The reluctant heiress - Chapter 4
by Art Foster

Not for reproduction on other websites or in any other publishing format without author’s permission.




Chapter 4
I didn't see Tara most of the next day. In some ways this didn't surprise me, for though we had danced closer the rest of that night, she remained inwardly distant, and on the ride home seemed to slide into a silent melancholy. Of course, with her gag-mask the silence was not an option, but she did refuse to let me remove it. And though she didn't resist when I put my arm around her, again not an option zipped in her straitjacket-like coat, neither did she snuggle up. I couldn't tell if she was still avoiding me or being utterly submissive. Or both.
And after being dropped off, any hope of speaking to her or getting intimate was quickly dashed, for the moment we entered a tired maid released her from her coat and leaving the gag on her, bustled her upstairs, and that was the last I saw of her. Disappointed, but realizing I might have been expecting too much, I went off to bed.
So that next day I examined more artifacts about the house, and again went to the library. In paging through an old book of English essays I noticed a yellowing page used as a bookmark. I unfolded it carefully. It appeared to be torn from a diary. It read:
... and heretofore would I be attached to my chair should I seek to rise without permission, or even should I seek permission before it seemed appropriate, and it was demonstrated to me how the very sash at the bustle of my gown would tie to the chair in such a manner that I could not, in such sleeves as I wore, reach about to release it and therefore myself and so rise at my own willing. I was then left to sit in the chair for two hours and several minutes to contemplate these rules and the manner in which they would be enforced, and though they left me unattended hence at liberty to make attempts at rising from my chair, my very garment, a walking dress which in itself stole much of the natural movement of my upper and lower limbs, and which of course as most ladies' garments could not be removed without thorough assistance, held me to my chair despite my most vigorous physical protests.
They have replaced my bed with that which they call the crib. It is indeed a crib, though it is sized for an adult, but besides the sturdy wooden bars around the sides such as found on a crib, it also has a lid of those same bars that it may not be climbed from, or even sat up in fully. One side and this lid open much like doors that it might be entered with ease, then latched in such a manner as it is impossible for the one inside to release herself. They told me the crib was a gift for completing my tasks, in that my satin sleeping sack need no longer be tied to my bed to improve my repose. I then mentioned that I felt I slept better if I could move my arms about as might suit my comfort, and asked if they might not leave the sack partly unlaced so it did not surround me completely, to which they answered, I was fortunate not to be in the one made of burlap...
And that was all there was. 1880! What I would have given for the rest of that singular document. It looked genuine: the penmanship was excellent and was obviously done with a quill, and the paper was decidedly old. And the lady's language was clearly Victorian.
Furthermore, I couldn't ignore the similarities in situation between this young woman and Tara.
I continued searching for that diary, for this was the second indication of some sort of ritual bondage, the first being the pictures of Lady Barriston's wedding, with the entire female half of the wedding party cheerfully restrained in their gowns. The album had had no explanations; this diary probably would. But the library was extensive, and in the one-third more I searched I turned up nothing else.
As we assembled for supper I was approached by Lady Barriston.
“Do your researches progress well, Mr. Cairns? Has our house stimulated your genius for plots and intrigues?”
As I had mentioned before, though elderly, Lady Barriston was an attractive woman, slender and with fine posture. Her clothing had been conventional till now, but tonight she wore a slim ankle-length dress reminiscent of the hobble skirts of the early twentieth century, in which she could only take small ladylike steps. I was certain she was also encased in a long stiff corset, and a matching fur muff was tied about her waist, with ribbons and bows that I had no doubt, having seen her wedding pictures, could be tightened on her wrists should she put her hands inside. I wondered what message she was conveying with that outfit.
"Thank you," I replied, "but here I think real life has proven more fascinating than fiction. One doesn't dip in one's well during a flood."
I watched for her reaction, but it was only a pleased smile, and she invited me to meet the guests for than night's super, a Mr. and Mrs. George Towne, friends from London. We chatted for a few minutes, then I asked if Tara would be joining us.
She looked toward the stairs, and her expression changed to one of amused disapproval. "She does so now, Mr. Cairns," she sighed.
