Savage Possession Page 6

  His hand slid from her breast to her flat smooth belly. Did it feel fuller than before? Her nimble fingers worked his manhood until need raged through him again. She moved atop him now, slow at first then faster and faster the crescendo built up.

  Tiny, fragile, most probably with child, yet this did not stop him from taking what she offered and still crave for more. It wasn’t love. Hatred had left no room in his heart for such an emotion. It was lust, an all-consuming passionate need to possess her.

  He had tutored his little storm girl well. She knew how to arouse him to the point of madness. Ardent, always eager to try new ways of pleasuring him, now she carried his child, so why didn’t he offer marriage? What flaw in his nature made him want to take everything yet give nothing in return?

  Could a son with Campbell blood quell the anger in his breast? Sam was right the past should be buried. Could he cast off the burden of hatred and vengeance? The fear of physically hurting a woman if she cornered him and drove him to lose his temper? He had avoided this kind of conflict for years by using women for his sexual needs, and paying them handsomely for their time, so there would be no ugly scenes when he banished them from his life.

  Only once, had he considered letting a woman share his life permanently and where had that landed him? Almost in jail on an assault charge or even worse. She had aborted his child, calmly stood there and told him. He had been enraged, not that it justified what he nearly did to her. Black Jack’s blood flowed in his veins, exactly how much, was the question haunting him. He shuddered at the dormant memories, the horror of what he had almost done. Even for the sake of his unborn child, he didn’t know whether he would have the strength to confront Fergus Campbell in his lair and not kill him. The thought of going anywhere near the man who had turned his father into a sadist was like a knife twisting in his gut. He had to go. There was no alternative. Hell would freeze over before I left the fruit of my loins to the mercy of Fergus Campbell. I’ll apologize to Sam for my previous outburst and ask him to accompany me.

  Decision made, he carefully slid out of bed so as not to waken Storm. The rain started again, and a chill crept across the room because the fire had burned down. He threw on several logs, dressed and headed downstairs.

  The moment he stepped outside the coldness assailed him. He strode with purposeful strides to Sam’s cottage. “I’m sorry for the way I acted before.”

  “No need for apologies. I understand how you feel, but I don’t want you ruining your life. You’ve been given a chance to start afresh. This place has seen too much sadness and pain. It robbed you of your childhood. Hate destroyed your parents. I don’t want the same thing happening to you.”

  “Will you come with me to see Fergus tomorrow?”

  “You don’t need me, son.”

  “Yes I do. I need you to keep us under control or we’ll end up killing each other.”

  Chapter Four

  After breakfast the next morning, Martin set off for the Campbell farm accompanied by Sam. Rain clouds scudded across the sky and an icy wind slapped his cheeks. Suits my mood, he thought morosely, casting a quick glance at his companion who stared straight ahead, his face inscrutable.

  Martin’s stallion threw back his head and chomped at the bit, his hooves pounding the ground in an impatient dance. “Mind if I give this fellow a bit of a run to calm him down?”

  “No, I’m quite content with this sedate pace, too old for racing around the countryside now.”

  Just the slightest release of pressure on the reins, a touch of the spur and the stallion shot off. A former racehorse who did not quite make the grade, its imported English pedigree commanded a high service fee. As the horse galloped flat out, exhilaration surged through him - a thoroughbred horse between your thighs was even better than having a woman.

  A mile up the track he waited for Sam. As they rode to the bark-roofed cabin, Martin noticed the sagging Campbell fences. A lazy trail of smoke drifted from the chimney, so someone was home. Without speaking, they dismounted and tethered their horses to the hitching post. He strode to the front door with Sam a pace or two behind him.

  “You there, Fergus?” Sam called out.

  “What do ye want?”

  Sam entered the homestead first and as Martin followed, he ducked his head to fit through the door. The floor was of anthill clay, the walls lined with old newspapers.

  The old man stood near the stove. Once he had been a tall, proud Highlander, now he appeared wizened, his shock of white hair and pale blue eyes just as Martin remembered.

