Kidnapped: His Innocent Mistress Read online

  The exhaustion had left me and I was ravenously hungry. I lay for a little while, looking around the interior of our shelter. It was little more than a hut, really, with one room inside, where the fire was now burned out in the grate. My bed and the rickety stool took up most of the space, although there was a small table over beneath the window.

  I got out of bed slowly, because I was still very stiff and sore, and dragged myself across the room to wash in a tin basin that the fisherman had evidently left behind. There was fresh water in the tin mug, which Neil must have supplied before he disappeared. And there was a tin plate, which I held up and used as a mirror—then wished I had not. Even though it was dull and speckled it showed enough of my face to make me realise that I looked a dreadful fright. I had a cut on my cheek and another at my temple, a series of bruises along one cheekbone that were turning a most unattractive purple colour, and my hair defied description. I suspected that I was going to have to ask Neil to cut it off if we could find a knife, because it was knotted beyond salvation. The rest of my body was not much better, covered in multi-coloured bruises, cut, scratched and scored by rocks and sand.

  I found my clothes hanging on a makeshift line across one corner of the room. They were bone-dry and crumpled, but at least my bodice was wearable, even if my skirts were tattered and in shreds. I set my teeth as I re-tied the sacking around my waist, for the twine was rough on my hands, but I managed it through sheer will power. Once that was done I felt able at last to go out to investigate my surroundings.

  The sun was shining on our croft, which was small and primitive, whitewashed, with a thick turf roof. It might once have been a nice little dwelling, for it was set back from the cove on a low plateau of machair, where the grass grew through the sandy dunes and the last of the summer wildflowers bent in the soft breeze. It was protected from the westerly gales by an outcrop of rock that was almost big enough to be called a hill. Behind the house I could hear the splashing of the spring from which Neil must have fetched the drinking water. I walked barefoot and wincing around the outside, found the water, which poured into a crystal-clear pool, and saw that beyond it the land rose to another high point to the south, a bare quarter mile away. It was immediately apparent that there were no other buildings on the island, and that it was in fact so small it barely deserved the name of island and was more of an islet.

  My shoes had been lost long since in the shipwreck, so I walked carefully in my bare feet to the top of the rising land. From here it was possible to see the whole of our isle laid out about me. It was rocky and heather clad above, where the low cliffs met the blue sky and the seabirds wheeled on the edge of the breeze. To the east there was clear water for what I reckoned to be almost fifty miles across to the mainland at Ardnamurchan. This was the Sea of the Hebrides and, recalling the maps on my father’s schoolroom wall, I knew that north of here lay the islands of Barra, the Uists, Benbecula, Harris and Lewis, whilst to the east lay Skye and Mull with their scattering of smaller islets.

  My mind was already running on the idea of escape, for although our temporary home seemed a very earthly paradise on this calm and sunny day, it lacked food and just about everything in the way of supplies. And although I am not the sort of woman who requires hours before the dressing table with her pots and potions, I do need good food and a proper skirt to wear rather than a sack. It might be possible, I thought, to attract the attention of some passing ship if we lit a beacon on this small hill. Certainly a crofter on the island of Barra might see our smoke and come to investigate. Of course there was the small problem of a lack of firewood, for there were no trees that I could see, and I remembered that Neil had built up the fire with peat the previous night. Frowning over this latest setback, I made my way gently down to the white sand beach, where I had glimpsed Neil, scavenging amongst the rocks.

  The beautiful curving beach was littered with debris from the ship. More of it bobbed in the lagoon behind the huge reef, where the Cormorant had been wrecked. Little lazy waves were washing things up on the shore—spars of broken wood that I immediately realised we could dry out and use for the fire, rope and rigging, and a couple of barrels.

  ‘Look at this, Catriona!’ Neil shouted as I drew closer. He was brandishing what looked like a long bale of tartan cloth in one hand and a bottle in the other. ‘We have rum and salted pork, and beef in the crates!’

