by Marie Laval
‘Oh no…’ She heard her own hoarse, heart-wrenching cry. Her legs buckled under her. She felt the cold, damp sand under her cheek. And then she felt nothing at all.
Chapter Six
‘How is she doing?’
Kilroy closed the door and walked to the fireplace.
‘She’ll be fine. Well, as fine as she can be under the circumstances. I understand she knew the dead girl.’
‘She was a close friend of hers.’ Bruce pushed the papers on his desk into an untidy pile and reclined on his chair.
He felt hot and shivery, exhausted and achy – no doubt as a consequence of several journeys up and down the cliff, first carrying an unconscious Rose back to the Lodge, and later the body of a dead woman.
Untying his black necktie, he loosened the top buttons of his white linen shirt before rubbing his throbbing forehead with his fingers. That damned headache had come back with a vengeance. He could hardly see straight, let alone concentrate on his work, or anything else – like trying to remember where and when he had seen the beautiful, black-haired woman before today.
‘This is a very odd turn of events indeed.’ Kilroy walked to a side table and poured himself half a tumbler of whisky.
Bruce slammed the palm of his hand on the desk.
‘Damn it, Kilroy, it’s more than odd. It’s downright bizarre. What the hell happened to Fenella MacKay and why was the body of an Algerian woman washed ashore on my land, when she’s supposed to be in Algiers, or Bou Saada or God knows where else?’
He paused, closed his eyes and tried to silence the dark voice whispering that he knew the answer to both questions.
‘McGunn, are you all right?’
Bruce forced his eyes open.
‘I’m fine,’ he growled.
‘All I can tell you is that both suffered similar injuries,’ Kilroy resumed speaking. ‘Both were raped, tortured, burned and strangled.’
‘Aye, I saw the burn marks this time.’
Kilroy swallowed a mouthful of whisky, pensive.
‘Human depravity will never cease to amaze me,’ he sighed. ‘Malika appears to have been killed in the last few days. The thing is, I don’t think either woman spent very long in the water – a few hours, at most. It’s almost as if they were both left near the beach, deliberately, to be found.’
Bruce rubbed his forehead again.
‘Are you still taking that tonic I had made for you?’ Kilroy asked. ‘You look as if you could do with a good measure of it right now.’
Bruce opened the drawer of his desk and took out a half-empty brown glass bottle.
‘Here is your medicine, doctor. I take two spoonfuls every night, like you ordered. See what a good patient I am?’
He let out a short, joyless laugh.
‘The brew is vile by the way, and doesn’t seem to be doing me any good whatsoever. I wonder what the hell you’ve put in it.’
He put the bottle down on the desk.
‘Give it time.’ Kilroy studied him. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘About what?’ Bruce pushed his chair back and got up but swayed as he rose. When he reached the fireplace he had to hold on to the mantelpiece to stop himself falling. His heart galloped and beads of perspiration pearled on his forehead.
‘About why you’re as pale as a corpse and need to hold on to that mantelpiece for dear life, for example? You’re dizzy, aren’t you?’
‘So what if I am?’ Bruce tightened his grip on the oak mantelpiece.
‘What else is wrong?’ Kilroy asked.
Bruce snorted.
‘Let’s see. Where shall I start? Headaches, insomnia, nightmares, memory loss, heart pounding like I’m charging on a god-damned battlefield… Oh, and I forgot the visions of mayhem and destruction and the voices of the dead calling to me even when I’m awake. You see, it’s nothing your tonic or a tumbler of whisky can’t cure,’ he finished.
Immediately, he let out a ragged sigh and added. ‘Sorry, Kilroy. I’m being an ass.’
He took a deep breath. The weight on his chest shifted. The dizziness eased off and his heartbeat slowed, returning to normal.
‘These attacks, do they occur at any particular time of the day or night? After you’ve been riding hard or engaged in strenuous work? Or do they strike even when you’re resting? Are they getting worse, more frequent?’
‘Forget it. I’ll be all right.’ Bruce shook his head, already regretting having said so much. Kilroy would never leave him in peace now.