  “Get out of my house,” the old Scotsman roared. “Ye black hearted devil.” He made a dive for the rifle on the wall.

  Martin snatched the rifle from the wall bracket. “Not before we speak old man.”

  “Sit down, Fergus,” Sam’s voice cut through the hatred reverberating around the kitchen. “It’s about Elizabeth. Do you know where she is?”

  “Off with Alistair.” Fergus paced the room. “The laddie has a wee hut up in the ranges where they camp out sometimes. Why do ye want to know?”

  Martin bared his teeth in a triumphant smile. “She’s at my place, Campbell.”

  “What! If ye touch a hair on that wee lassie’s head I’ll kill ye, Mulvaney, so help me, even if I hang for it.” Fergus took up a boxer’s stance, arms stretched out in front of him, fists clenched.

  “Fergus, she’s all right,” Sam soothed. “Martin found her collapsed on his doorstep.”

  “Where is she? What have ye done to my wee Bethie?” Angry red on Fergus’ cheeks faded to ghostly white.

  “She’s lost her memory,” Martin said.

  “What!” Fergus screamed the word, he looked so white and stricken Martin almost pitied him. The old man lunged with his fists.

  Sam grabbed his arms as Martin sidestepped out of the way.

  “She sustained a blow to the head, remembers nothing about you.” Martin stood motionless, straight-backed, legs apart.

  “Ye should have brought her here. Fergus tried to twist out of Sam’s imprisoning arms. “My wee Bethie would remember me.”

  “I had no idea of her identity until Sam arrived home a few days ago and told me.”

  “Ye kept her a prisoner.” Fergus took up a belligerent stance.

  “What did you expect me to do, dump her here and leave?” Martin snarled. “Her wretched brother wasn’t around. Too busy consorting with outlaws to worry about his sister. Let’s get out of here, Sam, and stop wasting our time.”

  Sam held up a conciliatory hand. “Martin wants your written consent to marry Elizabeth.”

  “Never! I’d prefer to see her dead than married to a Mulvaney.”

  “You listen to me,” Martin said, his voice as cold as forged steel. “For over a month, your precious granddaughter has shared my house and my bed.”

  “Animal, fiend! I’ll send ye to hell, Mulvaney,” Fergus struggled to escape from Sam.

  “No you won’t. You either give your written consent for the marriage now or…”

  “Never, she’d be better off dead.”

  “So be it.” Martin turned on his heel.

  “Wait,” Sam called as he released Fergus.

  “My child grows in her belly.” Martin fired this salvo and strode out of the cabin.

  Fergus collapsed to the floor. Sam strode over and helped him rise.

  “Sign the paper, Fergus,” Sam pleaded.

  “No.”

  Sam led him over to a chair.

  “If you don’t sign the paper he will turn her out. Martin never makes idle threats.”

  “You can torture me and I still won’t do it.”

  “Fergus, think man. Her memory is gone. Martin saved her life. She loves him.”

  “My poor wee Bethie,” he moaned.

  “She carries his child.”

  “I’ll look after them.” Fergus almost sobbed the words out.

  “You’re an old man. When you pass on what happens to her? She’ll be destitute, labele
d a whore with a bastard child.”

  “I have to see her, talk to her.” Tears shone in his eyes.

  “She won’t know you,” Sam insisted. “I’ve mentioned your name and there’s no reaction. For her sake I beg you, give your consent. Martin is a wealthy man. I’ve known him all his life. He isn’t brutal like Jack. He’ll take care of her.”

  Sam withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “I wrote a letter out.

  You just have to sign your name.” He dropped it on the table and waited.

  Doubled over with pain, Fergus shuffled to the table, and with tears dropping on to the paper, signed his granddaughter’s life over to Martin Mulvaney.

  “Keep Alistair away until things get sorted out. I’m sorry things turned out this way,” Sam said

  The old Highlander did not answer. Although his chest rose and fell, he looked like a dead man. With the signed paper in his pocket, Sam joined Martin outside. Mounting their horses, they rode off.

  * * *

  Martin urged the stallion in to a full gallop and soon left Sam behind. Even his victory over the old man could not quell his fury.

