‘It is like an invasion,’ her mother said in horror, and Flora couldn’t help but think that she was right.
The driver of the staff car pulled open a door and a polished, booted foot appeared. Flora straightened her back and took a deep breath. These are our brave boys, she reminded herself. ‘I think we’d better go and see what we can do to assist them.’
Her father gripped her shoulder. ‘Bravo,’ he said softly. ‘Get your mother to the Lodge first. Join me as soon as you can.’
Feeling anything but brave, Flora watched him leave before turning to her mother and pasting on a smile. ‘Well, it looks as though the war has arrived in Glen Massan.’
Chapter Two
Geraint listened distractedly as Colonel Aitchison droned on, reading out the army regulations, statutes and by-laws governing the requisition of the house in the manner of a judge delivering a death sentence. Across from him, seated on an ornately scrolled and gilded sofa, Lord Carmichael held himself rigidly, his face expressionless, though judging from the way his fingers curled and uncurled compulsively, this was merely the aristocratic stiff upper lip on full display.
A tall, thin man with a helmet of red hair and a neatly trimmed beard, the laird looked more like an academic of some sort than the exploitative landowner he surely was. There was an aesthetic quality to that long, narrow face, intelligence in that wide brow and those piercing eyes. Very piercing, Geraint thought, catching the man’s glance and finding himself being scrutinised with disconcerting thoroughness. He squared his shoulders and glared back, and was surprised when the laird gave him a wry smile in return.
As the colonel turned to the specifics of recompense, Geraint’s attention wandered. The drawing room was huge, the cornicing of the high ceilings formed in a geometric pattern that looked vaguely Oriental. A bay window at the far end looked out onto the gardens at the rear of the house, and at the opposite end, a massive white marble fireplace was flanked by a pair of statues bearing gilded torches. Aphrodite? Artemis? Athena? Knowing that he had not the slightest chance of attending university, and having besides a natural antipathy towards anything that smacked of privilege, Geraint had been dismissive of the classical elements of his education. All Greek goddesses looked pretty much the same to him.
The door opened and a girl burst in, startling the colonel into temporary silence. Her bright head of auburn hair gave her away immediately as the laird’s daughter. Geraint got to his feet several seconds before the portly colonel could manage to do the same. Not a girl, but a young woman in her early twenties. Tall and slim, clad in one of those white dresses that only the well-heeled could afford to wear, she had around her neck a strangely masculine little black silk cravat that served to emphasise her femininity.
‘Colonel, may I introduce you to my daughter, Flora.’
She didn’t walk across the room so much as float, though Geraint could see that her feet in their delicate little shoes were firmly planted on the antique rugs that covered the floor, and he saw also, because he took the trouble to look, that her ankles were as slim and elegant as the rest of her. Her hair, which she wore piled on top of her head, was a shade darker than her father’s, the colour more lustrous. Beneath it, there was just a touch of haughtiness in her startling blue-grey eyes and humour, too, in that generous mouth. She was no Greek goddess, but she was lovely.
And she was looking enquiringly at him now. ‘Corporal Cassell,’ her father said by way of introduction.
‘Corporal Cassell. How do you do?’
The hot dart of desire that made his belly clench took him entirely by surprise. Flora Carmichael, spoilt little rich girl, was most certainly not his type. She turned to him with one dark brow raised, holding out her genteel little hand. He caught a waft of her flowery scent and it was intoxicating. For a moment, for just a moment, he actually thought she felt the jolt of connection, too, as his fingers touched hers and her eyes widened a little. Then he remembered who he was and where he was. Women like Flora Carmichael did not look twice at men like him, and men like him did not fraternise with the enemy. He dropped her hand abruptly and sat back down, realising too late that he hadn’t even returned her greeting and had thus most likely confirmed her assumption that he was a complete boor before he’d even opened his mouth.
