Captive in the Millionaire’s Castle

by Lee Wilkinson

  Misreading that shiver, he said, ‘You’re cold.’

  She was, frozen through, but she’d been far too engrossed to heed the cold.

  ‘Come on, let’s get going.’

  Thinking he intended to leave, she protested, ‘I’d love to see the secret passage.’

  ‘And so you shall.’

  Taking her hand, he hurried her down the stairs and across the hall, and, coming to a halt on the far side of the fireplace, ran his fingers along the oak panelling just above head height.

  There was a muffled click, and with a grating noise a section of the panelling moved to one side.

  Peering excitedly into the cobwebby gloom, Jenny asked, ‘Where does it lead?’

  ‘The first short section leads to the south wing, which is where we’re heading, and the second, much longer section, to an escape tunnel which goes down under the walls, through a gap in the rock, and eventually comes out about a quarter of a mile away.’

  ‘Have you ever been through?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘I’ve never been through a secret passage,’ she told him. Then hopefully, ‘If we’re heading for the south wing, do you think we could go that way?’

  Quizzically, he charged, ‘You’ve been reading too much Enid Blyton.’

  With a grin, she admitted, ‘As a child, I loved her books… So could we?’

  Amused, he agreed, ‘We could. But it will be dark and rough underfoot, and all I have with me is a small pencil-torch.’

  ‘I’m sure we’d manage,’ she told him eagerly.

  ‘What if I can’t locate the lever that opens the panel to let us out?’

  Looking anything but concerned, she suggested, ‘Well, if you can’t, so long as you leave this panel open we could always retrace our steps.’

  ‘Very well. You’d better follow me.’

  As they stepped through the gap, reminding her to tread carefully, he took her hand.

  Feeling a delicious thrill of adventure, she followed close on his heels.

  The tunnel was narrow, the air cold and musty, the ground uneven beneath their feet.

  As they moved away from the open panel, the torch a small spotlight in the surrounding darkness, the walls seemed to close in claustrophobically.

  Unconsciously, she gripped his hand tighter.

  ‘Do you want to turn back?’

  His voice sounded strangely hollow, disembodied, but the fingers curled round hers were strong and reassuring, and she answered, ‘No, no, I’m quite happy, really.’

  Once or twice she stumbled, and he asked, ‘Okay?’

  Each time she answered, ‘Fine, thank you.’

  After what seemed an age, he said, ‘If I remember rightly, we should be just about there.’

  As they slowed to a halt he let go of her hand to release the lever. At the same instant she stepped on a loose piece of rubble, and gave a gasp as her left ankle turned painfully.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve twisted my ankle,’ she admitted ruefully.

  He thrust the torch into his pocket, and his arms went around her.

  Standing on one leg, storklike, she leaned against him, grateful for his support.

  He could feel the slender weight of her body, smell the apple-blossom scent of her hair and the fragrance of her skin.

  She heard the breath hiss through his teeth then, in the darkness, his mouth found hers unerringly, and he was kissing her with a passion that swept her completely away.

  How long they stood in the darkness kissing, Jenny never knew. She was in a blissful world of her own, everything else obliterated, forgotten, the touch of his lips and the feel of his arms all she had ever wanted or needed.

  Overwhelmed with tenderness, she touched his cheek.

  Even against the coldness of his face, he was aware that her fingers felt icy.

  The realization waking him to practicalities, he lifted his head, and, one arm still supporting her, felt for the lever.

  After a second or two, he found and depressed it, and with a grating sound the panel slid aside, letting in light.

  ‘Can you walk?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I think—’ The words ended in a little cry of pain as she tried to put her weight on her injured left ankle.

  Unable to lift her in the narrow space, he ordered tersely, ‘Stay where you are and keep that foot off the floor.’

  Poised on one leg, one arm braced against the wall, she muttered, ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘If you attempt to walk on it, it’ll only make matters worse.’

  Seeing the sense of that, she stopped arguing and did as she’d been bidden.

  He went through the opening first, then turned, and, stooping, said, ‘Put your arms around my neck and duck your head.’

  She obeyed, and, one arm encircling her waist, his free hand shielding her head, he helped her clear of the panelling and swung her up into his arms.

  They had emerged into what seemed to be a small inner hall, with a row of high internal windows on one side.

  In spite of the turmoil caused by that kiss, and being held against his broad chest, she noticed that the air felt appreciably warmer.

  He opened the nearest door into a red-carpeted room with dark oak panelling, and carried her over to a leather couch set in front of a stone fireplace, and put her down amidst the cushioned comfort.

  She was surprised to see a fire was already laid in the grate and a box of matches lay waiting. To one side of the hearth a large wicker basket was piled high with logs.

  As soon as she was settled with her back against a pile of cushions he pulled off her shoes, dropped them by the old-fashioned fender, and stooped to strike a match.

  When the kindling flared and caught hold, he rose to his feet and said with satisfaction, ‘There, that should soon be burning nicely. Now you stay here and get warm, and I’ll be back in a minute.’

  He disappeared through a door in the far wall.

