Savage Possession Page 7

  “You know why I’m here. I’ve come to take Beth home.” The pistol stuck in his belt and hidden under his coat, gave Alistair the confidence to stand up to his foe.

  “We’re married. She’s carrying my child and belongs here with me.” His voice sounded cold, implacable.

  Alistair launched himself at his enemy.

  Martin grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him against the wall. “Leave my house or I’ll send for the law.”

  “I won’t leave until I see Beth.” Alistair fought to escape Martin’s iron grip.

  “Damn you, Campbell.” He released his hold and stepped back. “She’s lost her memory and won’t know you.”

  “What’s all the commotion?” Storm hurried into the study. “Oh, we have a visitor.”

  “Beth, it’s Alistair, don’t you remember me? I’m your brother.”

  Martin watched the boy’s face contort with pain as Storm shook her head, and pressed up close to him. He rested his chin on her hair and placed his palms against her stomach in a possessive gesture.

  “She’s started a new life here with me and is finished with you Campbells, so get out.”

  “Beth, please.”

  Alistair moved closer to them, and Martin watched in surprise as he pushed the sleeve of his coat up to expose his left wrist. He grabbed Storm’s hand and drew her away.

  “Undo your sleeve.”

  Storm glanced at Martin, who shrugged. “Do what he asks.” What was the young whelp up to now?

  Alistair pushed Storm’s right sleeve up, raised his arm and chanted several words in some alien tongue. Martin watched in shock when she raised her arm also.

  “Cruachan,” they said in unison as their wrists touched.

  “Alistair!”

  Storm gave an anguished cry. Martin leapt over and caught her as she sank to the floor.

  “Put me down.” She kicked and squirmed, raining desperate blows at his chest. “Who is he, Alistair?”

  “Martin Mulvaney.”

  Her struggles grew even more desperate. “Put me down. Why am I here?”

  Martin stared into her frightened blue eyes. They belonged to a stranger. His little storm girl was gone, and he mourned her as if she had died. He was now saddled with a wife who thought him the devil incarnate. Without a word, he pushed her into a chair.

  “What am I doing here?” Fear filled her eyes as she glanced around.

  “You live here now, Elizabeth.” The agony of his loss hardened his voice. “I’m your husband.”

  “Liar. I want to go home to…” her voice faltered and trailed off.

  “It’s true,” Alistair said. “Mulvaney tricked you.”

  “Enough,” Martin roared. “I found you half dead on my doorstep one night. You’d lost your memory.”

  Beth stared at the ruthless, arrogant man bending over her. What a giant, well over six feet in height. Black hair, curled untidily into his collar. His rugged features were imposing rather than handsome. He had full sensuous lips, and the deep lines gouging either side of his mouth did not detract from his good looks. His iron jaw appeared set, determined. This man was not to be trifled with. Hard and lean looking, he had sprung across the room with the speed and grace of a panther. His skin was tanned, his piercing, deep blue eyes hostile.

  She raised her trembling left hand and caught sight of the simple gold wedding band on her finger. The dreadful truth slammed into her with the force of a tornado. She was indeed married to Martin Mulvaney.

  “But why? Why did grandfather agree?”

  “Because, Beth, because,” Alistair’s mouth worked.

  “You’re carrying my child.”

  She felt the warmth drain from her face. A tremendous roar almost ruptured her eardrums, yet instinctively her hand went to pat her stomach.

  Martin obviously misunderstood the involuntary movement and his jaw took on a determined thrust. “Harm my child and you’ll live to regret it.” He turned on his heel and strode out of the study. Beth collapsed into Alistair’s arms.

  “What happened? How could I marry him? How could I have his baby?”

  “Mulvaney forced grandfather to sign the consent form, threatened to tell everyone about you having a child out of wedlock. This is my fault.” He clenched his fists and slammed them against the sides of his legs. “Why did I touch his wretched horse? I should never have let you come over here alone.”

  “Oh, Alistair.” She felt shaken and desperate. “What can we do?” She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her cheek against his chest.