He could have answered yes to all of the doctor’s questions. The symptoms were indeed getting worse and more frequent. His mind was playing so many tricks on him these days, he had probably just imagined seeing the Algerian girl in Inverness. Yes, that’s what it was. It didn’t make any sense otherwise.
Perhaps the time had come to put someone in charge of the estate, ready to take over. MacBoyd would be the best choice. They’d been friends since they were boys. Together they’d ride across the heather and wild thyme-covered moors, fish in burns or hidden creeks, and dive in deep lochs set like gems in empty glens. They climbed up the rocky slopes of Ben Hope in the summertime, watched eagles soar in the vast blue sky, camped out in the open at night and dreamt under the stars of adventure and girls.
That was before his grandfather sent him away to the army.
Yes, MacBoyd would take over. His grandfather would have approved. In more ways than one, his friend had been more of a grandson to Doughall McGunn than he ever had.
‘I don’t understand why you’re being so evasive,’ Kilroy said. ‘I know what strain you’ve been under. It can’t have been easy for you to go through the enquiry at Whitehall after fighting so hard in the Punjab, and listen to these fools blaming you for the debacle at Ferozeshah and Sobraon when they were nowhere near the battlefield.’
He must have seen the dangerous warning in Bruce’s eyes because he stopped short.
‘And you haven’t had an easy time here either, with all the new people coming from Westmore and the financial pressure on the estate.’
Bruce’s face hardened. He walked across the study and opened the door.
‘I said I’d be fine. Listen, can you keep Lady McRae company tonight?’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To the harbour, where the Sea Eagle docked earlier today to carry out repairs. I heard that Angus Mackay was causing trouble again, trying to get villagers to attack the ship and set it alight.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor man. He is overcome by grief and claims that Rose McRae and the crew were responsible for throwing Fennella and Malika overboard after killing them on the Sea Eagle. It’s all nonsense, of course, but I’d better go down there and make sure Captain Kennedy and his crew are safe.’
The wind had blown the clouds away, but despite the stars, the night seemed as dark and desolate as her heart. Malika was dead. Her mutilated body lay on a cold slab in the village fisheries. She’d been murdered, and Rose feared it was all her fault.
She turned away from the window. She had no more tears to cry. Shock and sorrow made her chest ache. Her head spun with questions. What had happened after that last evening when they argued in her hotel room in Algiers? How did Malika end up here, in the far north of Scotland? Who had killed her and thrown her body into the sea?
Shivering in her damp clothes, she undressed, hung her gown and undergarments to dry near the fireplace and searched through her bag. Discarding the only other dress she had packed for her stay at Wrath Lodge, she pulled out her favourite clothes: a fine white-linen shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, a short black velvet jacket embroidered with gold and silver patterns and a pair of purple pantaloons.
Before putting on the shirt she couldn’t resist burying her face in the folds of the fabric to breathe in the fragrance of her oasis, a mixture of lush, sweet vegetation and earth and dry heat. It was where she and Malika had grown up. It was home, a home so far away it felt unreal, like a mirage shimmering over the scorched Saharan plains. A hom
e her friend would never see again.
She put the shirt down and straightened up. Now wasn’t the time for tears and homesickness. Now was the time to plead with Lord McGunn to take her to Westmore. The sooner she told Cameron about Malika, the sooner he’d start an investigation into her death.
She put the shirt and pantaloons on, fastened the black bolero and slipped her feet into a pair of delicate purple silk babouches. Her chignon had come undone when she'd fainted earlier. She pulled the few remaining pins out, brushed the tangles from her hair until it fell in soft curls down to her waist.
The staircase was dark and full of shadows, and she hurried down, her pumps hardly making a sound. Two men were talking in the hall below. She recognised MacBoyd’s deep, burry voice.
‘McGunn wants to keep the woman here until further notice and use her as a bargaining chip against McRae and his bankers,’ he was saying.
‘Isn’t it a little risky to defy an man as rich, as powerful and as mean as McRae?’
