Taken Hostage
Page 19
She stared and it moved. Or was it a trick of the moonlight? It seemed to shift. She seemed to hear Sigurd’s deep voice whisper in her ear: “Belief is the catalyst for magic.”
She felt her belly knot. A pellet of hot fear burned and her skin turned cold. There was something there. She could hear it breathing. It shifted a little further and now the moonlight illuminated something metallic. It was both metallic and organic and it made her skin crawl with an intoxicating mix of fascination and dread as she realized it was a leg.
Then there was something moving at the foot of her bed, something heavy and thick, writing, sliding, slipping up onto her eiderdown. Her breath caught in her throat. She tried to crawl away, but she was paralyzed. There was a heavy, rasping sigh on the dark air, and the thick, writing tendril, half picked out in the translucent light, twisted and curled and slipped under her bedcovers.
She sobbed.
The thing by the window moved forward, its breath now somewhere between a grunt and a growl. Something burned in the dark, a deep, smoky red. She realized with a small scream that it was an eye. Dread turned to near hysterical terror as she understood, suddenly, that the thing was not just in the corner by the window. The thing took up the entire length of her bedroom, and the whole thing was moving, slithering, sliding towards her.
And then the head moved out of the shadows and loomed over her. The head alone was more than half the size of her body, on the end of a massive, corded, muscular neck, covered in glistening, metallic scales. Its eyes were alive with fire. Its forked tongue flicked at her. Its enormous body encompassed her. Its wings unfurled and enclosed her. And beneath her bedclothes she felt its tail snaking between her legs.
She stared at the massive chest of the beast. Each scale was like a jewel. Even in her terror she was overwhelmed by the beauty of its skin. She reached up with a trembling hand and placed her palm on the huge, rippling muscles. They did not feel like metal. It was as though life had been breathed into the scales themselves. They trembled at her touch. She looked up at the face that was looking down at her. Within the smouldering, ophidian eyes, she saw a turmoil of passions: hunger, lust, greed, but also tenderness, compassion, love.
The long, forked tongue flicked at her, gently touched her throat, her cheek and her ear. She was repulsed, and yet within the revulsion there was an insane excitement. She tried to fight it, but her hunger was overpowering and her own weakness was intoxicating. She surrendered and spread her legs, longing for the sensation she knew would come, inviting the beast in.
And he entered, smooth, thick, powerful and slow. She cried out and arched to him. She felt his hot breath on her ear, heard him whisper, “I want you. I own you. I will take you.”
She whimpered with pleasure and in her mind whispered, “Yes, oh god yes…”
She felt the power of one, great talon take hold of her waist, while the other gripped her hip and her buttock. He pulled her to him, penetrating deep inside her, swelling as he did so. With his teeth he tore her nightgown from her body, exposing her tender, pale flesh. She clawed at his chest. An intolerable sensitivity thrummed in her pink nipples. She arched her chest up to him, pulling his head down towards her breasts. A fevered madness possessed her mind.
In her fingers she did not feel the hard scales of the serpent’s head. She felt thick, rich curls of hair. Against her own skin she felt hard, rippling muscles, skin, perspiring and human, slipping, sliding, writhing against her own. Between her open legs she felt the powerful hips, not of a dragon, but of a man. She felt his lips part and take her nipple in his mouth. She felt the warm moisture of his tongue. Then she felt his warm mouth engulf her breast and heard him groan.
She pulled his face up to her own and their mouths joined. He bit her tender, pink lips and she felt a growing tension between her legs, building inside her, in her skin. They stared into each other’s eyes, their lips touching. His rhythm became urgent. He pushed deep, and with every thrust pushed deeper. She bit back a scream, holding her breath, allowing the tension to build. She gripped his back, clawing at his skin. His eyes were inflamed. His neck swelled. His rhythm became a frenzy. She felt the spasm clench, tightening around him. He drove through her spasm. She felt the friction as she gripped him, holding him inside as he rubbed hard against her. Her sensitivity was unendurable, and suddenly it was unleashed. Wave after wave of pleasure wracked her body. She screamed, gritting her teeth, pushing her hips into his, grinding against him, biting into his powerful shoulder, pulsing, trying to draw him deeper insider herself. And he kissed her long and deep and he pulsed inside her.
She lay trembling. There was silence and stillness. Her breath coming in short, whimpering gasps. Her nightdress lay in shreds by her side. The bedclothes were tossed on the floor, leaving her perspiring, naked body exposed, translucent in the moonlight. There was no trace of Sigurd, no trace of any dragon.
She covered her mouth with her hand, a hand that still smelled of Sigurd’s skin and hair, and bit back a sob. She whispered to herself, “Oh God! What is happening to me…?”
And as she closed her eyes to blink back the tears, she slipped almost instantly into a deep, restless sleep.
In the morning her maid dressed her and tidied her room. She knew better than to comment on the torn nightclothes and the peculiar stains on the bed linen. Emma went down to breakfast in a state of abstracted panic. She found she did not know whom she was. It was not even as though she suddenly had a stranger inside her. It was worse than that. She herself had become a stranger.