  “I don’t know. When grandfather told me, I raced over. I thought he must have got confused, but the moment I saw Mulvaney’s gloating face I knew.” His eyes darkened with anguish. “Because of me you’re stuck here with that devil, unless we take to the ranges and join up with the Kelly gang.”

  Beth fought to control herself. Her head throbbed, her mind was in turmoil and she wondered how she could even speak at all. “If I’m having a baby,” she patted her stomach again, “I couldn’t. Martin would come after me. He’d hound me into the ground, never give up.”

  Alistair dragged his fingers through his hair until it stood on end. “We could hide out in the hut until I get enough money for us to go somewhere else.”

  “What about grandfather?”

  “Him, too.”

  “How could you support an old man, me and a baby,” she whispered sadly.

  “I’ll do it somehow.”

  There would be only one way open to him. Become an outlaw and end up being shot by the police or dangling from the gallows. She could not let him do it, no matter what sacrifice she had to make.

  She willed herself not to cry. “No, I have to stay here.”

  “But, Beth.”

  “It won’t be so bad. I’ve always wanted a baby.” She wondered how she could speak without going into hysterics.

  “Not one sired by Mulvaney.”

  They argued heatedly. Alistair pleaded, begged and threatened, but to no avail. There was no option except to stay here in this damp, dingy castle, and somehow try to make a life for herself as Martin Mulvaney’s wife. He had saved her from dying of exposure in a storm and she wore expensive clothes, so he must be capable of some kindness, no matter what grandfather said about him. What a handsome man, and the feel of his hands had not been repulsive. Quite the reverse. She would have shared his bed for many weeks. Did she enjoy it? Yes, because butterflies somersaulted in her stomach and heat pooled between her thighs at his touch.

  Beth stayed close to Alistair as they left the house, and she waited without speaking for him to untie his horse. With the reins looped through his arm, they walked down the driveway together. At the carved iron gates, he mounted, leaned down to give her a farewell kiss, and left her standing alone, shivering with cold and fear.

  She should have put a coat on over her cream muslin blouse with the flimsy leg o’mutton sleeves. The clouds hung low and sullen, ready to launch an avalanche of water at any moment.

  Huge trees on either side of the drive guarded the place like silent sentinels. In some sections, the creeper-clad branches met and formed a leafy canopy overhead. As she trudged up into the front courtyard, she noticed the sandstone walls were water stained and black with grime. The castle looked grim and forbidding against the wintry sky.

  “Where have you been?” Martin demanded before her foot even touched the doorstep. “Do you want to catch pneumonia?”

  “I went to see Alistair off.”

  “I thought you might have gone with him.” Bitterness edged his voice as he steered her into the sitting room with a hand in the small of her back.

  A fire crackled in the open fireplace and she hurried over to it, holding out her hands to the flames. “How could I go with him? Did you do this terrible thing to me because I’m a Campbell?”

  “I didn’t know you were a Campbell when you first came here. I found you half dead on my doorstep, raving about the Black Stallion. I ass
umed you were one of Ollie’s whores.”

  Her head jerked up and she expelled a shocked breath. “The Black Stallion bordello?”

  “Yes.”

  He actually believed she worked in a place like that? “Have I been here long?”

  She glanced around the room with its shabby burgundy carpet and dark, heavy furniture. A melancholic, neglected air prevailed, sending a shiver through her as she sat on the edge of a brocade armchair.

  “About two months.” He pulled a cord near the fireplace. “I’ve rung for my housekeeper Mrs. Irvine to bring us tea. You need something to warm you up.”

  He didn’t care about her; the welfare of the child she carried was what worried him. Standing in front of the fireplace, with his hands behind his back, legs slightly apart, he looked as cold and remote as a granite statue.

  “You’re exhausted, Elizabeth, you should lie down for a while before dinner.”

  She wanted to argue with him, but a sudden overwhelming tiredness sapped her spirit, left her weak and lightheaded.

