Snared Read online

  There hadn’t been time to go all the way to Strathyre and catch the bus back, so Martin had retraced his steps, getting back to Callander around dinnertime. Having cleaned the worst of the mud off his boots and done his best to make himself otherwise presentable, he walked past the café with a shudder and made his way down the road to the Lamb.

  Home-cooked bar meals were advertised on a battered and misspelled blackboard outside the door. Martin paused for a moment before going in, and not just to admire the worst case of apostrophe abuse he’d seen since high school. This sort of thing had all been so much more fun when Jonathan had been with him. Martin felt the familiar twist of regret in his stomach, mingled with the bitterness of knowing what had happened had all been his fault. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

  Martin had always thought it an urban myth—or should that be a rural one?—that scene where the stranger walked into a pub in the North to find the locals all fell silent to stare at him. It usually took place shortly before something deeply unpleasant happened, possibly involving wicker baskets and/or vast quantities of blood. But he was sure he hadn’t imagined the drop in conversation levels at his appearance. Suddenly horribly conscious of the sound his boots made on the slate-tiled floor, Martin made a beeline for the relative safety of the bar.

  The barman was tall, dark and hairy, and might have been in his socks for all the noise his feet made as he glided up to Martin’s corner of the bar and loomed at him. Martin had the ridiculous feeling he was being challenged. “You do food, don’t you?” he asked. “I mean, the board outside….”

  It was unnatural, anyone going so long without blinking. Also, bloody unnerving. Martin only just managed not to jump when the man spoke at last, his voice a low rumble. “Aye. So what can I get you, then?”

  There wasn’t a menu anywhere Martin could see. Maybe they’d seen him coming and had hidden them on purpose, although possibly he was becoming just a little paranoid. “Er, the special?” he hazarded. Every pub had a “special,” didn’t it?

  It seemed to be the right answer, as the barman nodded and scribbled something indecipherable on a scrap of paper. “And will you be drinking something with that?” You had to admire how the man managed to make an offer of service sound like a threat, Martin thought.

  “Pint of bitter, please.” Martin handed over a twenty-pound note. As expected, the barman curled his lip at the sight of English currency but took it all the same. His pint held in front of him like a talisman, Martin retreated to a small table as far from the dartboard as he could manage, just in case. He sat down in the shadows with a sigh of relief. The welcoming committee might have left a bit to be desired, but you couldn’t fault the local ale, he reflected, having taken a fortifying sip. It was rich and creamy with a tart bitterness that really hit the spot.

  “Special?” a bored voice asked, and Martin looked up to see a skinny young girl carrying a plate of food and some cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin. She was dressed entirely in black, with an unnaturally pale face and eyeliner about an inch thick. And purple hair. And people had stared at Martin?

  “Er, yes, that was quick. Thank you.” Martin took the plate with a smile she didn’t return. Probably crack her foundation if she tried, he thought a little viciously.

  He was just tucking in to a plate of what turned out, appropriately enough, to be roast lamb when a shadow fell across the table. “Mind if I join you?” The voice was low, with a soft Irish accent and a hint of huskiness that did strange things to Martin’s insides. It was the young man from the doctor’s, with a pint of beer in one hand and a plate of chips in the other. He didn’t wait for an answer, just put his food on the table and pulled up a stool. “You wouldn’t be from ’round here, would you?” he asked casually, grabbing a chip with his fingers and dunking it in a dollop of ketchup on the side of his plate.

  What on earth was going on here? In Martin’s experience, there were certain immutable laws of the universe: toast always landed buttered-side down, buses were on time only when you were late and missing them meant a seven-mile walk in the rain, and attractive young men did not simply plonk themselves down at Martin’s table and start chatting him up. If that was what he was doing. Was that what he was doing? Maybe he was just bored and glad to see a new face? Martin managed to pull his scrambled thoughts together. “No! No, just staying a couple of nights. Er, you?”

  The stranger grinned. “You can hear that in my voice, can’t you now? No, I’m just here for a while. Renting a cottage a way out of town—I like my privacy. My name’s Calum, by the way.”

  “Um. Martin. My name is, I mean. Are you here on holiday?” Martin asked, cringing inside at how he seemed to turn into a poorly socialized teenager as soon as anyone halfway decent spoke to him.