She sat at her breakfast table, looking out at the brilliant morning in Pardoner’s Square and wondering what Sigurd had done to her. For she had absolutely no doubt in her mind that it was he who had done this. When Smythe brought in her two boiled eggs and her tea and toast, she said to him, “Send a boy to the Victoria and Albert museum. I wish to know how I can contact Professor Sigurd Dreki. He gave a talk there yesterday evening. They must have his address in London.”
“Very good, M’Lady.”
But at half past ten that morning the boy returned with the news that Professor Dreki had, as far as the museum was aware, left London, and they had no forwarding address for him.
What then? This had been an elaborate ploy so that he could have his way with her, and now he had fled? Even for a woman of her acknowledged vanity, she told herself, that was hard to believe. There must be easier ways to seduce a lady.
Was she sure he had even been there? Had his infernal insolence merely caused her to hallucinate, in some exceptionally vivid dream? No doubt Mr Freud, another damned foreigner, would say she had expressed her repressed desires in an hallucinatory fantasy. Perhaps he would be right, at that!
She had his published works in the library. She would go and check them now. She read his essays and leafed through his book on dreams, but found no answers and no satisfaction in their pages. She wondered why everybody could not be as sensible and reasonable as the English.
She forced herself to eat a light luncheon, though she had no appetite, and spent a desultory afternoon wondering what to do. She wanted above all else to forget this monstrous man who had so upset her. Yet – and she was aware of the impossible grammatical contradiction - even more than this, she wanted to see him again. Even if it were only one more time. But not in a dream, not in a wild hallucination, in the flesh.
It was while she was thinking this that she heard a soft tap at the door.
“Yes!”
Smythe stepped in with a small frown upon his face.
“M’Lady, there is a man with a carriage. He claims he is expected. Apparently, Professor Dreki has sent him.”
Four
Had Smythe and her maid not been on hand, Emma would undoubtedly have stepped out to the carriage without even putting on her hat, such was the degree of her distraction. As it was they fairly scampered after her, placing her bonnet on her head, her shawl about her shoulders and her parasol in her hands as she half-ran to the front door.
They drove for perhaps half an hour, south towards the river and the Temple. Bye and bye they came to a tall, redbrick house set back from the road behind iron railings. The coachman descended and assisted her down, but before he could ring on the bell it was opened but a butler of equally lugubrious appearance.
He took her shawl and parasol, muttering, “M’Lady, the professor will be down presently. Will you wait in the library?”
“Very well.”
Large, dark doors gave admittance to a library of surprising proportions. The ceilings were high, and the book shelves ascended as far as that ceiling on every wall, save the far right, where two tall, narrow windows overlooked the street. A fireplace stood cold and empty, though there was a lingering smell of wood smoke.
“May I offer M’Lady some refreshment?”
“No, thank you. I merely wish to see Professor Dreki at his earliest possible convenience. I do not wish to be kept waiting.”
“Very good, M’Lady.”
She did not have to wait long. Within barely two minutes she heard the clatter of feet on the stairs and moments late the door burst open. Sigurd stood gazing at her, a large smile upon his face.
“My Lady, what great joy I feel on seeing you. I trust you are well and you have been looked after!”
“Professor, Dreki, you may dispense with the pleasantries. I expect a satisfactory explanation, and I expect it now.”
He frowned.
“You are not happy.”
“I most certainly am not! What do you presume by sending a carriage to my house unbidden?”
“I thought you wished to see me.”
“And what, may I ask, gave you that idea?”
He watched her a moment, and slowly a smile creased his eyes.
“Magic!” he said, and laughed. Then he gestured at her with an open hand, “And here you are! Had you not wished to see me you would have dismissed the carriage, and me with it, with no more than a derisive snort. But you did not. You came.”
She stared at him aghast.
“A derisive snort!”
“Would you not?”
“I came, Professor…”
“Sigurd!”
“I came, Professor, because I require answers from you!”
“Indeed,” he stepped towards a chair and gestured at another with his hand, “Please, sit, Emma, will you have some tea or some coffee?”
“No.” She sat and he sat opposite her, leaning back in his chair with an agreeable smile upon his countenance. She went on, “I wish to know…”
“Yes…”
“What…” she could feel her cheeks burning and was furious at herself for being unable to control it. “What,” she went on, “You did last night.”
He looked surprised. “I? Well, I returned home and had a light supper with my guardian…”
“Professor!” Now he looked startled. “My dear Emma,”
“Do not play games with me! I shall not have it!”
The humour left his face and a trace of that predatory lust she had seen before touched his eyes. “Perhaps,” he said, “you should be a little more precise in your question.”
They stared at each other. She sat very erect, but now she stiffened her back.
“Very well, did you drug me or hypnotise me last night?”
He lowered his head and looked at her under his brows. There was no mistaking the intent in his eyes. Her heart began to race.
“I don’t know, Emma. Did I? I can tell you that you have certainly hypnotized and intoxicated me.”
She clenched her hands in her lap. Her voice was tremulous. She said, “I shall have no more of your impertinence, Professor…”
But she did not rise to leave.