I looked also, and was struck with pleasurable disbelief. Tara was descending slowly, wearing her usual cool dispassionate demeanor, clothed, and I use the term liberally, in a gleaming black wet-look minidress, that went from a tight collar at her neck down her chest halter style, then down over her hips so briefly as to barely cover the essentials. Especially at her back, which was bare except for a piece of fabric no bigger than a bikini bottom stretched across her buttocks. Circular cutouts on each side showed a good deal of her waist, and sleevelets and bands of the same material adorned her arms, which she held down and tightly to her sides. No doubt this was necessary to keep that wild outfit in place.
But as she came closer I realized she had no choice. The sleeves, which were laced tightly on her forearms from her thumbs to her elbows, were joined to the side seams of the skirt. And the arm bands laced around her upper arms were similarly held to the top. She was completely bound!
But modesty pinioned the arms the most. With their connection to the skirt, lifting the arms could lead to her arrest for indecent exposure.
Furthermore, she was hobbled by her own pantyhose, which she had left down around her ankles. Then I saw my error. that there was no way to pull them higher even if she could have reached them, for they were simply little foot stockings joined across by a panty-like top, which stretched to allow a stride of about twelve inches. The ankle straps on her stiletto pumps kept her from stepping free of these.
Again, seeing that incredible near-naked body bound to where its movement was a series of curving oscillations, combined with the suspense of knowing the slightest wrong move would leave her nearly naked, left me blissfully speechless.
She first greeted the guests, who made every effort to return the greeting in a normal manner, though in particular Mr. Towne was looking shiny on the brow. Then she said hello to Mr. Parthans, who replied "Good evening, my dear" with more relaxed pleasure. But when she minced past me she did nothing but give me a frosty glance. Now what, I thought.
We went to the table. Once again I was seated next to Tara. She looked displeased, but was fully occupied with the task of sitting down, which required her to slip into her chair without bending forward, relying on the table itself for cover. As the dishes were brought, I spoke to her quietly.
"I enjoyed your company last night. You are an excellent dancer."
"Thank you Mr. Cairns," she said without inflection.
"And if you did not, in the end, have a good time yourself, please correct my wrong impression."
She said nothing, but her eyes flickered.
"So what have I done now to rouse your ire?"
She turned to me and said quietly, "You brought me home late."
I chuckled. "Is this a crime?"
She sighed, looking uncomfortable, then muttered, "I had to spend the day in bed."
"Doctor's orders?"
"Don't be funny. Nobody came to unlace my sleeping bag, not till afternoon. Then the maid wouldn't help me off with my nightie. so I was stuck in that the rest of the afternoon.. They sewed the hand openings shut on it, again thanks to you, so she had to spoon-feed me breakfast and help me with everything else. It was not an exciting day."
Damn, was I hearing right? Once more I wondered if Tara were some kind of prisoner here. The waters could not have been muddier. But a laced sleeping bag! Could that have been the one mentioned in the diary?
"In that case I apologize. I'm only a guest, and don't know your rules. But you should not have been punished for my mistake." Or perhaps at all, but this wasn't the time to start discussing that.
"They couldn't very well punish you."
"But if it happens again, I volunteer to take your place." She looked at me doubtfully, but I could see she was being mollified. With amused eyes she said, "You don't know what you're offering."
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe they'll let you administer it. Can I free your hand so you can eat?"
She looked down, wiggling a little nervously. "All right."
The cuff laced firmly on her wrist, loping also over the thumb to further hold it in plan. The laces were tiny and tight - it took me a full minute to undo them. But she was completely patient. Once free she still had to be careful not to reach too far, for the dress being backless the cuff on the upper arm was responsible for holding it over her chest. Even reaching for her glass gave me a brief but lovely profile of her right breast.
"Shall I undo the other wrist?"
She thought for a moment. "I don't think that will necessary."
I smiled in wonder. She treated being bound like a mild inconvenience, equivalently rated with a late bus and probably less than a broken fingernail. Even being imprisoned in her bed all night and day seemed only a tad annoying. She saw me watching her.