  Already able to feel the welcome warmth of the fire on her icy feet, Jenny glanced around her curiously. The room seemed to be a combination of living-room and study, its long, arched windows looking out onto a rain-swept inner courtyard.

  Michael had told her the castle was no longer inhabited, but, attractively furnished and homely, with books and ornaments and a grandfather clock that chimed melodiously, this room showed every sign of being lived-in.

  A silver-framed photograph standing on the nearby bookcase caught her eye. It was of a handsome man with clear-cut features, blue eyes beneath still dark brows, and iron-grey hair. He looked aristocratic, and she found herself wondering if he owned Mirren.

  All at once she felt distinctly uncomfortable, an intruder, as if the man might walk in at any moment and demand to know what she was doing here.

  It was something of a relief when, a short time later, Michael returned. He had discarded his jacket, and was carrying a first aid box under his arm and two steaming mugs.

  ‘Warmer?’ he queried.

  ‘Much. I don’t really need this now.’ She began to wriggle out of her coat.

  He put everything down on a low table that stood close by and helped her.

  Tossing it over one of the high-backed chairs, he remarked, ‘I thought we could do with a hot drink, as soon as I’ve had a look at that ankle.’

  Sitting down on the edge of the couch, he grimaced. ‘I’m afraid it’s already starting to swell. We’ll just have to hope there’s nothing broken.’

  Though he was as gentle as possible, she winced as his fingers began to probe

  After a moment, he announced, ‘There doesn’t seem to be, thank the Lord.’ Taking a can of analgesic spray from the first-aid box, he added, ‘But your feet are like ice.’

  The fine spray felt colder still.

  ‘There, that should help to curtail the pain and prevent any further swelling.

  ‘However, a bit of support wouldn’t be a bad idea…’ Producing a crêpe bandage, he bound
her ankle neatly and efficiently.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, when he’d finished. ‘That’s starting to feel better already.’

  He handed her one of the mugs, and, taking a seat in a nearby chair, remarked, ‘I’m afraid there’s no fresh milk, so I hope you don’t mind having your coffee black?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  His eyes on her face, he asked, ‘So what’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she assured him. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ he said shortly. ‘Apart from your ankle, something’s bothering you.’

  ‘I just feel I’ve no right to be here,’ she admitted in a rush. ‘If the owner should—’

  Something about the look on his face stopped her short, and, light suddenly dawning, she said almost accusingly, ‘You own the castle.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he agreed.

  ‘The island too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t—?’ She bit her tongue.

  ‘I tell you?’ he finished for her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in confusion. ‘Of course you had a perfect right to keep it to yourself.’

  ‘How kind of you to say so.’

  Though she felt sure the gentle sarcasm wasn’t meant to wound, emotionally friable, she flushed, and her eyes filled with unbidden tears.

  He rose to his feet, instantly contrite. ‘I’m sorry.’ Reaching for her hand, he raised it to his lips and kissed it.

  His lips felt warm against her palm, and a shiver ran through her.

  ‘Now, why don’t you relax and drink your coffee?’

  But his touch had ruffled her even more, and he realized it.

  Cursing himself for a fool, he released her hand and began to sip his own coffee.

  The fire was blazing merrily now, throwing out a circle of heat. After adding some more logs, he queried, ‘Feet warmer?’

  Her voice a little stilted, she answered, ‘Yes, thank you, warm as toast now.’

  Then, sounding more like herself, ‘In any case it was well worth getting cold for. The castle is absolutely wonderful.’

  Pleased and relieved that she wasn’t the kind to bear a grudge, he said, ‘I’m very glad you think so. I’ve always loved the old place.’

  ‘Do you know its history?’

  ‘Oh, yes, it’s all in the family archives. Following the battle of Hastings, William the Conqueror gave the island, and a large chunk of the surrounding countryside, to Michel D’Envier, a young Norman duke who had helped raise an army to fight alongside him.

  ‘After Michel fell in love with, and married, the daughter of an English nobleman, he started to build the castle, and it’s been home to the D’Envier family since it was completed in the early part of the twelfth century.

  ‘Though internally it’s been altered a lot over the years, the outer walls and the battlements, the towers and the gatehouse date from then. That’s why I’ve done my best to maintain the place in good order and keep it structurally sound.’

  ‘That can’t be easy.’

  ‘It isn’t. Luckily I have the money now, but in the past it’s been a big drain on the family resources. That’s one of the reasons my father, after being approached by the local historical society, decided to open the unoccupied wings to the public.’

  Embarrassed to recall her own comments about visitors dropping litter, she wished she had kept her opinions to herself.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ she said a shade awkwardly.

  ‘Personally,’ Michael went on, ‘I never liked the idea, and after my father died and probate was granted, I reversed that decision.’

  A gleam of devilment in his green eyes, he added, ‘So you see you have me to blame for your disappointment all those years ago.’

  Forgetting her embarrassment, and picking up on his mood, she assured him lightly, ‘Well, as you’ve more than made up for it today, I forgive you.’

  ‘How very magnanimous.’

  This time she only smiled.