  My stomach gave a long, loud rumble at the thought of this delicious feast. I caught Neil’s excitement and darted about on the sand, finding all sorts of treasures: a bone comb here, a spoon there, ship’s biscuits, bread and oatmeal. Finally, when we had gathered together a magpie’s hoard of goods, we collapsed on the sand to prise open the crate of beef and eat our fill, washing it down with the rum. Then we dozed in the sunshine.

  ‘I am so relieved,’ I said, ‘that we will not have to live on seabirds. I hear they taste both salty and fishy.’

  ‘I’d like to see you try to catch one,’ Neil said lazily.

  ‘I could catch a fish if I had a line,’ I said, stung.

  ‘We must make one for you, then,’ Neil said. ‘For a diet of salt meat will not be good for us.’

  ‘There are berries amongst the heather,’ I said, ‘and there is oatmeal for porridge, and bread.’

  ‘The bread is ruined by sea water, I am afraid,’ Neil said.

  ‘Well, there are biscuits,’ I argued, ‘and shellfish in these pools.’

  ‘Poisonous,’ Neil said. ‘I almost died from eating raw shellfish when I was a child.’

  ‘You are such a Jonah,’ I said. ‘It is no wonder that the ship sank.’ I started to try to pull the comb through my hair, wincing as it caught on the tangles and knots. As fast as I managed to unravel one, another caught on the teeth, making me flinch again. I could not even reach around to the back of my head, for my shoulders were too stiff to raise.

  Having watched my struggles for several minutes, Neil shifted closer to me.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘give that to me.’

  I handed the comb over reluctantly, I confess. There is nothing worse than a ham-fisted person pulling on one’s hair. But Neil was extraordinarily gentle as he plied the comb, patiently teasing out each curl and tendril, loosening the knots. The sun was hot on my back and the rum was warm in my blood, and I felt soft and melting and breathless beneath his ministrations.

  ‘You have done this before,’ I accused, glancing at him over my shoulder as he worked, the intent, concentrated look on his face making me smile. ‘You are a most accomplished lady’s maid.’

  He looked up, his fingers still in my hair, and his dark gaze trapped and held mine. Slowly, very slowly, he drew me closer to him, until my lips were touching his. The kiss was different this time, gentle and sweet, because he was being very tender and careful of my injuries. But it was different in another way too; it felt deeper, more profound, and it hit me with all the emotional power of a storm wave. This was not the calculated seduction of a rake. Nor was it the triumphant possession of the victor saluting his comrade-in-arms. It was hot and sweet and terrifying, and yet the summit of my most tender and secret desires.

  I pressed even closer to Neil, seeking urgency beneath the sweetness until we both tumbled backwards into the bed of a sand dune and he kissed me harder, his tongue tangling with mine in an intimate dance. His hand was inside my bodice, the palm warm against my breast. I felt so soft and sensuous, and so desperately in need of something I barely understood and yet ached for with the very essence of my being.

  Then Neil wrenched himself away.

  ‘Catriona,’ he said, and his voice was very rough. ‘There is no power on earth that is going to keep you a maid if we do this.’

  He got to his feet, tension in every line of his body, and turned his back on me. After a few moments he strode away along the beach without another word.

  I struggled into a sitting position and watched him walk away. Now that the beat of excitement was fading from my blood I felt bruised and c
old and confused. I understood well enough what Neil had meant, and I also knew I had my share of the responsibility in helping him. If Neil was trying to do the honourable thing and keep away from me to avoid seducing me, it ill became me to tempt him to do otherwise. It was hard; I was young, I was in love with him, and my body wanted him. But I had to remember that one day soon we would be going back to a life and a society that made rules that a young unmarried girl broke at her peril.

  That was why I had turned Neil down when he had first asked me to be his mistress. I could not have had him and kept my honour, too. And though I might now be swept away in the heat of the moment, life had already taught me harsh lessons about how vulnerable was a woman on her own, with no money and no connections and nothing standing between her and ruin. I might be impulsive, but I also have a strong streak of practicality in me. I loved Neil, and I wanted to make love with him, but I was already thinking about what would happen when he tired of me—as surely he would. Neil had a short attention span when it came to women. I knew that. So when his gaze wandered from me what would I do? I did not want to be a professional mistress, moving from lover to lover. He was the only man I wanted, but if I could not have him for ever then better not at all.