  “I’m a photographer,” Calum told him, his tongue flicking out to lick a spot of ketchup from the corner of his mouth. “So it’s a working holiday for me. Catching the light, you might say. And how about yourself, now?”

  “Er, walking, not working.” Martin gave a nervous laugh. “I mean, I’m on a walking holiday. I always take one around this time of year.”

  Calum leaned forward, a chip seemingly forgotten in his hand as he looked Martin in the eye. “And do you always holiday alone, Martin?”

  “Um, no. I mean, yes. Well, lately.” Martin could feel his cheeks going red. “I used to have a friend who came with me, but, er, he doesn’t anymore.” Well done, Martin told himself. Tell the best-looking bloke you’ve ever set eyes on you’re such a complete wanker even your best mate’s buggered off and left you.

  “Ah, well. Sometimes other people just get in the way, don’t you think, Martin? I’m on my own myself, as it happens.” He popped the chip he’d been holding into his mouth and picked up another. Martin found his eyes drawn to the way he dipped it into the bright red pool of ketchup on his plate. Suddenly his roast lamb didn’t seem half as appealing as those little sticks of potato covered in rich red sauce.

  Calum seemed to catch him watching, and grinned. “And what is it you do when you’re not walking, Martin?”

  Martin swallowed. “I’m an accountant.” He waited for the admission to do its usual efficient job of killing any burgeoning interest stone dead.

  Bizarrely, Calum just smiled. “And where would we be without the accountants of this world? We’d be having to fiddle our own taxes. That’s what I’m thinking.” He paused, mopping up a bit more ketchup with the chip he’d been holding. Martin realized he was neglecting his own dinner and speared a carrot, which was left hanging on his fork at Calum’s next question. “So tell me, Martin the accountant, are you a family man?”

  “I, um, no. Well, parents, of course, they’re both university lecturers—and a sister, she’s older than me, lives in Guildford, got two kids now, and a husband, of course—but I’m not, er, married. Or anything.” Martin took a gulp of beer to calm his nerves and was mortified when it went down the wrong way, leaving him coughing and spluttering. When he realized Calum was rubbing his back—here, in the pub, in full view of the locals—Martin wasn’t sure what was uppermost in his mind: a pleased disbelief warred with the old, familiar shame and fear of discovery. Even here, where no one knew him. “I’m—I’m all right now, thank you,” he managed, horribly certain that his face had gone bright red.

  “That you are, Martin. That you are.” Calum sat back down, still smiling at him with an intensity of expression that Martin found scarily compelling. He felt as if those eyes could see right through him. It was unsettling—Jonathan had more than once commented that he never had a bloody clue what Martin was thinking about. It hadn’t been a compliment. So how come this stranger seemed to find him so transparent?

  “So, are you, er, married?” he asked to break the silence.

  Calum cocked an eyebrow at him. “Oh, I think we both know I’m not the marrying sort. Now, I’m thinking maybe you could do with another drink. How about it, Martin?”

  “Er, yes, thanks. Pint of
bitter, please.”

  Martin was glad of the break whilst Calum made his way to the bar. He was greeted, Martin was guiltily pleased to see, with no more friendliness than Martin himself had been. Maybe that was it? Calum was just glad to find someone who was actually willing to talk to him? And what the hell was all the hostility about anyway? Was it the gay thing, or was it just that they were foreigners? Martin frowned slightly as he noticed the Irishman moving slightly stiffly, as if he’d hurt his back or something. It was even more noticeable when he sat down again with the drinks. Still, asking a stranger about his health would hardly be polite, would it? Martin decided not to mention it.

  Apparently Calum had been brought up with different ideas of politeness. “Now, I can’t help noticing, Martin, that you seem to have injured your hands. Would you care to tell me about it, now?”

  Martin shrugged self-consciously. “Got scratched by a wildcat I was releasing from a snare.”

  Calum’s eyes glittered. “Did you, now? And did it bite you?” Hypnotized by those dark eyes, Martin felt a jolt of electricity as cool hands grasped his own, turning them over. Without asking, Calum pushed up his sleeves, first one arm and then the other. Martin’s left wrist was bruised where the animal’s teeth had failed to bite through his Gore-Tex jacket, and he couldn’t stop a shiver as Calum traced the marks with his fingers. “Not a scratch from those teeth. You’re a lucky man, Martin the accountant,” he murmured. “They’ve strong jaws, the wildcats have. I’ve heard tell of men bitten clean through leather gloves, right down to the bone.” His thumbs rubbed over Martin’s wrists as he spoke.