‘Aye, I suppose so, but McGunn’s had enough and I can’t say I blame him. McRae has tried to ruin him for far too long – and in more ways than one. I always believed he was somehow behind the Whitehall enquiry which got him discharged from the army.’
‘What if the woman tries to escape?’
MacBoyd chuckled. ‘She won’t. I bet she’ll be just like the others, she’ll fall in love with him, stick to him like treacle. I don’t what it is with him but the more he scowls at them, the more they seem to love him. Pity it doesn’t work when I try it.’
Rose gripped the railing tightly.
‘Do you remember that gorgeous red-haired widow from Thurso who was so desperate to marry him last year?’ MacBoyd carried on.
‘She left love charms everywhere – in his desk, under his pillow, in his coat pockets. She even fed him a love potion her old witch of grandmother had made. What was she called? Prunella, no… Priscilla, that’s right! She was one crazy woman. McGunn got so annoyed with her he had to carry her into the mail coach and order her to keep away or he’d throw her into the dungeon. She screamed, cried and fought him all the way… I wonder what happened to her.’
The other man laughed. ‘Somehow I can’t see Lady McRae sneaking a love potion into McGunn’s whisky. I think she’d rather feed him rat poison.’
‘That’s where you are wrong, mate. She’s no different from the others. I heard she paid him a visit last night.’
The blood drained from Rose’s face and she gripped the railing more tightly.
‘She did? You mean he’s bedded her already?’
‘Aye, and McRae will spit feathers when he hears of it,’ MacBoyd said. ‘Isn’t it funny how history repeats itself? Here’s another McRae woman falling for a McGunn, and this one’s only been here for five minutes.’
‘Now I understand why she looked so pink and cosy in his arms when he carried her back from the beach earlier… Anyway, come on, MacBoyd, we’d better go. We’ve work to do.’
Still laughing, the two men walked out of the hallway.
Rose let go of the railing and curled her fists so hard her nails dug into the palms of her hands. Anger bubbled inside her, hot and fierce, and tears of rage stung her eyes. Never had she felt so alone, so helpless. Not only McGunn made fun of her in front of his men and spread untrue rumours about her sleeping with him, but he planned to keep her a prisoner at Wrath!
She pressed a hand to her heart. Cameron! She had to get to him before the gossips, and explain what really happened the night before. She could forget about asking Lord McGunn for help. Since the man intended her to be a hostage, she would find her own way to travel to Westmore.
She sat on a step and took a few minutes to calm herself down, until an uneasy sensation made the back of her neck tingle. Someone was watching her from the shadows at the top of the stairs. She glanced up but couldn’t see anyone. A wave of terror washed over her.
She made herself stand up and ran down the stairs, across the hall and all the way to the drawing room. By the time she pushed the door open and stumbled inside her heart beat too fast and she was breathless.
‘Lady McRae, at last! I was going to send for you.’
Doctor Kilroy strode across the room and took her hand.
‘But you are shaking, my dear, and you look so pale. Are you feeling faint again?’
He led her to the fireplace and gestured for her to sit down. Still unsure of who, or what, had scared her so much in the staircase, Rose tried to calm her breathing.
‘You suffered a nasty shock this afternoon, of course,’ Kilroy said in a soothing voice. ‘What happened to your friend and the other young lady we found yesterday is truly shocking. Rest assured that McGunn won’t rest until he brings the perpetrator to justice. If anyone can find out what happened, it’s him.’
Rose fought back tears again. Showing weakness would not help Malika.
‘You are shivering,’ the doctor said in a kind voice.
‘It’s the cold,’ she replied with a tight smile. ‘I am more used to desert heat and sand storms than snow and icy winds.’
‘Of course! Our harsh Scottish climate must seem so alien to you. The people too, I’m sure. They can be a little… ahem… harsh at times, but they’re good souls, really.’
A little harsh? Good souls? He must be joking! People around here were crude, uncouth and primitive. She almost blurted out what she had heard about McGunn’s plan to keep her a hostage at Wrath, but stopped herself just in time. No matter how nice Doctor Kilroy was, she couldn’t trust him. He was a friend of Lord McGunn’s.
