by Marie Laval
Dancing for the Devil
Part Two:
Blue Bonnets
Marie Laval
Rose Saintclair’s tale begins in The Dream Catcher, the first part of the Dancing for the Devil trilogy.
The story so far…
Cape Wrath, Scotland, November 1847.
Rose is travelling to meet her new husband when her ship is caught in a terrifying storm off the far north of Scotland. Her first glimpse of Wrath Lodge, makes Rose think of the gateway to hell and her encounter with Wrath's laird Bruce McGunn does nothing to reassure her. A reckless officer discharged from the army, McGunn holds a bitter grudge against her husband's family, the wealthy McRaes, and Rose is soon horrified to find out that he means to hold her to ransom in order to save his estate from financial ruin.
Bruce's health is failing and, with terrifying hallucinations tormenting him every night, he fears he is descending into madness. Soon other things are keeping him awake – a growing attraction for his feisty and exotic captive, and the gruesome discovery of two women's bodies washed ashore near the castle. One of them, Rose’s childhood friend Malika, she last saw in Algiers the day before her marriage to McRae. How the women died, who killed them and disposed of their bodies is a mystery Bruce now has to solve.
Determined not to miss the ball where her darling Cameron promised to announce their secret wedding, Rose manages to escape dark, gloomy Wrath. She takes with her a posy of pine sprigs she believes was given to her by the Dark Lady, Wrath’s resident ghost, and confused feelings for Wrath’s brutal and tormented master – the man she calls McGlum...
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Sword Dance
Other Accent Press Titles
Chapter One
‘You think I was doing what?’ Bruce shot Kilroy a disbelieving glance.
The doctor shuffled his papers and piled them up in a precarious pyramid on his desk.
‘Sleepwalking,’ he answered without looking up. ‘How else can you explain what happened last night? You said yourself you couldn’t remember much.’
Bruce shook his head.
‘Maybe I wasn’t the one sleepwalking.’
He took a deep breath and raked his fingers in his hair. ‘The thing is, it’s happened before, with Rose McRae I mean.’
This time, Kilroy looked up.
‘You mean she’s already been in your room in the middle of the night?’
Bruce smiled. ‘Actually, she was in my bed the night she arrived.’
Kilroy sat down heavily on his padded leather chair, folded his hands on his stomach, and narrowed his eyes.
‘You got her into bed the very first night? You work fast, my friend. I’m glad to see the old “claymore devil” hasn’t lost any of his sharp edges.’
Bruce shook his head. ‘It wasn’t like that. I mean, I didn’t…we didn’t… She kind of stumbled into it.’
Kilroy chuckled. ‘How can she stumble into your bed when your room is up a tower at the other end of the Lodge?’
Bruce didn’t answer but turned and pressed his forehead against the cool window pane. He had spent the whole afternoon at Morag’s bedside and hadn’t even noticed how late it was. It was evening now, and people would be rushing home or pushing the door to the Old Norse’s Inn for a quiet pint of ale or a game of dominoes near the peat fire.
‘She was chasing after a ghost,’ Bruce said in a low voice.
‘What ghost? You talk in riddles, McGunn.’
Bruce sighed and turned to face his friend. ‘It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I don’t sleepwalk. I would know if I did it, after years bivouacking and sleeping in army barracks.’
‘You may have only just started doing it. The unusual symptoms you’ve experienced lately, the memory loss, nightmares and vivid dreams you mentioned, all go hand in hand with sleepwalking.’
‘But don’t worry,’ Kilroy added quickly, ‘somnambulism isn’t that serious. The trick is to prevent you from getting injured. From now on, you must lock your door or put some piece of furniture to block your stairs at night to make sure you don’t wander on, or off, the cliff.’
‘I’ll soon have more pressing things to worry me than the need to drag cupboards across my staircase,’ Bruce retorted grimly. ‘I have bankers and their bailiffs to ward off, a killer to catch, and I may have a duel on my hands before long – if McRae is brave enough to face me.’