* * *
Flora took her place by her father’s side on the sofa, somewhat confused. Had she just been snubbed? Across the room, the rude corporal kept his eyes firmly on his commanding officer, allowing her to study him covertly. He looked to be about Robbie’s age, perhaps two or three years older than herself, though it was difficult to tell, for there was a hard edge to him that her elder brother did not possess. Jet-black hair, cropped ruthlessly short. Was he, then, a recent recruit? Dark eyes rimmed with thick dark lashes were set under a high, intelligent brow. His face was all angles, softened only by the fullness of his lower lip. It was a memorable face and a handsome one, though not in the least gentle or kind.
His attention switched, and he caught her staring at him. She refused to avert her gaze, though she could feel the colour creeping up her neck. What had she done to earn such overt antagonism? He was positively bristling with it.
‘Flora?’
She stared at her father blankly, her fingers straying to her cravat.
‘The colonel has been explaining that Corporal Cassell will be in day-to-day charge of the requisition handover. Unfortunately the lieutenant assigned to the role is indisposed.’
‘Naturally I will be keeping tabs on things,’ the colonel said. ‘I’m staying with an old colleague who lives just next door, a Colonel Patterson—do you know him, Lord Carmichael? We fought the Boers together, you know.’ Colonel Aitchison paused, looking somewhat confused. ‘What was I...’
‘The guided tour. Sir,’ the corporal prompted, none too subtly, ‘to ascertain which rooms can be utilised for what.’
His voice was unexpected, his accent softly lilted. ‘You are Welsh,’ Flora exclaimed in some surprise.
‘I am a soldier, Miss Carmichael.’
It was not just antagonism, he had obviously taken an instant dislike to her, which shouldn’t matter one whit, and most certainly should not hurt her. Flora got to her feet, forcing the colonel and the rude corporal to stand. He was taller than she expected, more intimidating as he stood there in his pristine uniform, his feet in their gleaming boots planted slightly apart, as if he was on guard duty and would challenge her right to pass. In her own home!
‘Let us proceed with the tour at once.’ Because the sooner this is over, the sooner I shall be rid of you, she implied as she strode past him, her nose in the air, knowing that she must look perfectly ridiculous as well as appearing dreadfully rude. ‘Good morning, Colonel.’
‘My daughter is right,’ she heard her father say, ‘the sooner the better. If that is all for now, Colonel?’
‘A few signatures, the rest can be ironed out later. As I said, I shan’t be far away. Hoping to bag a few grouse while I’m here, actually. Maybe even a salmon. Patterson was telling me there is excellent fishing on his stretch of the river. In the old days...’
The meeting was clearly over. Flora fumbled with the latch.
‘Allow me.’
Corporal Cassell reached around her, the sleeve of his jacket brushing her arm, ushering her through the open door. She was absurdly conscious of how slight she was compared to his broad physique. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She had expected him to return to the drawing room, but instead he followed her out to the Great Hall, wandering over to the stone fireplace and studying the display of claymores ranged in a wheel on the wall above it. ‘Do you keep these in readiness to repel an invasion by the English?’ he asked.
Flora rarely lost her temper, but she felt her hackles rise. This man was insufferable. ‘It may have escaped your notice, but we are actually fighting on the same side in this particular war.’
‘I doubt you and I will ever be on the same sid
e, Miss Carmichael,’ Corporal Cassell said, turning his attention to the array of muskets in a case by the window. ‘You’d do well to make sure the colonel doesn’t clap eyes on these, else he’ll be requisitioning them.’
‘They would be of little use, since they are over a hundred years old.’
‘I’m willing to bet they’re still a damn sight more effective than what they’ve been giving our boys to train with,’ he exclaimed with surprising viciousness. ‘Broom handles, pitchforks, guns minus bullets if they are very lucky,’ he added, in answer to her enquiring look. ‘This war has caught the army on the hop. If you could but see...’ He stopped abruptly.
‘If I could but see what, Corporal Cassell?’
He shrugged and turned away to look at a large flag displayed on the wall.
