Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
F iona
I can’t stop thinking about the feel of his fingers stroking me. His big, warm, rough hand spanking me. His lips kissing me. The way it made me feel to have him dominate me. The pleasure that tore through me when he touched me without my consent.
I’m overwhelmed by Freya’s constant comments about our upcoming nuptials—a wedding that I have not agreed to, and his threats of punishments I haven’t accepted.
Before he can touch me again, I have to escape.
It only took a quarter of an hour to place my meager but neatly folded wardrobe into the dresser. When they thought I was unpacking, I planned, plotted, and found my escape route. As I pace my room, I’m almost sad to go. The house is a dream. The room is pleasant and pretty, and Freya is lovely company.
Still, I must go.
I think of my father’s absence this morning when I was abducted. Has Callum taken him somewhere, or worse, hurt him? Or was Dad just down at the pub all day, coming home and passing out in his bed? No idea that I’m even missing. I haven’t had much time to worry about Dad. But that’s okay because now I’m returning to him.
Back to the island.
Earlier today, after the beast spanked me in the Great Hall, he said, “Join me for tea. Five o’clock sharp. We can discuss our upcoming wedding.”
He gave a dark chuckle, the sound echoing through the large room as he exited.
Angry, humiliated, and spent, I ran over to a chair and collapsed into it. Resting my arms on the cool wood tabletop, I fanned my face, trying to compose myself. At that moment, I realized Callum would never accept me paying my father’s debts in a reasonable way, such as becoming a staff member of his castle.
He’s a determined man who gets what he wants. He wasn’t going to stop until I had a ring on my finger and Burnes as my last name. Destined to be…his bride.
Sitting in that beautiful Great Hall that was to become mine, I knew I had to escape. I grabbed my bowl from where I left it and headed to the kitchen to find help. A full staff was inside, and the heavenly smells of food cooking as they bustled about in clean white aprons filled the air.
“Madam. Welcome!” A full-bellied man with a chef’s hat and a black beard, a sleeve of colorful tattoos running down his arm, greeted me with a smile.
Maybe he could help.
“Come, Fiona,” he said, holding up a spoon. “Taste this for me. Tomorrow’s tea. Tell me if it needs more salt.” Holding up a spoon from the massive pot he’s cooking with, he hovers it over the top, waiting for me.
He knew my name?
“Do I know you?” I asked.
“No,” he said with a smile. “But we’ve been expecting you, love. I’m Chef and we’ve all been eager to meet the woman who will finally make an honest man of our Callum.”
I shook my head. “That’s not going to be happening. I’m here to see if someone can help me get home. To the island?”
“Come, come! Taste this.” He held out the spoon further, demanding.
The always-there need to be polite overtook my current need to escape. I slipped over to him, shyly letting him put the spoon in my mouth. I was treated to an explosion of flavors. “Cullen Skink.” A thick soup my mother used to cook. “That’s delicious.”
“The smoked haddock was only just delivered this morning,” Chef said. “Fresh as fresh can be.”
A bubbly voice piped up from the far side of the kitchen. “And there’ll be shortbread for a sweet treat tomorrow!”
“That’s Nan,” Chef said. “She does the desserts. ”
“Hello!” I offered the small woman a wave over Chef’s shoulder. “I love shortbread.”
She gave a friendly smile and went back to her dough.
Chef was so kind, maybe he’d offer me help. Did he not hear me before? I’d try again. “Chef, I was surprised to find myself brought here today. I had no idea about any of this. Could you maybe?—”
He said, “For breakfast, we’ll have porridge, of course. But no ordinary bland goo you may have had on the island. I make mine thick with fresh cream and wild blueberries from our hills.”
“Mmm…That sounds lovely. But back to my question?—”
“We’ll need to discuss the cake,” Nan’s little voice piped up. “I do love a good wedding cake.”
Chef belly laughed. “God, yes! Where would a bride be without her wedding cake. Are you a vanilla lass or a chocoholic?”
“I love chocolate but don’t see it as fit for weddings.” I cleared my throat, clutching my bowl for confidence, and declared, “And like I tried to tell you, there’s not going to be any wedding?—”
Nan cried, “A girl after my own heart! A wedding cake must be white. Am I right?”
At that point, Chef and Nan ignored me completely, getting into a deep conversation about the ins and outs of a proper wedding cake. They were just about to devolve into cussing over raspberry jam filling when I finally slipped out and made my exit. Disappointed I’d gotten nowhere in the kitchen, I headed off to find Freya, thinking she would help me escape.
She was nowhere to be found.
I retreated to my room, put my clothes away, and pretended to settle in while I made a plan. I was sure he’d be watching my bedroom door tonight. The only way out would be the balcony out the back.
I spent the next hours tying together every sheet, curtain, and long, strong fabric I could find into an emergency ladder, a trick I learned at the local college when I took a paramedic course as an elective, a way to get out of a two-story building in case of being trapped by a fire.