Kilroy cocked his eyebrow. ‘A duel?’
Bruce drew in a deep, long breath.
‘Half my household saw Rose McRae asleep in my arms this morning.’
‘Ah. That’s unfortunate.’
‘Unfortunate? It’s a bloody disaster!’ Bruce thundered. ‘The woman doesn’t remember a thing. She has no idea her reputation is – or will soon be – in tatters and her husband may cast her off for adultery. How the hell do I tell her?’
Kilroy toyed with a bronze letter-opener.
‘Maybe you won’t have to. Maybe your people won’t talk. With the bad weather coming our way again, there won’t be much travelling between here and Thurso or Westmore in the next few days.’
‘You know as well as I do that the weather won’t stop tongues from wagging. Gossip always finds a way, especially that kind of gossip.’
Kilroy stabbed a pile of letters with his letter-opener. ‘You may be right. I wonder…’
He paused and reclined on the back of his seat.
‘It does strike me as odd that neither of you remember much about last night. It’s as if you were both struck by some kind of amnesia.’
‘Perhaps it was the curse of the Northern Lights,’ Bruce replied with a shrug. ‘It’s late. I’d better go,’ he went on. ‘Are you sure Morag is going to be all right tonight? She seems very weak.’
The woman had clutched at his hand, refusing to let him leave her side and asking for forgiveness again and again. Every time he asked what he should forgive, she’d turned her head to the wall without answering.
Kilroy stood up. ‘Her heart is in bad shape and she is frail, but for now she’ll be comfortable enough in my spare room. Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on her throughout the night.’
‘Thanks, Kilroy.’
Bruce slipped his riding coat on and walked to the front door.
‘How long before you travel to Westmore?’ Kilroy asked.
‘Two or three days, at most.’
Kilroy swayed back and forth on the balls of his feet, and coughed to clear his throat.
‘I hope that what MacBoyd was telling me last night in the public house isn’t true.’
‘What was that?’
The doctor leant closer and lowered his voice. ‘That you intend to keep Rose McRae here as some kind of guarantee against her husband and his business associates.’
Bruce silently promised to give MacBoyd a terse telling off. He had no right talking to Kilroy, or anyone else, about his plans.
‘What I’m doing with Lady McRae is nobody’s business, not even yours.’
Shock registered on the doctor’s face.
‘So it’s true! And I thought McBoyd had had too much ale. These aren’t the old days of the clan wars, McGunn. You can’t keep a woman locked up in your tower and hold her to ransom.’
‘I’ll do what I must to protect my estate and my people against McRae and his bankers. Not that I have to justify myself to you.’
Kilroy looked sharply at McGunn but he must have thought better
than to insist because he shook his head and added with a resigned smile, ‘Well, you know best, I suppose.’
He opened the door. Bruce stepped outside and breathed in a lungful of icy wind. There was more snow on the way but for now the half, butter-yellow moon played hide and seek with black clouds.
‘I’ll drop by in the morning to check on Morag.’
The two men shook hands and Bruce made his way to the stables behind Kilroy’s house. A short while later he was riding back to Wrath Lodge, the man and the horse darker than the night on the deserted cliff path.
The loud sounding of the horn woke Rose with a start and she bumped her head against the side panel inside the coach.
‘By Old Ibrahim’s Beard, what was that terrible racket?’ she gasped, rubbing the forehead with her fingers.
‘Only the post-guard warning the coaching inn of our arrival. We’re stopping for the night,’ the man sitting next to her replied.
As the carriage lurched around a bend in the road, he shifted on the seat and Rose caught wafts of wet dog from his pelisse and horse manure from his boots. Queasy once more, she searched her pocket for a handkerchief but only found the sprig of pine tied with the faded pink ribbon. That was strange, she didn’t remember taking it with her that morning.