"I think I like you," I said.
That hit the mark. She couldn't control a flush.
After dessert, of which Tara only touched a bit, Lady Barriston turned to her.
"Are you planning on going to your studio tomorrow, dear?"
"I had hoped to."
"Perhaps Mr. Cairns would like to see it."
Tara looked suddenly worried. "Oh, no really, I don't think things are, well, ready!"
"Nonsense. Are you interested, Mr. Cairns?"
"Very."
"Then it's settled. It will be good for you to show your work, Tara."
Tara glanced at me nervously, then looked back at her aunt. I noticed the tiniest exchange in their eyes, a contest of sorts, and I realized that Tara's dress, of which she knew her aunt would disapprove, was a subtle payback for restraining her in bed. I had assumed before it was a "look what you can't have" directed at me. Then the studio suggestion was the aunt's return fire. But I was glad of it. There was probably no better way to learn abut her niece.
Before we left the table Tara turned to me and asked if I'd tie her wrist back.
"Are you sure?" I said, thinking she might have preferred that little bit of freedom.
"I can't exactly just leave the cuff hanging there," she said. "Besides, the skirt would crawl up."
Impeccable logic, I smiled.
The rest of that evening we played cards in the smoking room around the low coffee table. I had expected Tara to disappear back upstairs, but instead she had me free her hands again and played also. She was a sharp player, but I had the impression cards weren't the only game, for it was clear she was pressing her aunt, who would have preferred she returned to her room, plus trying to see how much sweat she could wring out of poor Mr. Towne, by shifting this way and that in her skimpy black dress, but knowing exactly how to sit to keep out of trouble. Occasionally she tugged at her hem or wriggled her ankles impatiently in their stretchy restraint. Towne wasn't the only one whose concentration was decimated. We both lost miserably.
When the evening broke up, I watched Tara go back up the stairs. I felt like a voyeur but some things in life are too good to pass up. It was here she finally failed to keep herself covered, giving us a splendid parting shot.
She wore not a thing beneath that dress.
Then I overheard Lady Barriston tell a maid very crisply to help Miss Winthrop prepare for bed, that she needed plenty of rest, and I knew that would be the last I'd see of her that night.

I met Tara by the door at nine that next morning. For once she was wearing ordinary clothes: a silk blouse and a longish slim denim skirt, her legs perched on high-heeled plumps. As usual, she looked gorgeous, and I felt that familiar yearn. Keep your cool, I reminded myself.
Clarisse brought her a short leather jacket that zipped in the usual way and belted at the waist, and I thought I was finally going to see Tara go unencumbered, except by the more conventional narrowness of skirt and highness of heels. But when she stuck her hands in the jacket packets the maid buckled the openings down on her wrists, trapping the hands inside, though not in a way obvious to the passerby.
"What clever decorations," I said, fingering one of the buckles.
"Yes, aren't they," she answered tiredly.
"Are you always bound up before going out?" But before she could answer Clarisse pressed the rubber mask over her mouth.
"You know," I said to the maid, "That mask will stilt our conversations."
"Well, Mr. Cairns," she answered, "most men I know think us ladies talk a bit much anyway. You want to take it off in the car no one's going to stop you, but it's my job to see she leaves here properly bound and gagged." Then she whispered, "But don't you think we're all better off with it left on?"
Tara heard her and glared at us over her mask, but could only pull uselessly at her pockets. If there was a proper way to be bound and gagged, she had to be the example. She looked wonderful.
But it also set me thinking. So the maid had orders to restrain her, no doubt from Lady Barriston. And Tara went along, with complete submission, thoroughly under their control. Why?
I followed Tara out to where the chauffeur waited with the door to the Rolls, she stepping carefully in her skirt and heels, the back of her thighs and legs emerging through a long zippered slit. The skirt was skinny enough that it would have immobilized her legs had it been zipped shut, and I found myself wishing I had an excuse to do so, debating the joy of seeing the legs versus binding them. Clarisse helped Tara settle in then climbed in the front beside the chauffeur, and soon we were headed into London. I turned to Tara and said, "Would you like your mask removed?" But she just shrugged an "I don't care." Okay, but I did. So I left it.