‘The standard you are looking at was borne at Culloden,’ Flora said, addressing his back. ‘Though some of the clan fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie, others were on the side of the crown.’
The corporal made no reply. Thoroughly riled, and determined to force him to acknowledge her presence, Flora went to stand beside him. ‘Above the standard is our family crest, which is also carved over the front door. Tout Jour Prest. It means...’
‘Always ready. You see, I am not wholly uneducated.’
‘I did not think for a moment that you were. Why do you dislike me so much, Corporal?’
He twisted round suddenly, taking her off guard. ‘I bear you no ill will personally, Miss Carmichael, but I do not approve of your type.’
‘My type?’ His eyes, she realised, were not black but a very dark chocolate-brown. Though he clearly intended to intimidate her, she found the way he looked at her challenging. It was deliberately provocative. ‘And what, pray tell, do you mean by that?’
‘All this.’ He swept his arm wide. ‘This little toy castle of yours. All these guns and shields and standards commemorating years of repression. A monument, Miss Carmichael, to the rich and privileged who expect others to do the filthy business of earning their living for them.’
‘My father works extremely hard.’
‘Collecting rents.’
‘He does not— Good grief, are you some sort of communist?’
She could not help but be pleased at the surprise on his face. ‘What on earth would you know about communism?’ he demanded.
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘I am a socialist and proud of it.’
‘Like Mr Keir Hardie? He has made himself most unpopular by campaigning against the war. Are you also a pacifist?’
‘A conchie? Hardly, given my uniform and my rank. What do you know of Keir Hardie? I wouldn’t have thought someone like you would be interested in him.’
‘Someone like me! A female, do you mean, or one of my class? Do you have any idea how patronising that sounds? Silly question, of course you do.’
‘I did not intend to insult you.’
‘Yes, you did, Corporal Cassell.’ Flora glared at him. ‘Please, feel free to continue with your barbs. Being a patriot, I am delighted to afford you the opportunity to practise something that gives you such obvious pleasure.’
To her astonishment, he burst out laughing. ‘I will when I can think of one. I must say, you are not at all what I was expecting.’
His backhanded compliment should most decidedly not be making her feel quite so pleased. Quite the contrary, she should have taken extreme umbrage by now, and left him to his own devices. Instead Flora discovered that she was enjoying herself. Corporal Cassell was rude and he made the most extraordinarily sweeping assumptions, but he did not talk to her as if she was witless. ‘I have never met a socialist before. Are they all as outspoken as you?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never met a laird’s daughter before. Are they all as feisty as you?’
‘Oh, I should think so. Centuries of trampling over serfs and turning crofters out of their homes into the winter snows leave their mark, you know.’
He smiled wryly, acknowledging the hit. ‘And then there is the red hair. Though it would be a crime to label it something so mundane as red.’
She knew she ought not to be standing here exchanging banter with him. She was also quite certain she should not be feeling this exhilarating sense of anticipation, as if she were getting ready to jump into the loch, knowing it would be shockingly cold but unbearably tempted by its deceptively blue embrace on a warm summer’s day. ‘What, then, would you call it?’ Flora asked.
The corporal reached out to touch the lock that hung over her forehead, twining it around his finger. ‘Autumn,’ he said thoughtfully.
She caught her breath. ‘That’s not a colour.’
‘It is now.’
The door to the drawing room opened, and he sprang away from her. ‘Flora?’ her father said.
‘I was showing Corporal Cassell our collection of firearms.’
The laird drew her one of his inscrutable looks before turning back to the colonel. ‘Good day to you. I will see you in a few days, but in the meantime you can reach me by telephone, and I’m sure my daughter will keep me fully briefed.’
With a gruff goodbye to the corporal, her father picked up his walking stick and headed for the front door where the deerhounds awaited him. He’d be off for a long tramp across the moors. Her father supported the war unequivocally and would like as not have enlisted himself if he’d been of age, but Glen Massan House was in his blood, and giving it up was no easy sacrifice to make.