‘I can only hope Westmore is more hospitable than Wrath,’ she said with a tight smile.
‘Oh, it is. Westmore Manor is magnificent. The McRaes built themselves a castle worthy of the grandest French chateaux to replace their ancestral pile and they have filled it with treasures.’
He sighed and made a sweeping gesture, embracing the austere decor of the drawing room.
‘Unlike the McGunns.’
‘How far exactly is Westmore from here?’ Rose asked, toying with the frayed tassels of a threadbare green cushion.
‘About forty miles.’
‘Oh…’ She bit her lip.
It was a lot further than she’d thought. Stealing a horse and riding there on her own was out of the question. She would have to find another means of escape.
‘This area is so vast it’s almost a country in its own right,’ the doctor said. ‘There are practically no towns, no roads, only mountains and glens, lochs and moorland. Without the mail coach, we’d be totally cut off.’
‘The mail coach?’
‘From Ullapool to Wick. It comes every four weeks and stops at every town and burgh on the way, including Wrath and Westmore. Actually, it’s due tomorrow, and not before time. I ordered a box of potions and ointments from a chemist at Ullapool.’
He reclined on his chair and crossed his legs.
‘Its arrival is always a major event for the village. We’re so far out of the way that we rely on travellers to bring us news of the outside world.’
‘So the coach takes passengers too?’
‘Oh yes, it can take up to six passengers inside and a few on the roof, but it is a most uncomfortable way to travel.’
Rose closed her eyes briefly and offered a silent prayer of thanks. She didn’t care a fig about being uncomfortable. She would travel in an ox-cart if it meant she could escape Wrath Lodge. All she had to do was to make sure she was in the village before the coach left.
It seemed wrong to leave Malika’s body before she had been buried. On the other hand, if she missed the mail coach, she’d be unable to leave for weeks. Suddenly she didn’t know what to do for the best.
She leaned against the back of the chair, and crossed her legs. The silk of her purple pantaloons swished.
Doctor Kilroy’s gaze travelled from her tight fitting bolero and the décolleté of her white shirt, all the way down to her dainty silk slippers. He cou
ghed and leaned towards her.
‘Would you find me very bold, lady McRae, if I complimented you on your outfit? It reminds me of a most wonderful theatre performance of the Arabian Nights I saw in a London theatre, a long time ago.’
She arched her eyebrows in surprise. ‘London?’
‘I lived there for years before moving first to Edinburgh, and later Inverness. I used to very much enjoy attending performances at the theatre…’
‘Why did you come to this god-forsaken place?’
He pulled a face.
‘I didn’t actually have any choice in the matter, not at first anyhow. You could say my hands were tied… literally.’
She leaned forward, intrigued. ‘What do you mean by that?’
The doctor smiled. ‘It’s quite simple, my lady. McGunn abducted me.’
Chapter Seven
Rose gasped. ‘Abducted? By Old Ibrahim’s Beard! How… and why?’
‘McGunn needed a doctor to look after his people,’ Doctor Kilroy smiled. He didn’t look in the least upset.
‘You see, this place is so vast, wild and isolated no physician ever agreed to settle here. When Doughall McGunn was in charge – that was Bruce’s grandfather – a doctor would do the rounds three times a year. Anyone in need of medical help in between had to travel to Thurso or Wick, or rely on local wise women, whose remedies were often more deadly than the ailments they sought to cure. Can you imagine that some folks around here still believe that applying mud can alleviate an itchy rash or walking barefoot on the moors under a full moon cures a bad stomach?’
He shuddered. ‘Anyway, when McGunn took over from his grandfather eighteen months ago, he decided that enough was enough. He set off for Inverness with MacBoyd, obtained the names of a handful of physicians, tracked them down and … ahem… invited them for a drink and a chat in a tavern. I was the last man McGunn saw that night. He bought me a drink or two,’ he grimaced, ‘well, make that a dozen. Then he and MacBoyd got me back to my lodgings, packed my bags and my medical paraphernalia and bundled me into a carriage. By the time I was conscious again, I was tied up like a hog and well on my way along the bumpy road to Wrath.’