The man moved again, and this time the smells of dung and dog hair were so strong Rose heaved. She was going to be sick.
‘The window,’ she gasped, ‘please open the window. Quick.’
‘I am sorry but I can’t,’ the man replied, gesturing to a lock at the top of the window. ‘They’re locked.’
In desperation, she buried her face into the sprig of pine, and took deep, long, calming breaths, hoping that the fresh scent of pine would stave off her nausea. Doctor Kilroy had been right about travelling in a post-coach. It was a nightmare.
When she was sure she wasn’t going to be sick, she put the sprig of pine back inside her pocket and looked outside. It was pitch black with only a half moon watching over like a large yellow eye.
‘Where are we?’
‘We just passed Tongue.’
‘Are we still on Lord McGunn’s land?’
He shook his head. ‘No, my lady, we’re on McRae land.’
She closed her eyes to hide her relief. She was safe. Lord McGunn wouldn’t come chasing after her now.
‘I fear we’ll have more snow before the morning,’ the man carried on. ‘I can feel it in my creakin’ old bones. Lucky for me, I’m not too far from home now.’
He went on to explain that he would get off the coach the following morning at Borgie, talked about his business, his wife and bevy of children whilst Rose nodded politely.
The horn rang again. The horse’s hooves rumbled on a cobbled courtyard and the coach shuddered and rattled to a halt.
‘Lady and gentleman, time for a hot meal and a well-earned rest,’ the post-guard announced with flourish as he opened the door.
He held out his hand to help Rose get down, taking hold of her elbow and giving it a little squeeze. Rose shivered as she walked across the courtyard towards the two-storey stone building. Lights glowed behind the steamed-up windows, giving it a warm, welcoming appearance. It would be so nice to sit by the fire and enjoy a hot meal, then sleep in a warm, comfortable bed…
She stopped in her tracks and turned to the post-guard.
‘I can’t go in.’
‘Why is that, my lady?’ He leant towards her, a puzzled look in his small, beady eyes.
‘I have no money. Unless I can pay for food and lodgings with another necklace? What do you think?’
He flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘Don’t you worry about that. I’ll settle the cost of your lodgings for you. We‘ll sort everything out later.’
‘Thank you, you’re very kind,’ she told him with a sigh of relief. At least she wouldn’t have to spend the night in the coach in the inn’s stables.
He patted her arm and leaned closer.
‘That’s no problem. I couldn’t leave a lovely young lady out in the cold, could I?’ For a second, his eyes glittered with something other than bonhomie – something sinister and threatening – then it was gone and he smiled again.
Less than an hour later, Rose was getting undressed in her small bedroom on the first floor. She had gulped down a bowl of hot stew and two fat slices of bread before retiring for the night, leaving her travelling companions to their pints of ale, tumblers of whisky and game of cards.
The raucous noise of men’s laughter and conversations from below drifted up through the floorboards. Shivering again, she hastily washed her face and hands in a bowl of lukewarm water before unpinning her hair, removing her boots and dress and slipping her nightdress on over her chemise.
The shawl she wrapped tightly around her shoulders didn’t ward off the chill, so she spread her cloak over the blankets, and thought longingly about Lord McGunn’s thick plaid and socks. If only she had them with her now, she wouldn’t be so cold.
She held her breath, and her chest tightened.
McGunn.
By now he must know she had escaped.
She pictured his face as clearly as if he was there in front of her. His grey eyes, dark and stormy, his mouth unsmiling and the thick, dark stubble on his cheeks and long black hair which made him look like some warrior from a violent past. Never had a man deserved his nickname more than Lord McGunn, and even though she’d never seen him fight, she sensed that his nickname of ‘claymore devil’ suited him like a glove.
Her body tensed and she threw a nervous glance towards the door. She slid further into the bed, curled into a ball and pulled the covers over her head.
This was silly. Of course, McGunn wasn’t about to barge into her room! She was well out of his reach, and in another day and a half, two at most, she would be reunited with Cameron and take her place by his side at Westmore.