  He pulled up the foam-flecked horse at the stables. “Give him a good rub down,” he ordered the groom, “and extra oats.”

  He stalked off to the kitchen where Storm met him at the door.

  “Martin, Martin.” She dashed up to him and smothered his face with excited kisses. “You took so long.”

  “Go upstairs.” He extricated himself from her embrace. “Now.”

  “But-”

  “Go upstairs.” He clenched his hands into fists. “So help me, if you don’t get out of my sight I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

  Her eyes widened, he didn’t know whether from fear or shock. Without another word, she fled.

  He stalked into the salon, picked up the whisky decanter, sloshed some into a glass and downed the contents in a couple of swallows. Refilling the glass, he repeated the exercise. Storm would be upstairs, upset, but in such a vile temper, he dared not touch her. Visions of Black Jack bashing his mother as she lay on the floor pleading with him to stop caused the whisky to gag in his mouth.

  Slumped in a chair, he held his head in his hands and fought his greatest fear - he might one day turn out to be a brute like his father.

  “Martin.” Sam’s voice intruded into his bitter thoughts. “I’ve got the consent form signed by Fergus.”

  “It’s too late.”

  “Where’s the girl?” Sam dashed up to him. “What have you done?”

  Martin raked his hands through his hair. “I sent her upstairs. I’m in a murderous mood,” he rasped. “I need to calm down before I go anywhere near her.”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Sam persisted. “I got Fergus to sign his consent to the marriage.”

  “I heard you.”

  “You can see a priest tomorrow and make the arrangements.”

  “No priest will marry us.”

  “Why not?”

  “I haven’t been to church since I left school.” Martin’s lips twisted into a bitter sneer. “The Campbells probably belong to the Church of Scotland.”

  “Doesn’t matter who marries you, as long as it’s legal.”

  “You might as well eat here,” Martin needed to change the subject. “I’ll call Storm down to get the food dished up, now you’re here to keep me under control. I’ll be glad when Mrs. Irvine comes back.”

  “Lucky you had Storm. Strange calling her that when we know she’s Elizabeth.”

  “She’ll only answer to Storm. I called her Elizabeth a couple of times, there’s not a flicker of awareness.”

  “Get the girl down, she’ll be breaking her heart up there. Her eyes follow you everywhere. She idolizes you, son.”

  “I’m a tainted idol.” Martin swung to his feet and strode to the foot of the stairs. “Storm, come down here at once.”

  Storm left the bedroom and made her way down the stairs, hesitating on the third last step. Why did Martin act so angry? Who was Fergus Campbell? She closed her eyes, and the white haired old man who featured in her dreams flashed across her brain. She stumbled, would have fallen, had Martin not leapt up the stairs and caught her.

  “You have to be careful now.” He ran his hand across her stomach, his touch possessive. “You’re carrying my child.”

  She slipped her hands inside his shirt.

  “Not now. Sam’s here, I invited him for dinner.”

  Storm had prepared stew with dumplings, followed by chocolate pudding, and Martin ate with enjoyment. “My little storm girl is a good cook, eh, Sam.” He gave a grin, his mood mellowed by several glasses of wine.

  “Yes, I know. If Mrs. Irvine isn’t careful she’ll be out of a job. We should have collected her clothes.”

  “Why? When I have time, I intend buying her a complete new wardrobe. Some pretty gowns and bonnets for you, my sweet,” he promised.

  * * *

  Storm wore a blue gown for their marriage ceremony at the Presbyterian manse, two days after Fergus signed the consent paper. Sam and the Minister’s wife acted as witnesses. Martin could not suppress a smirk of triumph as he slipped a plain gold band on to Storm’s finger. Once they signed the church register, they left. Elizabeth Campbell was now Mrs. Martin Mulvaney. She belonged to him.

  He felt an all-consuming urge to drive over and flaunt the marriage at old Fergus, but forced himself not to. Storm looked pale and drawn because she slept poorly. He expected a lot from her, should curb his carnal appetite; her soft sweet body and eagerness to please had become a drug he couldn’t live without.