  Mrs. Irvine came in with a tray holding an antique silver tea service and two bone china cups. “Elizabeth will pour, thank you.” He nodded his dismissal.

  He watched as she filled the teacups. “Black for me thanks.”

  Handing him the cup, her hand shook so much the liquid slopped into the saucer. They drank in an ominous silence. Beth refused his offer of a piece of fruitcake, and he ate nothing himself. When they finished, she rose to her feet and without a word followed him down a passageway and up the carpeted stairs. She had lived here for two months yet did not know her way around. What a nightmare.

  “The bedrooms are all upstairs. I can show you around tomorrow, you don’t look up to it now. Mrs. Irvine has her own separate quarters near the kitchen.”

  He held open a heavy oak door for her to enter. “This is the master bedroom.”

  The enormous room had dark wood paneling. A quick glance around showed heavy velvet drapes on the windows and a massive four-poster bed with faded blue hangings. Age and neglect marred what had once been a beautiful room.

  The Huon pine bedroom suite consisted of a mirror door wardrobe, a pedestal cupboard, towel horse and a chest of drawers. The one spot of brightness was a tapestry depicting a lake scene, which dominated one wall.

  “The door over there leads to my dressing room. Pull the bell cord if you need anything.”

  Once he left the room, Beth stumbled to the bed and turned the covers back. Slipping out of her clothes, she slid between white satin sheets embroidered with the initials MM in one corner. What was it like sharing a bed with Martin Mulvaney? Had he been cruel to her? She would have remembered surely? There were no bruises on her skin, no red stripes on her backside or legs from a cane, so he had not beaten her like many men did their wives. She let herself drift into sleep.

  Beth awoke with a start a couple of hours later. Glancing around the room, she decided in the half-light its appearance had not improved much. Everything looked old and heavy. New drapes to replace the dull blue ones, pretty pictures, a knick-knack or two would make the room a little more appealing.

  A knock came to the door. “Come in.”

  The housekeeper entered. “Mr. Mulvaney instructed me to tell you dinner will be served in twenty minutes.” Beth nodded and Mrs. Irvine withdrew in silence.

  The bed was high up from the floor. She climbed down then dressed in the clothes she had previously worn. After tidying up her hair by pushing a few loosened strands behind her ears, she ventured downstairs, her feet carefully placed on the narrow treads, her trembling hand gripping the stair rail.

  She followed her nose to the kitchen where a large bread oven took up almost the whole of one wall. In the evening darkness, two lanterns suspended from the ceiling threw out a mellow light.

  Mrs. Irvine raised her eyebrows on seeing Beth in her domain. “You shouldn’t be here, Mrs. Mulvaney, the Master wishes you to go to the small drawing room.”

  “I got lost.”

  “Yes, things must be difficult for you,” the housekeeper soothed. “Come this way. When you’re up to it, we can discuss household matters.”

  Back in the hall, they passed numerous closed doors. Would she ever find her way around this huge, gloomy place?

  The small drawing room had Chinese matting on the floor and a suite of cane furniture. She glanced at the gilded wall clock. The time was a few minutes to eight.

  Martin reclined in a chair, puffing on a cigar, but swung to his feet when he saw her. “Are you rested now, Elizabeth?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Could I offer you a drink? I have whisky myself.”

  “I don’t drink alcohol.”

  “You’re a strange, unworldly little thing. I’ve known many women in my time, but no one quite like you.” Would he be able to change her? Storm had been innocent, also, and he had taught her all the carnal delights a man and a woman could share. A girl with no memory was a different proposition to Fergus Campbell’s granddaughter.

  He pulled out a chair for her, and without speaking, returned to the head of the table.

  “Is Mrs. Irvine your only house servant?”

  “Yes, unless I have guests, then the wives of my trainers help out.”

  “This seems a big place for one servant to maintain.”

  “There’s not much use keeping a lot of staff. My needs are few. Many of the rooms are closed, have been for years. I don’t spend a great deal of time here.”