The time flew by as I focused. I was shocked to find the clock had turned five. Not wanting to raise any suspicions, I dressed and hurried to the parlor for tea as quickly as possible.
I tried to stay calm during the meal but was on edge the entire time, nerves flooding my body. I did well. My only slip-up was when I could no longer bite my tongue and told Callum his home was perfect for him and his sister.
Insinuating it was not for me.
Now, I lock the bedroom door. I run to the chest at the foot of the bed where I’ve hidden my ladder.
I plan on tying it to the strong iron railing of the balcony and climbing down. I can’t risk bringing Mam’s big bowl with me, but once I’m safe on the island, I'll get it somehow. The cab fare home will be dear, but I’ll go straight to Bayne and Kitt’s house once I get off the ferry. Bayne works with Callum. He’ll know what to do.
Wait…are they back from their honeymoon? They didn’t put an end date to their trip, Kitt saying, I’ll see you when I see you. I have no idea if they’re back. I do know the security code for their home alarm system. Kitt told me to use it anytime. If they’re not home, at least their house is safe to hide in while I work on a plan.
I lift the lid and look inside the chest. I know the ladder will be there, but still, I sigh with relief when I lay eyes on it. It’s there, right where I left it, neatly folded and ready for use. I lift my makeshift escape tool from the chest. It’s heavy and longer than I remember making it. Tiptoeing to the balcony, I keep my breath even as I go, trying to remain calm.
One mistake, and I could fall two stories to the ground, risking serious injury. Not to mention the punishment that would be in store for me if he caught me trying to escape. He made the dangers of the city clear, as well as the fact that there would be consequences.
Ones that would leave my skin searing and my pussy aching.
My hand shakily reaches for the doorknob of one of the balcony doors, forgetting I’d locked it earlier. Before I can unlatch it, a knock startles me out of my skin. I jump a thousand meters. Oh Lord!
I’m feeling a bit…damp…down there. Perhaps a small puddling. “Goodness, no,” I hiss to myself.
Do I answer the door? Or go for my plan? If I don’t answer, there’s no way I’d have enough time to leave the property without being caught.
I stand there gripping my ladder, my heart pounding against my ribs.
The knock comes again .
This time, I manage to hold my bladder.
Finally, I answer. “Coming.”
Dashing to the foot of the bed, I stuff the ladder back in the chest, quietly closing the lid. Grabbing the fuzzy pink robe that hangs on the back of the door, I wrap it around my dress, tying the waistband tight. “Be right there!”
I unlock the door, opening it to find Freya’s smiling face. She’s changed into black silk pajamas, her blonde hair piled high on the top of her head in a messy knot that somehow looks magazine-ready. “Hello, sweetheart. I just wanted to see if you need anything?”
“I’m good. Tea was lovely. I’m just going to hop in the shower. Then I’ll be right down.”
“Do you like board games?” Her eyes light from within. “I love Scrabble, but Callum won’t play. He says it’s boring, but I think it’s because I always beat him.”
“Scrabble?” Glamorous Freya, so cool in school with her smokes and short skirts, likes Scrabble.
“But that’s my favorite game,” I say.
She claps her hands like an excited little girl. “I’ll make us some popcorn and hot chocolate. Well, I’ll have Chef and Nan do it. They don’t let me in the kitchen. You burn one frozen pizza, and I swear, people act like you set the house on fire. Okay, well, there was a wee little flame in the oven, but?—”
The escape plan grows further from my mind. The idea of being fireside, having a girl chat, drinking cocoa and playing Scrabble is appealing…
But focused on the mission at hand, I think of my dad .
I picture him home alone, worried about me.
I have to try at least to get home to him. I hate to lie to Freya, but I find myself calling out, “Let me hop in the shower. I’ll be right down!”
She looks so pleased to have my company, I feel guilty as she says, “Right-o! I’ll be waiting in the game room.”
I close the door, leaning against it, letting out a big breath. I listen for her footsteps retreating. As soon as I’m sure she’s gone, I lock the door and rush to the bathroom, quickly cleaning myself with a warm washcloth.
There’s a dull noise from the bedroom. A thump and a brush. “Freya?” I call out.
No answer. I’ve locked the bedroom door and, earlier, the ones that go out to the balcony. I exit the bathroom with caution. The room is empty. My nerves have me spooked, making me jumpy.
Going to the dresser, I grab an outfit, choosing black leggings and an oversized pink slouchy sweatshirt—much better than the dress I was initially going to climb down in. Grabbing my quilted bag from the desk chair—something else I forgot the first time I attempted to escape—I throw it over my shoulder, returning to the chest.
I open the lid, ready to grab the ladder.
All my hours of work, my means of escaping the head flip that is Callum Burnes?
Gone. My ladder is gone.