  I wandered slowly back towards the croft, carrying the bolt of tartan and another bolt of muslin. All afternoon, until my feet were too sore to carry me, I carried bits and pieces of stores back from the beach, and fetched fresh heather for the bed. I left Neil be. He had collected a pile of timber from the beach, but I knew it was not for a beacon. I could see that he was making himself a cot, so that he would not be obliged to share a bed with me or take the cold stone floor.

  In order to help I fetched a piece of rigging that had snarled itself on the rocks and fastened it across a corner of the croft, so that it partitioned off the space that had my bed in it. Then I draped the bolt of muslin over the rigging like a sheet. Well pleased with myself, I lit the fire and heated some water in a battered pan I had found on the beach.

  When Neil came back he was carrying a very neatly made wooden bunk. He looked from my makeshift bedroom to the tiny space left for him beside the window and his lips curved into a rueful smile.

  ‘I have the better billet,’ I said. ‘I am afraid you are in the draught.’

  He laughed, and some of the tightness went from his face.

  ‘I am glad to see,’ I continued, nodding at the bed, ‘that you are not an inadequate aristocrat who cannot fend for himself.’

  ‘That is Navy training for you,’ Neil said dryly. He looked about the croft. ‘You have scarcely been idle yourself.’

  ‘There is porridge for supper,’ I said, ‘and hot water to wash.’ Then, feeling I was sounding a little too wifely, I said quickly, ‘Neil, I do understand—’

  ‘Do you?’ he said swiftly. ‘I am not sure that I even understand myself.’

  I waited. He put the bed down slowly and stood there, looking at me. There was confusion in his eyes, and anger, and desire. My heart did a slow somersault to see it.

  ‘When I first knew you and asked you to be my mistress,’ Neil said, ‘I was trying my luck. I used to do that with women.’ He sounded disgusted with himself. ‘Sometimes it worked and sometimes it did not. It was a game to me and I seldom cared. I thought it was what young men did.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said again. ‘I met Miss McIntosh.’

  Neil laughed harshly. ‘Yes. I tried my luck with her. She agreed. You did not. You and Celeste McIntosh…’ He shook his head. ‘So different. What was I thinking?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, not really sure what he was trying to say, but moved by the violence of his tone. I thought about Celeste McIntosh, with her sleek auburn hair and her slender, rounded body. ‘Actually,’ I added, incurably truthful, ‘I can quite imagine what you were thinking.’

  ‘Yes,’ Neil said, ‘because I am a man and I desired her and I did not really care that she was avaricious and spoilt and calculating. In fact I never really cared for her at all.’ He looked at me. ‘You were different from the start,’ he said. ‘I told you that at Glen Clair, didn’t I? I never knew where I stood with you. It fascinated me.’

  His gaze was dark and intense on me and I could scarcely breathe.

  ‘If you had agreed to my proposition…’ he said.

  ‘I would not have been the woman I am,’ I said, trying to be brisk. ‘The porridge will be burning.’

  Neil caught my hand as I would have moved past him to the fire. ‘I like thick porridge,’ he murmured. He cupped my chin, and his eyes searched my face as though looking for the answer to some question. ‘I did not really know you then,’ he said. ‘Now I do, and I admire you even more, Catriona.’ His face darkened. ‘I admire you so much that I could never take you and discard you at whim, as I had once planned to do, paying you off like a cheap whore. The idea is abhorrent to me.’ Once again his gaze scoured my face. ‘I care for you so much, Catriona, and you know that I desire you, but…’

  It was that ‘but’ that prevented me from pouring out my love for him there and then. I can be appallingly frank with my feelings at times, but I do have my pride, and in that one small word lay all the difference between us.