The thought filled her with such sudden, overwhelming panic her mouth went dry and her heart raced frantically. Would Cameron still be angry with her or had he forgiven her? Would she find the frosty-eyed stranger who had boarded the Sea Lady, his face pale, his mouth twisted in a cruel scowl, or the handsome and witty man who had courted her?
She turned in the bed again and memories of their three wonderful weeks in Algiers flooded her mind.
Together they’d strolled the shaded lanes of the Jardin d’Essai – Algiers’ enchanting new public garden overlooking the bay. They’d explored the Kasbah’s narrow lanes, bought slices of juicy watermelon and melt-in-the-mouth honey and almond pastries from street stalls, and taken barouche rides in the hills outside Algiers or along the coast.
Cameron had been an attentive, devoted suitor with exquisite manners and dazzling charm. No man before him had brought her fresh bouquets, written poems which compared her eyes to a starry night. Akhtar urged caution and said it was a mistake to wed someone after such a short length of time. But he was an old man. What did he remember about being young and in love?
As for Malika … Rose swallowed hard as tears stung her eyes. Malika had disliked Cameron intensely, even going as far as inventing shocking lies about him. Cameron said Malika was jealous and, as much as it pained her to admit it, Rose thought he was probably right.
It didn’t matter anymore. Malika was dead, buried in the little graveyard at Balnakeil. She would never smile, dance, or climb up orange trees with her again to get to the juiciest fruit. What had happened to her friend after they last argued, and who had killed her?
She clasped her fingers tightly together and listened to the sounds of laughter and talking until late during the night.
‘Why are these people screaming and shouting?’
Rose pressed her nose against the window. The coach slowed to a walking pace as they entered a small village.
‘And look at these poor children standing barefoot in the snow!’
Her travelling companion cleared his throat.
‘It looks like the hamlet is being cleared
.’
A cold fist tightened around Rose‘s heart.
‘Cleared? You mean to say that odious man, Arthur Morven, is here?’
Her travelling companion nodded.
‘I think that’s him over there,’ he said, pointing to a thick-set man wrapped in a dark grey cloak who sat on a black horse, away from the crowd.
As the coach reached the centre of the village, the noises of men shouting, women and children wailing and dogs barking became deafening. At the centre of it all, a dozen men ran around, holding torches or clubs and shoving people out of the way as they kicked down the doors of cottages, beating the animals and cattle with sticks and setting fire to houses.
On the side of the road, a little boy sat alone in the snow in blood-spattered clothes. He looked straight at Rose through huge, tear-filled eyes as the coach drove past, held his hand out and called, ‘Màthair, Màthair!’
‘What is he saying?’ Rose asked.
‘I believe he wants his mother. She must be around here somewhere, gathering what’s left of her things.’
With a cry of outrage, Rose pulled down the door handle and flung the door open. Enough was enough!
‘What are you doing, are you mad?’ The man next to her shouted.
‘I‘m going to talk to Morven, and make him stop this once and for all!’
She leapt forward, missed her step and landed on her knees but the snow cushioned her fall. Jumping to her feet, she pushed past a gang of young men who cheered as yet another house collapsed in a burning pile. Thugs, that’s what they were, and from the smell of whisky lingering around them, they were drunk too.
‘Help me. Please, someone help me! My grandma’s still in there.’
A woman beat her fists against the closed door of a nearby cottage. Plumes of smoke escaped from under the door, through the gaps in the shutters.
The woman ran to Morven who sat impassive on his horse, and clutched at his booted leg.
‘Please, sir, I beg ye. Help me get her out, she’s eighty-five and bed-ridden.’
He shook his leg so hard he kicked the woman in the chest and she stumbled backward with a cry of pain.
‘Then the old crone’s lived long enough and I’m doing you, and her, a favour.’ He coughed and spat into the snow next to the woman.