But then Clarisse turned back to me and said, "Oh, Mr. Cairns, would you do me a favor and zip her skirt shut? I forgot."
Tara looked at the maid, then at me and rolled her eyes, but with a sigh twisted in her seat belt to expose the back of her skirt, and holding her legs together waited. For a moment I could only gaze down at those lovely stockinged legs awaiting their capture. "In a way it seems a shame," I said with regret. "But I suppose we must be practical." Tara mumbled a few annoyed "mmphs" into the gag, which I fancied were, "Just do it." And I pulled on the zipper till the skirt clamped her legs together just past the round of her calves, fitting her like a glove and accenting her pleasantly round hind end. She then wiggled her legs a little and settled herself back to normal, attempting to look straight ahead as if nothing had happened. The effect was so enticing I was left without words the rest of the ride.
Soon we drove into a warehouse district near the Thames that was being converted into ritzy shops and galleries. The maid helped Tara out, then going to a side door of a building inserted a key and held it open for us. Tara moved considerably slower then she had leaving the house, and a couple of male pedestrians turned to check her out. Only inside Clarisse locked the door from the inside, took the key out, and started up a long staircase. I had the feeling we were locked in.
Tara looked at the stairs, then at me expectantly. I turned her around and undid her mask.
"Either you'll have to loosen my skirt, Mr. Cairns, or carry me," she said.
"I suppose I could unzip it a little," I smiled.
I held her arm as we went up, the stairs proving hard enough with the skirt opened. At the top Clarisse hurriedly helped Tara out of her pockets. "Miss Winthrop, I hope you won't mind, but I desperately have an errand. Perhaps because Mr. Cairns is here I could go immediately?” Tara told her to go ahead, and the maid grabbed her own *mat, but before leaving, said to me, "You'll be locked in, Mr. Cairns. Because of Miss Winthrop. I hope you won't mind much. I'll only be a couple of hours."
After the maid left I said, "They seem very thorough about keeping you under lock and key. Are they afraid you'll run away?"
"Something like that, I suppose." She took my jacket and hers and hung them up, then went to a closet and slipped her skirt and shoes off. Although at one time or another she had shown me virtually every part of her body, it was still surprising to see her willing to undress in front of me. What was left was a pair of pantyhose pulled over a kind of harness that fit snugly about her waist and between her legs. It appeared to be made of a smooth white leather that tapered neatly to avoid a bulky appearance. What was most remarkable was that a lock on one side held the whole thing on.
"You're in a chastity belt!" I blurted.
"How about that," she answered roughly, pulling something long and black off a hook.
"Evidently you don't feel safe around me."
"Why should I? But these 'prevention panties' as my aunt calls them, aren't my idea, they're hers. I'm not allowed to go out without them."
"You mean you don't have the key?"
"They wouldn't prevent much if I did, now would they." She stepped into the black thing, slipping her arms in the sleeves and pulling it up over her shoulders. "Would you do me up?"
It was made of rubber. The sleeves ended in a pair of attached tight fitting gloves, and the bottom was a slim bag enclosing her legs entirely. I zipped her up the back to her neck. A lock dangled on the zipper handle, waiting to be fit through a pair of eyelets.
"Lock it too?"
"You might as well," she answered, and I did, sealing her in. How readily she imprisoned herself, I thought, though at least in this her arms could move freely.
"Tell me. Why all this ..." I fished for the right words for her captivity, but she interrupted, misunderstanding.
"Because I intend to get some work done, in spite of what my aunt might have had in mind. And because I sometimes make a mess, I wear this smock. Which is why you're wearing one too." She lifted another black thing off a shelf and held it open for me. trousers, shirt, and shoes off first."
Uh oh. "I don't think that's necessary. I'll stay out of range. Besides, that doesn't look big enough."
"This one is your size. Go on, I don't intend to be punished for ruining your clothes or getting you covered with paint. In you go."
She looked very insistent. Oh well, this time I would have use of my arms. I stripped to my underwear and stepped into it. She started the zipper as I fished around for the sleeves.