  I care for you so much, Catriona, but I do not love you.

  That was what Neil had been trying to find the words to say. And I sensed in his wariness and hesitation that there was more. Neil did not want to love me, and he did not want my love in return. If it had not seemed so absurd I would have said that love frightened him in some way. I looked at him and saw the conflict in him, and I felt so old and wise, for all that he was eight years my senior.

  ‘I cannot offer you what you deserve,’ Neil said. His hand dropped from my cheek. He sounded tortured. ‘You deserve someone who will love you utterly for the woman you are, and I can never love like that. I do not even wish to. So I will not spoil matters for you, Catriona, by taking what I want selfishly and in the process ruining your life.’

  ‘Neil!’ His name burst from me in shock and instinctive denial, but already he was withdrawing from me, turning away, his whole figure stiff with the force of his own denial.

  I went back to the fire and stirred the porridge pot vigorously. My throat ached with unshed tears because he did not love me, but I knew I could not let him see how much it hurt me. Somehow I had to protect myself and build a different relationship with Neil—at least whilst we were trapped here together.

  I had no thought to try and change his mind. I knew that I would be able to seduce him easily enough if I tried, but that would be unfair when he had done the first unselfish thing ever in his relationship with a woman by repudiating me now, before it was too late. Besides, I knew that though we might know physical passion together I would always want more, always want his love as well, and so in the end I would feel unfulfilled. There would always be something missing. There was nothing so sad or so unequal as unrequited love.

  Love. All the poetry and prose I had read had warned me it could be painful. Now I knew it was true.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In which I attempt to fall out of love and fail miserably.

  After that I think that both Neil and I held back from each other a little. It felt awkward at first, particularly when we were obliged to share so small a living space, and I missed the intimacy that had been building between us. Neil was better at withholding himself than I was, for I am so spontaneous and open a person that I could no more be cold and distant with him than I could fly off that island. Neil, in contrast, seemed adept at keeping some part of himself locked away. I suspected that he had always been able to do this, especially with women, and it frustrated and hurt me. A part of me wanted to force him back to the intimacy we had once shared, to demand that he be himself again. At times I was almost bursting with the things that I wanted to say to him. Yet I knew that the only way we could survive this exile together was with a workable truce, so I held my tongue. I suppose you could say that I grew
up.

  During the day we both went our separate ways, insofar as that was possible on such a small island. I would sweep the croft and fetch fresh heather for our bedding, air the covers—our sacking blankets had been replaced by a motley collection of materials salvaged from the wreck—and forage for shellfish in the pools and berries on the hillside. I had persuaded Neil to eat the shellfish, and so far we had both survived.

  Neil collected wood and built the beacon. This was more complicated than it might sound, since every time we had dried the wood out in the wind and the sun a rainstorm would come along and threaten to soak it all again, or the wind would blow up a gale from the west and scatter the timber like firewood. Sometimes we did get it to light, and the fire puffed and hissed fitfully, but if anyone saw our smoke they never came. Occasionally we would see sails far out on the horizon, and the smoke from homesteads to the north on Barra, so we knew that we were not alone in the wide world, but still no one came.

  On the days when the wind blew the storms in, Neil would disappear off to some makeshift shelter he had built, where he worked the driftwood into fantastical shapes, or constructed bits of furniture to make our croft more cosy—a shutter for the window that fitted properly and kept out the draught; a chair with a back and arms to replace the rickety stool. I decorated the little house with shells from the beach and the wood Neil had carved, and even with bits of coloured net washed up on the rocks, until he complained that there was scarcely room to move in there with all the ornaments.

  At night I retired modestly to my bed behind the muslin wall and Neil waited politely until I had disappeared before undressing and taking the cot beside the window. I would lie listening to the sound of his breathing as he fell asleep, feeling so close to him, wanting to reach beyond the barrier that was between us. Neil was scrupulously careful to avoid touching me except in the most impersonal way when he passed me a plate at supper, for example, or helped me over the rocks on the rare occasions that we might take a walk together.