  It was still raining hard, and what little light there had been was fading. Beyond the fireglow that enclosed them in their own little cocoon of well-being, the room was growing dusky.

  As soon as she had finished her coffee, he put his own empty cup down, switched on a couple of standard lamps, and, resuming his seat, queried, ‘Feel any better now?’

  ‘A lot.’ She moved her foot experimentally.

  He shook his head. ‘I meant now you know you’re not trespassing do you feel more relaxed, more comfortable about being here?’

  ‘Oh… Yes… Yes…’

  ‘You don’t sound at all sure.’

  She wasn’t. It was much too cosy. Too intimate. Remembering his kiss in the secret tunnel and her own helpless reaction to it, how could she feel relaxed and comfortable? She ought to be heading home to London, well away from temptation.

  After a moment, needing to break the lengthening silence, she remarked, ‘Though you told me there was no one living at the castle, it looks and feels as if there could well be.’

  ‘My parents lived here until my mother died some six years ago, and my father followed her less than a year later. Soon after his death, all that remained of the staff—three old family retainers, a man, his wife, and daughter—who had worked at the castle all their lives, decided to retire and go to live in one of the cottages on the estate.

  ‘I didn’t want this wing to get damp and neglected, so I arranged with Mrs Blair to come in regularly to clean and air the place and make sure the radiators are working properly.’

  ‘It seems strange to talk about radiators in a castle this old.’

  ‘Castles this old tend to be cold, draughty places, and to make it liveable in the entire south wing was refurbished early in the nineteen hundreds, and a generator and a central-heating system installed.

  ‘It’s all very old-fashioned now, but it still works, and hopefully should last until I’ve drawn up plans to have the whole thing modernized.’

  ‘Why don’t you—?’ She stopped short.

  His eyes on her face, he urged, ‘Feel free to ask anything you want to know.’

  Encouraged by his words, but determined to be cautious all the same, she admitted, ‘I was wondering why, when you come to the island, you don’t live here? Or perhaps you do, sometimes?’

  He shook his head. ‘I used to visit often when my father was alive, and when I’m on the island I still come to spend a day or two and sometimes the odd night here. There’s one bed always kept aired. But I haven’t actually lived at the castle since I left to go to university. If I’d returned to Mirren after graduating, I would probably have followed the family tradition and taken up residence at Slinterwood.

  ‘You see it was originally intended to be the home of the family’s eldest son, that is, until his father died. Then, if his mother was still alive, she would move into Slinterwood, while he and his family were expected to take over the castle.’

  ‘So you’re the eldest son?’

  ‘I’m the only son.’

  Fascinated by what he was telling her, and forgetting her earlier resolve to be cautious, she said, ‘But you didn’t take over the castle when your father died?’

  ‘No, the circumstances weren’t right. I was unmarried and living in London, still trying to find my feet as a writer. However, I decided that one day, if my wife was willing, I would move back, as my father had always hoped.’

  His voice flat, dispassionate, he added, ‘But when I did eventually get married, after coming here on a couple of occasions Claire decided that she hated the island.’

  So even if he and his ex-wife did get back together, the castle wouldn’t be lived in…

  As the silence stretched, knowing that he must be thinking much the same, Jenny made an effort to change the subject.

  Indicating the photograph she’d noticed previously, she asked, ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘My father. I took that picture of him when he was about sixty.’

  ‘A n
ice-looking man,’ she commented. Adding, ‘Though your eyes are a different colour, I can see the likeness now.’

  ‘All the D’Envier males seem to have dark hair and that kind of bone structure.’

  Which meant that if he ever had children, his sons would probably look like him…

  Sighing a little, she pictured two small boys with Michael’s clear-cut features, cleft chin, and thick dark hair.

  Watching her face grow soft, he wondered what she was thinking.

  Since that impulsive kiss in the darkness of the secret passage, his mind had been only partly on what was being said, his concentration seduced by memories of her response. How willingly her cold lips had parted beneath his, how pliantly her body had moulded itself against his body, how eagerly her arms had welcomed him and held him close…

  Jenny looked up suddenly, a question trembling on her lips, and their eyes met.

  She saw the darkness in his, darkness that held a fierce flame of desire in its depths, and, shaken rigid by that look, and her own response to it, she glanced hastily away.

  A log settled in the grate with a rustle and a spurt of orange sparks, and the grandfather clock ticked away the seconds.

  ‘You were about to ask me something?’

  Michael’s tone held no trace of any emotion other than a kind of casual friendliness, and just for an instant she wondered if she could have imagined that blazing look.

  But she knew she hadn’t. The memory of it was burnt indelibly into her brain.

  Afraid to look at him, she fumbled around for the question that had been on the tip of her tongue.

  ‘I presume, from what you were saying, that the name D’Envier has been anglicized?’

  ‘Yes. My father decided it was time to become totally English, to drop the apostrophe and change the spelling.

  ‘But enough of me and my family. Tell me about yourself and your family. You told me you were born in London and went to live at Kelsay when you were quite young?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My father left when I was two years old, and as my grandparents had been killed in a car crash the previous year my mother took me to live with my great-grandmother.’