectern, looked up at her and gave a small bow. She felt her face flush, her heart thumped and her belly burned.
He spoke, and his voice was exceptionally deep and resonant, and filled every corner of the theatre.
“I am going to speak to you,” he said, “about the people of the mists, the Nibelung, and the keeper of their treasure, the Dragon Fafnir…”
What happened after that was nebulous. It was as though she saw, rather than heard, the things he spoke about. His voice was there, like a presence, and seemed to guide her, personally, taking her by the hand to show her the wonders of the Nibelung treasures and the heroic deeds of the Norse heroes and gods of old. She flew on a winged horse over high, sparkling white mountains, and crashed through the spray of rolling waves at the prow of a raiding ship. She galloped through spring meadows and woodlands among the melting ice of the dark winter, battled trolls among the dense shadows of the pinewoods and was carried by the Valkyrie to the gates of Valhalla…
Two
There was a cough and she blinked. Richard was leaning over her, smiling, and beneath her the stage was empty and the last stragglers were leaving the lecture hall.
“Where were you?” he said, “Away with the fairies?”
It took her a moment to orientate herself. “Yes, I believe I was.”
“Your friend sent a note via Burgess. Will we honour him with our presence in his private exhibition room?”
For some reason, she was unable to answer but followed Richard out and down some stairs to a room where a dozen men stood about among ancient exhibnits, sipping champagne. Richard leaned close to her and said, “I fancy your publisher is here.” He took her elbow and guided her towards a middle-aged man with a magnificent white moustache and a monocle. He beamed as he saw them approach.
“Lady Emma! Lord Pastern! What an absolute treat to see you both.”
She smiled graciously as he took her hand. “Mr Stodder, I had no idea you’d be here. My own invitation was very last minute.”
Richard smiled, “Hallo Stodder. Fascinating talk. Will you take care of Emma for me? I just have to see a chap…”
He left and Stodder spoke to her for a minute or so about her next book. She attempted to be polite but gave perfunctory answers, scanning the room looking for Sigurd Dreki, wondering if he would appear or if, after all, her invitation had simply been to attract other people, such as her publisher, to her talk. She felt a flutter of irritation at the thought and was about to summon Richard to take her home when the door opened and Sigurd entered.
She was riveted to the spot. The only word for him was magnificent. She was electrified. Her pulse quickened and her breath came short. People approached him as iron fillings approach a magnet, or perhaps more accurately, she thought, as insects approach a flame.
He moved through them, courteously nodding and answering their inquiries briefly, but his direction and his intention were both clear and implacable. He was headed for her. She turned away to Mr Stodder, but Mr Stodder was staring at the giant Viking who was bearing down on them.
Suddenly his voice was there, a presence in its own right. It said, with only a trace of a smile, “Of course, I only invited you, Stodder, so that you could formally introduce me to My Lady Emma. I know that to her, the formalities are of supreme importance.”
Stodder turned puce behind his moustache. “Oh, naturally! Quite so! Spot on! Lady Emma, may I um present Professor Sigurd, as you know, Dreki. Professor Dreki, um… Lady Emma Daneby of Chidester.”
He took her hand and bowed over it, but his eyes were locked on hers. She saw that they were an extraordinarily dark blue.
“My lady,” he said, “It is a true honour to meet you. I am a great admirer of your work. Your research is second to none, and your intuitive grasp of Norse myth is simply magical.”
What she wanted to do was to greet him with the chilly aloofness which she reserved for most people in general and pretentious foreigners in particular. What she did was to blush prettily and smile, and say, “That is far too kind of you professor.”
“Oh yes, Emma,” she thought savagely to herself, “that will teach the smarmy upstart a lesson, won’t it!” and delivered a firm, mental boot to her own posterior.
She tried to avert her gaze, but his eyes seemed somehow to hold hers. She felt her cheeks burn. He was completely indifferent to the looks and murmurs from his guests. He was, she told herself, shameless – quite shameless! And instead of enraging her, that fact set a fire burning in her belly. Her breath caught in her throat and, as though he could hear her thoughts, he smiled. It was not a nice smile, but she found she loved it.
He spoke.
“There is a symbolism, My Lady, to the dragon who guards the cave. Do you not think so? The treasure represents the magic gift that lies within us, which somehow we all fear.”
“What gift?” she asked.