  “Lowrie,” Martin blurted irrelevantly. “It’s Martin Lowrie.”

  “Is it, now?” Calum was still holding both his hands, making it hard for Martin to think. “And I’m Calum O’Donnell, seeing as how we’re being formally introduced here.” There was a mocking tone to his voice that made Martin pull his hands away. Calum immediately raised a palm in apology. “No offense meant, Martin.”

  Now Martin felt like an idiot. “I—no, no, of course not.”

  “Good man. I wouldn’t want you to think I was making fun of you, now. See, I admire a man who’d take it upon himself to rescue an animal like that. There’s plenty of folk as would have walked on by and left a wildcat to struggle in a snare. Have you any idea what it’s like to be a wild animal in a snare, Martin? Half-crazed with pain and fear, thinking you’re a goner when the farmer gets back? Is it any wonder you’d panic at the first touch of a human hand?” Calum’s eyes seemed even darker than before, and that unsettling intensity was back.

  “I… dreamed about that last night,” Martin said, almost against his will.

  Black eyes blazed. “You did, did you, Martin? Will you tell me about that, now?” Calum leaned forward again, so close that Martin could smell the grease of the chips and the sweetness of the sauce on his breath, and somehow Martin found his hands clasped once more.

  “I—well, I was the wildcat. Hunting. And then I was trapped in the snare.” Breathing hard, Martin stopped. Calum was… not quite smiling at him, but his lips were drawn back from his teeth, lending him a feral air.

  “How did it feel?” Calum asked suddenly. “Did you scent your prey on the wind, feel the soft grass under your paws and the hard earth beneath? And the wire—did you feel how it burned into your flesh, how it tightened as you struggled? How it made you panic, despite yourself?”

  Martin took a deep breath. “Yes. Yes, that was it. God, it hurt—and the feeling of being trapped, the despair….” he trailed off, looking at Calum uncertainly. It felt like he’d just ripped the scab off a half-healed wound, leaving him raw and vulnerable.

  “Come on, Martin,” Calum said, a strange light in his eyes. “Leave that plate, now, and come with me.”

  Martin left his half-finished dinner and his barely touched pint and followed Calum out to the car park as though mesmerized. He was painfully conscious of the eyes of the locals upon them as they went out, his boots and the slate flooring once more conspiring to ensure anyone within a ten-mile radius heard him leave.

  Calum’s tread was softer—in fact, just like the barman, he seemed to make no sound at all as he padded to the door.

  It was a relief to get out in the open once more. There were no lights in the car park—which was really just a patch of bare ground next to the pub, with faint traces of what must have been grass before the tires of countless vehicles ground it into submission. Martin glanced up at the sky. The clouds had begun to clear in patches, and the stars seemed absurdly bright. There was a gibbous moon casting a wan glow upon them. Not long until it would be full, Martin judged.

  His heart beating strangely fast, Martin jumped as he felt Calum’s hand on his elbow.

  “This way, Martin,” Calum murmured in his ear. “I’m parked in the corner.”

  As his eyes slowly adjusted, Martin could take in more of his surroundings. For some reason, he’d imagined Calum would ride a motorcycle, but it was a grimy and battered old Ford Transit that he was led to—red, at a guess, although the moon’s eerie monochrome light made it hard to tell.

  “Not what you were expecting, is it now, Martin?” Calum teased him softly. “There’s three thousand pounds worth of photographic equipment in the back, there—no need to advertise it, now is there?”

  “Er, no. Sorry.”

  “Ah! You’ve nothing to apologise for, Martin Lowrie, nothing at all. Now, you sit yourself down, it won’t take but a while.”

  With a strange feeling of unease, Martin took his seat in the van. The seatbelt stuck as he tried to strap himself in.

  “You’ll need to go slowly with that, Martin. Just tease it out gently, now,” Calum’s tone was far more suggestive than his words, and Martin was glad the interior light of the van wasn’t working so Calum couldn’t see the effect it had on him.