"No, you won't need those, you're not doing anything," she said brusquely, pushing my arms down and quickly finishing the zipper, which pressed my arms to my sides. I heard the click of the lock at my neck.
"Hey, let me out!" I said, squirming in the tight sack, but she just went around front and tied a knot in each sleeve next to the shoulder. Stupid, I thought, cursing. I should have guessed she would do something like this.
"Now we are both protected," she said with a gleam, pushing my hair off my brow. She seemed to get her jollies trapping me.
"I hope you have the key for this," I said.
"I don't, but the maid does.” Oh great, I thought, reddening. "Well, go on, look around," she added offhandedly as she minced over to collect up her paints.
This was annoying, I thought, feeling panicky. I couldn't keep letting this slip of a girl get the better of me. I pushed at the bag but it was plenty strong, and too tight to reach the knots in my sleeves. She saw me struggling and chuckled.
"There's no way you're getting out of that."
I flushed again. But she was right. There was no way out. And worse, I realized I was feeling turned on by it. Once more I was her prisoner. But it was an excitement tinged with fear. I could never tell what she might do.
But she just ignored me, and after watching her at the easel I decided I might as well do as she said and look around. Walking in the bag wasn't easy, as it wasn't very roomy, but I managed to keep from tripping. She had paintings scattered everywhere, on the walls, on chairs, some framed but most not, and soon the intrigue of seeing another side of Tara distracted me from my predicament. The paintings were of both nature and urban scenes, but the objects within bent in peculiar ways that drew the eye and made them seem to move. There were also fleeting figures hidden, subliminally, as though the product of the viewer's imagination. I was pleasantly surprised at her subtlety. "Very good," I told her as I progressed around. If she heard me she didn't let on.
Time passed, and I had just sat down in a chair when I noticed a door in the wall at Tara's back. Quietly I shuffled toward it. It wasn't easy to turn the knob wrapped up the way I was, but I managed.
It was another room, crowded with more paintings. But these were dynamic, riveting. Nature clashed with man's structures in writhing, wrestling abandon. Not violent exactly, sensuous described it better. Even erotic. And as I looked further human forms began to suffuse the paintings, naked or nearly so, restrained by twisting vines or gauzy webs or the silk of their raiments, held not in agony or fear but in fits of pleasure from which they were unable to break free. And finally one in which the male and female were wrapped together, as was the nature and civilization of which they were a continuation.
I heard a noise from the other room. "Oh forget it," she was saying, and I heard her throw her brush down. Then suddenly I heard the word "shit" and the flap of rubber, and in came Tara, scurrying in the narrow sack. "What are you doing in here?" Her face was red.
"You said to look around."
"I didn't think you'd be able to get the door open. I don't let anyone in here!”
"Why not? These are some of the most striking paintings I've ever seen."
She seemed to blush further, but controlled it. "They are too personal." She grabbed hold of my dangling sleeves and began to pull me along. It wasn't easy, as I outweighed her, but she was very determined. The bound leading the bound, I mused. It must have looked ridiculous, but I was to busy trying not to fall to think much about that. Once in the other room she pushed me back up against a post, and before I could figure out what she was up to she had used my sleeves to tie me to it. "That should keep you out of mischief."
"Really, Tara, those paintings should not be hidden away," I said, trying to pull free. I was held fast.
"What would you know?"
"Before I was a novelist I worked for a major newspaper. I spent years in the arts and literature section. I would have given anything for a find like this."
That sobered her up. She turned away, shuffling toward her easel with the tiny steps to which she had obligated herself. The rubber conformed very pleasantly to her body. "I would like to see the rest," I said.
She looked back at me doubtfully, her desire to show her work battling with her fears, but at last she returned to the post and untied my sleeves.
"I'm not letting you loose yet," she said, retying them in a loop in front, then using them to lead me back to the other room. We went through the rest of her work. I gave honest reactions, and she was obviously pleased, though she tried hard not to let it show.
When we finished she pursed her lips thoughtfully, then reached up and took the knots out of my sleeves, then helped me wriggle my arms in. "Thank you," I said as I felt the gloves encase my fingers.