He looked mildly surprised. “Why, the gift of love! The most powerful magic in the universe. That which can transform the lowliest and the most base, into the most beautiful and the most valuable – love.”
She clutched at her small purse to stop her hands from trembling. “And why,” she asked, “should we fear such a thing?”
He became grave and serious. “Because, like Fafnir’s treasure, it transforms us. And humans all fear change, do they not? Most people, I believe, would rather hang on to what is familiar, even when it impoverishes their lives, sooner than experience the magic of change. For this reason, the jealous dragon guards the treasure. And only the courage and the noble heart of the hero…”
She whispered, “Sigurd…”
He smiled. “…can slay the dragon and gain entrance to that treasure…”
She faltered. Her mind was in a whirl. She assayed several answers but found herself merely moving her lips and blushing. Finally she said, “A little fanciful, perhaps.”
He grinned, and for a moment he looked predatory and dangerous. “We Vikings, Emma - I may call you Emma, may I not? We Vikings have many fancies. And anything we fancy, we take.” He leaned close to her, so that she could feel his hot breath on her ear and her exposed neck. “I shall confess a secret to you, Emma. You are my fancy, and I intend to take you.”
Her cheeks flamed. Adrenalin rushed in her belly. She could feel her heart pounding on her ribs. Her throat was constricted and her jaw clenched. Outraged pleasure flooded every inch of her body. He stood back and had the effrontery to look complacent. She stared at him and was furious at herself for wanting to smile – a smile which, though she hid it, he saw and relished.
He said, “My Lady, you are everything I had hoped you to be. I know we shall meet again. We have…” again the predatory, dangerous smile, “…many treasures to share.”
And without so much as taking his leave, he gave a small bow and walked from the room.
A number of his guests watched him leave in mild astonishment. There were some disgruntled grumbles and some sidelong glances of resentment towards Emma. He had spoken to no one but her. Most of those present were renowned academics. She was nothing more than a popular dilettante.
She stood, breathless, alone and quivering. She glanced about the room with glistening eyes. Where the devil was Richard? He was as good as useless!
“Hasn’t he shown up yet? I thought he was desperately keen to talk to you?” She whirled around and looked at him. He saw her face and his eyebrows went up. “Hullo!” he said, “What’s happened to you? You look as though someone’s been eating your porridge!”
“Don’t be facetious, Richard! Where have you been? The man was insufferable! Why weren’t you there to protect me?”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “My dear Emma, I was of the impression you neither needed nor wanted protecting.”
She stared at him. “Am I,” she asked, and her voice was as taut as a bowstring, “to suffer nothing but facetious insolence all evenin
g long?”
“Emma, you are truly upset!”
“I have told you so!”
“I am so sorry.”
“Why were you not here?”
“I truly thought you would want to be alone with the chap, to talk about your Norse stuff.”
“You were wrong!”
“I am so sorry, again…”
“Kindly take me home.”
“My I take you for supper?”
“No. I want to go home.”
Three
Emma lay in her bed unable to sleep. Through her window she could see the tops of the chestnuts and the elms in Pardoner’s Square. They were dark, but touched at the edges by moonlight. The moon was large that night, a great, silver orb riding over the trees against a deep, translucent sky. Its light was too bright for the stars. They had withdrawn into the deeper folds of the night.
Emma did not cry. Ever. Even when her father had died, leaving her alone in the world, she had not cried. But if ever she had come close, she came close that night, lying in her bed looking at the silver moon over the trees.
What had he done to her? What did she, in fact, feel? Was she distraught, offended, outraged, insulted and disgusted by his boorish, outlandish and generally grotesque behaviour? Or was she, thrilled, elated, excited and indeed joyful at the passions that he had stirred in her? Was she, after all, feeling exactly what he had described when he spoke about the treasure?
Could it be? Could she, Lady Emma Danby of Chidester, daughter of Lord Chidester, possibly feel this for a man like that?
She turned for the thousandth time that night onto her back, attempting to find a comfortable position, and stared at the ceiling. He was, indisputably handsome. Very handsome indeed. He was undeniably attractive. Almost excessively so. But that was not enough; not by a very long chalk.
She turned again, with her back to the moon. Then again, with a small exclamation of frustration, to face the window. The moon had crept an inch and was now beaming into her room. A ray caught the edge of an object beside the window. Was it a chair? There was no chair in that place. What then? What was there in that corner? Nothing.
Taken Hostage Page 18