  In truth, the castle fueled his bitterness. If not for the fact he liked to keep an eye on the racehorses he bred here, he would sell the place and never return. Maybe then, the memories and guilt would disappear.

  At nine years of age, his childhood innocence had been cruelly snatched away. He would have done anything to save himself from Black Jack’s ferocious beatings. Even now, he could remember the sting of the cane on his bare backside and legs, the snap of the horsewhip cutting into his back and shoulders.

  Guilt still riddled him for sacrificing the young maid, Emily Parsons, to his father’s savagery and debauchery to save his own scrawny hide. He swallowed his wine in a couple of gulps, sloshed more into his glass and brooded on the painful memories.

  Poor Emily, one of the ragged, half-starved immigrant girls Black Jack always employed. None of them stayed for more than a few months. Here one day, gone the next. Of their own free will when they managed to save a few pennies, or driven away when their bellies were filled with one of Black Jack’s bastards.

  The maids were expected to work in the house, but also to make themselves available whenever their master wanted them. His father roamed the castle most nights randomly making his selection. How often had he heard the young girls scream?

  Many times, he had watched his father drag some unfortunate maid down to the cellars. Punishment for insolence or laziness he always said. It worked though. The girls bowed to his will after only one session in the cellar.

  He followed his father down there one day. If only he hadn’t. Jack’s inventiveness only surpassed his cruelty. He had set one of the cellars up as a sexual torture chamber.

  Manacles hung from the walls and ceiling. There were whips and chains of various types, iron chastity belts, crotch chains, anything connected with the torture of a woman’s genitalia. It took years for him to realize what these devices were used for.

  This one terrible night with Emily still haunted him. Jack ripped off the thin night shift she wore, tied her hands together then hooked them over a steel spike and proceeded to flog her. Emily screamed and pleaded for mercy, but Jack laughed and beat her even harder.

  After about five minutes, he summoned up the courage to beg his father. “Don’t hurt her.”

  “Shut up, boy or I’ll give you a taste of the whip. You’ll stay here now to watch me you inquisitive little sod. If this slut gets away, I’ll flail the skin off your scrawny hide instead.”

  He was forced to stand and watch his father ra
pe Emily. He shuddered at the horrible memory.

  After finishing with Emily, Jack strolled off singing some dirty sailor’s ditty, leaving him standing there, too terrified to move.

  “Help me, Marty,” Emily begged. “Untie my hands. If I don’t get away he’ll kill me.”

  She did not receive any help from him. When he could move, he dashed upstairs and hid under his bed, leaving Emily to his father’s mercy. A few days later, he plucked up the courage to ask about her.

  “Ungrateful slut ran away,” Jack snarled. “Don’t ask me about her again, or I’ll flog you.”

  Did she succumb to her terrible ordeal in the cellar, or somehow manage to escape? To this day, he never knew what happened. Every now and again, something triggered the memory and he would re-live the nightmare.

  He should have helped her, but had been too fearful for his own hide. After Emily, it took years for him to pluck up the courage to venture down into the cellars again.

  “What’s wrong?” Beth asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  His face had become white and set, his eyes almost glazed over. He appeared to be in the throes of a terrible nightmare even though he was awake.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” By sheer force of will, he seemed to pull himself together.

  Beth acknowledged how hungry she was when the first course arrived - pumpkin soup, served from an engraved silver tureen. Roast lamb and mint sauce followed this. Martin insisted she try a small glass of light red wine. The first mouthful tasted bitter, although it would be a good vintage. Wealthy men would not partake of anything else. Grandfather swore the Mulvaneys made their fortune on the death and suffering of immigrants who sailed on their ancient leaky ships.

  Beth finished off with currant dumplings and golden syrup. Mrs. Irvine could certainly cook.

  When Martin finished eating, he said. “I prefer simple food myself, although you can discuss the menu with Mrs. Irvine if you wish.”

  “I enjoyed the meal, I’m quite happy for the housekeeping to continue as before.”

  “Please yourself. As my wife, you are now mistress of this house. Don’t ever forget it.”