  “Got it,” he muttered and sat back with his hands folded in his lap.

  “WHERE are we?” Martin asked a good quarter of an hour later as they bounced along a single-track road that had never been surfaced.

  Calum grinned. “Does it matter, now? We’ll be there soon, don’t you worry.”

  What was it about the words “don’t worry” that made Martin instinctively tense up?

  “You wouldn’t be having second thoughts, would you now, Martin?”

  “No! No, I’m fine.”

  “Good, Martin. See now? We’re here.” He drew the van up to a halt in front of a low cottage that had appeared suddenly as they rounded a corner and crested a rise. The darkness was almost absolute this far out of town, with no streetlamps to cast their warm glow over the clouds. Martin could barely see the cottage they stopped at once Calum had turned off his headlamps. Getting out of the van, he shivered. He was beginning to wonder if this had really been a good idea.

  “Are you cold, Martin? Put this on.” Calum handed Martin his jacket. Weren’t they going into the cottage, then?

  Full of misgivings, Martin wrapped the jacket around his shoulders. The leather felt warm even through his shirt, and had an earthy scent that both soothed and aroused him. “Aren’t you cold?” he asked, realizing that Calum had been left in just a softly clinging T-shirt that bore the name of a band Martin didn’t recognize.

  “Oh, don’t you worry about me, Martin.” Calum turned back to grin at him. The moon had appeared from behind the clouds as they’d approached the cottage and its cold light glittered off Calum’s white, even teeth, making them seem somehow sharper than they had in the pub. “In fact, I think I’ll be getting myself a little more comfortable, if that’s all right with you.”

  Martin stared as Calum pulled off the tight T-shirt and slung it in through the still-open door of the van. Now that Martin’s eyes were beginning to adjust he could make out the features of Calum’s torso. Martin drew in a deep breath. There was an angry dark line just above the waistband of Calum’s jeans that looked like a rope burn. How on Earth had he got that? It was almost as if he
’d been caught in a giant parody of a snare…. Thoughts of Alan and his scheme to punish trappers sprang unbidden into Martin’s head. Surely not?

  With a start, Martin realized Calum had kicked off his trainers and was unbuttoning his jeans. “Don’t you want to wait until we’re inside?” he asked in a daze, caught between arousal and a sense of the surreal.

  “I don’t think so, Martin.” There was a strange gleam in Calum’s eyes as he finished stripping and stood there, naked in the moonlight. Ah, this will be why he likes you, Martin thought numbly. Because he’s insane. Calum grinned, reaching back into the van, and abruptly a light was shone blindingly in Martin’s eyes. He blinked and threw up a hand, even as the light went out again just as suddenly leaving huge blobs of color floating in front of his eyes.

  Martin couldn’t see a bloody thing. He wheeled around. “Calum?”

  There was no answer. “Calum? Look, can we stop playing games—ah!” It turned into a gasp as he felt something brush against his leg. Martin froze. It felt like… a cat? Feeling suddenly very foolish, Martin bent down to stroke it, and felt the soft head nuzzle into his palm. And then it changed. The fur coarsened, the head rippled and grew….

  “Did you like that, Martin?” Calum breathed directly into his ear. Martin jumped violently. “Hey, now, shush,” Calum’s voice purred. Strong hands gripped him firmly by the shoulders. Martin’s vision was slowly clearing, as if he really needed a visual reminder that a naked, attractive, insane man (or possibly something else entirely) had hold of him.

  “What… what just happened?” he asked faintly.

  Calum grinned. “You want me to do it again?”

  “No!” Martin took a deep breath. “How…? What did you do? What are you?”

  “Oh, I’m a lot of things, Martin. To start with now, I’m grateful. You saved my life, Martin, did you know that?” Martin could feel those hands starting to move up and down on his shoulders, caressing him. He felt lightheaded and a bit queasy and, despite himself, almost painfully turned on. “I’m sorry I hurt you. Sometimes the instincts just take over, you know?” Calum was moving closer now, until there was no distance between them at all. “But most of all, Martin, right now I’m horny.” At least that was something Martin’s scattered thoughts could hold onto, as his hand was gently taken and placed on Calum’s hard, heated length. “Do you feel that, Martin? It’s all for you.”