Then I noticed a drafting table with a sketchbook on it, and started toward it.
"Not that!" she said, scurrying over to it and collecting it up.
"Come on, Tara, let's see what's in there," I said, approaching her.
"No, this is even more private." She held it close.
“You know you can trust me. Come on, it's for your own good."
"No!" she said, shaking her head like a child, and when I reached for it she squealed and ran, or tried to, and I found myself chasing her around the table. The race was definitely not to the swift, in fact I almost fell on my face. I got another squeal out of her when I nearly caught her by turning the other way, and soon we were across the table from each other, playing keep-away. I was grinning, and she broke out in a nervous giggle, which accidentally resulted in a most unfeminine snort, for which she covered her mouth in embarrassment. But I took off after her again, and she yelped and scurried away. I was already drenched inside that rubber, but I grabbed the sides of the sack and took several jumps, and at last I caught her. We tumbled to the floor, both laughing.
I took the sketchbook away, but she kept climbing over me and getting in my way so much I had to put it down and tackle her instead. "You are impossible," I said as we wrestled, neither of us having an easy time with our legs imprisoned in the rubber, but that only causing more laughter. She was definitely not an honorable opponent, and I had to use everything I had to get the upper hand. At last I got her arms pinned over her head. She looked up at me with large eyes and parted lips.
And suddenly I was kissing those lips, deeply and thoroughly. Gradually I let go her wrists and held her instead, and I felt her hands descend to me, tentatively, her lips also tentative but very soft. Then suddenly she pushed me away and turned on her side, looking across the room. Her eyes were misty, worried.
I realized I felt the same way.
Then she looked back at me through the corner of her eye. "Do you really like my paintings?"
"Yes."
She looked away again, then turned back and faced me, her expression filled with innocence. "Kiss me again." It was nearly a question.
I did, and soon we were in a passionate embrace, kissing lips, then ears, then necks, caressing each other everywhere. My desire for her heightened till it was intolerable. Turning her over, I pulled at the lock on her bag. But it was built for strength and wouldn't give.
"It wouldn't do any good anyway,” she said. "I'm still in those virgin's panties."
I sighed, then gave her butt a firm smack. I almost injured my hand. "You know, ladies wearing chastity belts in the middle ages used to get a secret key for their lovers."
"Maybe you could bribe the housekeeper." She thought for a minute. "But probably not." She shrugged forlornly. Then we couldn't hold it in anymore and both started to laugh.
"This has got to be one of the strangest problems I've ever had with a woman," I said finally, kissing her again. "But you know, it's good to see you laugh. You're so beautiful when you do."
She blushed. "No I'm not." Then after a pause added, "But it's true I haven't laughed in ages."
I suddenly felt chivalrous. "It's because you're held prisoner, isn't it. I'll help you escape."
She smiled, then grew serious again. "No, that has nothing to do with it, it's--" She fell into thought, then said suddenly, "let's go back to the other room."
Oh hey, evasive. But I decided to try that door later, and said instead, "Aren't you forgetting something?" And I reached for the sketchbook.
She jumped me again, and once more we were tussling. But this time I looked for another solution. And on a shelf nearby was just what I needed: electrical tape.
She saw what I was doing and tried to stop me, but I was able to grab the tape, then by turning her on her stomach and sitting on her legs, was able to lean on her arms and hold them behind her as I got a strip around the wrists. "Beast!" she cried as I continued to wrap them. It stuck beautifully to that rubber. Also, her arms were so flexible I found myself winding the tape clear to her elbows, drawing them together. I broke the tape off and left her to struggle with it. She couldn't move her arms.
"Don't look so pleased with yourself," she scolded, grunting. With her shoulders pulled back her breasts looked like they'd burst through her smock.
"It was a good job, don't you agree?"
"I should never have untied your sleeves."
"Too late now. But it's for the best." And I picked up the sketchbook.