He said, “What will you have, Emma?”
“I would beg you, Sir, whatever it is that you are doing, to stop…”
“And yet,” he said, still regarding her under his brows, “last night you begged me to continue, and to go further…”
She stared at him in horror.
“Then, you did…you were…”
“But you know I was, Emma. You invited me in, remember?” He stood and approached until he was standing over her. “I told you I wanted you and I would take you. And you said, ‘Yes, oh God, yes…’”
A dark dread gripped her and seemed to drain her of all her strength. She shook her head. “How?”
“The magic power of the Dragon.”
She stood, though her legs trembled and she was not steady. He did not move back to giver her space, so their faces were almost touching. She said, “I wish to go home now.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“You will not be going home, Emma. I told you. I have taken possession of you. You are mine now. I own you.”
“You are insane!”
“Completely, totally and joyously so. Come…”
He held her face in her hands.
She said, “Where…?”
“To your bedroom.”
He took her by the hand and led her up the stairs.
On the fourth floor there was a galleried landing, and above the stairwell a copula with a series of skylights. Her room was on this floor, at the back of the house. The key was in the door. He unlocked it and let her in. The room was spacious and very comfortable, with a tall window overlooking the gardens at the back of the house. There was a bureau, a large armchair, a fireplace and, at the centre of the room, a vast, mahogany, four-poster bed. Beyond it a door stood open onto a bathroom.
“Dinner,” he said, “is at eight o’clock. We shall have cocktails at half past seven. I shall introduce you to my guardian. He is keen to meet you. I can send maids to attend you at your toilet if you wish.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
He bowed and left.
Five
She did not make use of the toilet, but sat in the armchair, thinking about the situation. It was clear to her that Sigurd was in some way insane. He had kidnapped her and, by the use of some diabolical form of hypnotism, and perhaps hallucinogenic drugs gathered upon his no doubt extensive travels, managed to induce in her these powerful feelings of attraction. Granted that the man was exceptionally handsome, and indeed attractive; for it was entirely possible for a man to be very handsome and yet lack that animal magnetism which Sigurd had in such ample abundance…
She stopped herself. It would not do to think of him in this way if she was ever to recover her freedom. She forced herself to think of dear Richard, who was also very handsome, but most certainly lacked that animal magnetism that Sigurd had in such…
Again she disciplined her mind. Granted – she returned to her original line of reasoning – that he was attractive, but by no means attractive enough to induce such bizarre behaviour in her. There had to be another explanation. She would no doubt find out in due course. Meanwhile she was confident that, on seeing that she had not returned, Smythe would inform the police, and it would not be long before they came looking for her. She had sufficient connections at the Home Office for the search to be given a very high priority.
In the meantime she intended to get a grip of herself and put an end to her schoolgirl infatuation with this insufferable madman.
There was a tap at the door.
“Enter!” she snapped
The door opened and the butler stepped in.
“Cocktails are being served in the drawing room, M’Lady. The Professor asks that you join him and Mr Vordr there.”
She gazed at him with eyes like dark blue diamonds. She said, “Indeed. What is your name?”
“Trell, My Lady.”
“Trell? What a peculiar name. How long have you been with the professor?”
“Longer than I can remember, M’Lady
.”
She looked at him a moment longer and thought that he looked ancient enough for it to be true.
“Has he ever abducted ladies in this fashion before?”
Trell blinked. It was probably, she thought to herself, the greatest display of emotion he had given in the last century.
“Indeed, no, M’Lady. Never.”
She stood.
“Perhaps I should be flattered!”
He stepped back to let her pass and said, “Quite so, M’Lady.”
Sigurd was sitting. He held a glass of fino sherry in his right hand. Mr Vordr stood in front of a fire which had been lit in the grate. She judged him to be in his forties or fifties at most. As a specimen of manhood the only word Emma could think of to describe him was, magnificent. He was at least six foot six. His shoulders were broad and powerful. His arms and legs were strong and virile. His posture, unlike that of so many men who are exceptionally tall, was erect, indeed athletic. His jaw was strong, his cheekbones high, and a mane of thick, blond hair was swept back from a broad forehead. For a moment she thought he was vaguely familiar.
But his eyes. His eyes were the coldest, most inhuman eyes she had ever seen. They were, she thought, like two pieces of ice, reflecting a pale blue sky.
Sigurd got to his feet and gave a small bow.
“My Lady, may I present my guardian, Mr Vordr?”
Emma looked at Mr Vordr and held out her hand. He regarded it a moment and slowly took her fingertips in his palm, as though examining a butterfly. Then he raised his eyes to examine her face. His expression was insolent.
“You will forgive me, My lady. I have injured my back and I cannot bend. We Norsemen, you know, are inflexible in this regard.”
“I do not require your bows, Mr Vordr, merely your good manners.” She turned to Sigurd. “Professor. When you mentioned your guardian, I had imagined a man old enough to be…” she smiled without humour. “…your guardian. Mr Vordr, if you will forgive me saying so, looks young enough to be your accomplice.”