  Her recurrent nightmares bothered him. She would wake up sobbing or calling out for Fergus to save her from Darius. Never me, he thought with a twinge of bitterness, always Fergus, even though I gave her haven on that stormy night.

  “You’re deep in thought.” Sam interrupted his musings as they drove along the rutted road leading to the castle.

  Martin stroked his chin. “I’m worried about Storm’s nightmares. They’ve become more frequent, take more out of her each time.”

  “You expect too much of her.”

  “What!”

  “The girl’s exhausted. I’ve watched the way you lust after her.”

  “We’re married now. I can legally do as much lusting as I want. What would you know about lust, anyway? I’d wager you’ve never even mounted a woman.”

  “My wife died in childbirth many years ago,” Sam said in a broken whisper. “I’ve never looked at another woman since.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Martin glanced at Sam. The sadness etched on his face sent icy shock waves through him.

  “Few people do, because it was such a long time ago. A once in a lifetime love, and you could have the same, son, if you’d let yourself.”

  “Love! Love is an over-rated emotion thought up by women to ensnare a man.” You can’t miss what you never had.

  They arrived home to find Mrs. Irvine back in residence. “Who’s been in my kitchen?” When she noticed Storm, the tirade stopped.

  “Come on.” Martin swung Storm up in his arms. “Bed for you. Mrs. Irvine can bring you up some tea in a little while. I want you to rest now.”

  He strode into the bedroom. Mrs. Irvine must have stoked up the fire as it sent out a warm flickering glow. Setting Storm on her feet, he helped her out of her clothes, slipped the nightshirt on over her head then tucked her under the blankets.

  “Stay with me,” she pleaded, reaching out her hand to him.

  “Not now, my sweet, you’re tired.” After shutting each eyelid with a kiss, he left the room.

  Back in the kitchen, Mrs. Irvine pursed her lips and Martin knew she was annoyed, because he had not personally filled her in on all the happenings.

  “Would you make Storm some tea and take it up, she isn’t well. Now you’re back we’ll eat our meals in the salon again. How’s your sister?”

  “Recovered now, thank you. Congratulat
ions on your marriage, Mr. Mulvaney.”

  “Thank you. Has Sam told you everything?

  “More or less.” Still looking grim, Mrs. Irvine picked up the teapot. “Tea?”

  “No thanks.” Martin paced the floor. “Storm is sick every morning, has these terrible nightmares. Her mind is a complete blank; she can’t remember anything about her previous life. Maybe another woman around the place will help, so do what you can, will you? I’m off to catch up on my bookwork. I’ll be in the study if you need me.”

  At his desk, he stared at the ledgers with unseeing eyes. Could tiny fragile Storm survive the rigors of childbirth? Would she be able to give him the healthy son he now wanted? Could a child conceived in an angry passion break the curse dogging the Mulvaney name? Erase the hatred built up over twenty years? Was there such a thing as retribution? If so, he was doomed.

  * * *

  Alistair Campbell rode into the yard of the castle accompanied by the sounds of barking dogs. “Evil sonofabitch,” he muttered. Tethering his horse, he made for the entrance door. I’ll get Beth back from him or die in the attempt.

  He slammed the heavy brass knocker against the stout wooden door and waited. A tall, middle-aged woman appeared.

  “Is Martin Mulvaney in? I’m Alistair Campbell.”

  With a thumping heart, he followed the housekeeper into a dim hallway. Massive wooden beams held up the vaulted ceiling. Their footsteps clattered on the cobble-stoned floor, bouncing off the mahogany paneled walls. An evil aura hung over the place and a cold dampness filled him with dread.

  “Wait here.” The housekeeper pushed open a heavy door before disappearing. Alone, he paced the long dark hall. What a horrible, spooky place, even worse than grandfather had described.

  The woman returned within a couple of minutes. “Come this way, Mr. Mulvaney will spare you a few minutes.” She held the door open then glided away like a silent ghost.

  “So, we meet again,” Martin sneered. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from one of the Campbells?”