But rather than compositions it was filled with fashion sketches, each neatly dated and initialed, including some that had a star and completion date. The styles ranged from sporty to glamorous, and included daytime and evening wear, underclothes and nightgowns, overcoats, shoes and boots. But what distinguished them the most was that each item, regardless of style or use, confined the wearer in some way, from mere hampering to immobilizing, from secret to blatant. Bondage for all times and purposes. And just like professional sketches, each item was shown in front, back, and side views, along with numerous detailed enlargements, some for decorative features, but others showing, for example, how a tiny confining hem was secretly reinforced at the ankles, or how a miniature lock holding the zipper up should be concealed, or how the sleeves should be sewn so the wearer could not raise her arms or unfasten herself. Everywhere were little notes and written descriptions. It was a fascinating collection, each "captivating" garment and accessory thought out to the last detail. And some of the items I recognized.
"So you designed all those wild outfits!" From the corner of my eye I saw her flush as I continued to page through the book. "Do you make them as well?"
"No, a seamstress does that."
"Hired by your aunt."
She hesitated before agreeing.
"So if you did all this, whose idea is it to keep you locked up and tied up all the time?"
"I really have more work to do," she said, rocking onto her knees, then to her feet. I was amazed how well she got up, but then she'd had a lot of practice getting around in bondage. Not bothering to ask me to free her arms, she started for the other room.
"Oh, no you don't!" I said, taking hold of her and pulling her into a chair.
"Let me go!" she cried, but I set her down with her arms behind the backrest, then began looping the tape around it, her arms, and her tummy. She squirmed and kicked her legs around in their bag, so much I finally taped the legs down also. There was just enough before the roll ran out.
"You are bad!" she said, still pulling in futile effort. But her eyes twinkled when she said it.
"You like this, don't you."
"My arms are getting tired. Let me go."
"You have a penchant for avoiding questions. But you must like being tied. It's certainly in your paintings. Though sometimes again you seem only to be tolerating it, barely. So what is the deal, Miss Winthrop? Why are you in London at your aunt's, spending your days and nights in such elaborate restraints? What brought you here?"
"It's like you were told, I came to study art."
"Oh, come on. Tara. I've turned up bits and pieces of situations just like yours, starting over a hundred years ago. You're part of a long tradition."
She looked away, biting her lower lip. "So what's wrong with liking this?" she said, wiggling. "You do. You have women tied up in every single one of your books."
"You've read all my books?"
She flushed. "I meant all the ones I read."
"So you knew who I was, huh? Before I came?"
She flushed again, but controlled herself quickly. "I never said I didn't."
I thought about that for a minute. Something about this wasn't right. Mentally I stepped back, examined the whole situation. The invitation I'd received from Lady Barriston, the niece and her little mysteries, the bits and pieces of "history" I'd "found", hinting at some drama revolving around a traditional rite of bondage, and now this poorly camouflaged evasion ... It smelled of a set-up.
But the clincher came as I was leafing unconsciously through the back of the sketchbook, and noticed there were also drawings of men bound in complex harnesses and sacks. Only not just any men. Specifically, me.
She had drawn me into those restraints. Exact clothing sizes and information about me I scarcely knew was penciled in alongside.
And the sketches were dated well before my arrival. Even well before my invitation.
She must have seen my expression change, and asked, "What's wrong?" But she saw the book and answered her own question. Her eyes were sober, even worried, as she looked back at me.
"Playtime's over," I said, getting up. I looked for a sharp object, but there wasn't one to be found, so I began peeling the tape off the way it went on. She watched me silently as I freed her, and was still sitting there as I went into the other room.
I heard the door open and the maid's footsteps on the stairs. She greeted me and said, "Oh, you're in one of those. Do you need help getting out?"
"I believe so. Do you have the key?"
"I'm pretty sure I do, somewhere in my purse." And in a minute I was out. The room felt suddenly cool, but I hardly paid heed to that and quickly dressed. As the maid phoned for the driver I thought about how Tara and her aunt must have figured out my weakness for captive women and love of a mystery and proceeded to design an elaborate fantasy for what, to throw Tara at me? Marry me for money? They could be using their last resources to build a facade of wealth, disguising their depth in debt.
But being hoodwinked didn't bother me. The real price I was paying was the one I wanted most to avoid. That of loving and losing. But it was too late for that.