A horrible premonition of the other, much more painful sacrifices her family might ultimately have to make made Flora feel quite sick, but she resolutely pushed the thought away. There was no point in imagining the worst when there was work to be done. Besides, neither of her brothers was currently in the firing line, for which she was guiltily grateful.
She turned her attention to the forecourt, where the corporal was in earnest conversation with his colonel. The engine of the staff car was already running. She could not hear what was being said, but she could tell the Welshman was not happy. Eventually, he stepped back and saluted. The car drove off in a flurry of gravel, and the corporal re-joined her.
‘What do you intend to use our house for?’ Flora asked.
‘It’s supposed to be hush-hush, though I can’t imagine why. You’re not a German spy by any chance, are you?’ he asked sardonically. Pulling off his cap, he ran his fingers through his hair. ‘It’s been earmarked for special training. That’s all I know, and even if I did know more I couldn’t tell you. One thing I do know, though, we only have a few weeks to get the place ready before the first batch of Tommies arrive, so me and the lads are going to have to get our skates on.’
‘Which means that I, too, will have to get my skates on. I would not wish to be responsible for delaying the British army,’ Flora said, trying not to panic. Outside, the soldiers were playing an impromptu game of football on the croquet lawn. She prayed her mother had for once done as she was bid, and kept to the Lodge. ‘How many of you are here as the—what is it, advance guard?’
‘Just the one section, me and twelve men.’
‘Goodness, when you arrived it seemed like hundreds.’
‘It most likely will be soon, but for now it’s just us. And the colonel, of course, whenever he deigns to join us.’
Flora eyed him sharply. ‘You sound positively insubordinate, Corporal.’
‘Do I?’
‘The colonel strikes me as the kind of man who is rather more efficient in his absence than his presence,’ she ventured.
‘And you are qualified to make such a judgement, are you?’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, why must you be so abrasive?’ Flora snapped. Though he raised his brows at her flare of temper, he made no attempt to apologise. She suspected he was the kind of man who made a point of not apologising for anything, if he could avoid it. ‘Look, the truth is, I have no idea whatsoever what it is that you expect of me,’ she said with a sigh. ‘So if you can bring yourself
to let me in on your plans, I would very much appreciate it.’
His expression softened into a hint of a smile, which did very strange things to Flora’s insides. ‘Since I’ve only just been dumped with— Since I’ve only just assumed responsibility, I don’t actually have any plans. You’re not the only one who is in uncharted territory.’
‘Thank you. I know that shouldn’t make me feel better, but it does.’
‘As long as you don’t go bleating to your daddy.’
‘I am not a lamb, Corporal,’ Flora snapped, ‘and I am certainly not in the habit of telling tales.’
‘I apologise, that was uncalled for.’
She glared at him. ‘Yes, it was.’
Once again, he surprised her by laughing. ‘You really are a feisty thing, aren’t you, Miss Carmichael.’
And he really was rather sinfully attractive when he let down his guard. ‘Call me Flora. We shall sink or swim together, then,’ she said, holding out her hand.
He did not shake it, but instead clicked his heels together and bowed. ‘If we are to swim together, then you must call me Geraint.’
He held her gaze as he turned her hand over and pressed a kiss to her palm, teasing her, daring her to react. His kiss made her pulse race. Seemingly as shocked as she, he dropped her hand as if he had been jolted by an electric current.
They stared at each other in silence. He was the first to look away. ‘We should start by making the tour, and take things from there,’ he said gruffly.
Had she imagined the spark between them, or was the corporal intent on ignoring it? Flora was so confused that she was happy to go along with him. ‘Yes,’ she said, aware that she was nodding rather too frantically. ‘That sounds like a plan.’
‘In the meantime, my men will unload the trucks and set up temporary camp.’
‘Oh, please, not on the lawn. My mother specifically asked...’
‘What, is she worried that we’ll dig latrines next to her rose beds?’
‘Actually, manure is very good for roses.’
Never Forget Me Page 2
