He looked at her, half-laughing, half-frowning. ‘What other reason could there be?’
She opened the door and stumped in, her eyes narrowed, thinking to herself: how about because I thought you were a genuinely nice person and it transpires you’re not?
Good as his word, after closing the three soaking-wet dogs in the hall, where they would do least damage, Roderick packed her off to the bathroom with a huge glass of whisky and set to building the fire.
For the second time that day Kate lay neck-deep in bubbles, musing. The trouble is he’s so bloody gorgeous. He actually took her seriously, which was something Ian had never done. He was clever, sharp and – she closed her eyes, allowing herself a luxurious moment of remembering – if one kiss could have that effect on her, she could only imagine what he’d be like in bed. She smiled to herself. The whisky was going to her head. None of that mattered, if he was on a secret mission to populate the island with lots of miniature Maxwells and perpetuate the family line. She remembered the night he’d rescued her, saying, ‘I don’t make a habit of scooping up stray girls and bringing them home to my lair.’ Huh! Sodding Roderick. Fiona’s words echoed in her ears: ‘He does the broken-hearted loner act with every single “Girl Friday” he hires.’ She climbed out of the bath, wrapping herself in the slightly damp towel from earlier.
She ducked past the sitting-room door – closed, thankfully – ran upstairs to the bedroom, pulled on some pyjamas and found her fluffy dressing gown. She loosened her hair and found herself applying a sneaky coat of lip gloss and mascara. The bath had left a rosy glow on her freckled cheeks. ‘Not bad, for a commoner,’ she said, sticking her tongue out at herself in the mirror.
‘Perfect timing,’ said Roderick, emerging from the sitting room as Kate came down the stairs. ‘I’ve got the fire going. D’you want a top-up?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘I’ve dried off the dogs – there were a couple of old towels in the kitchen. I assumed they probably belonged to Willow?’
Kate grimaced inwardly. They were her favourite towels, a going-to-university present from her grandmother. Admittedly they were now rather ancient and faded, but still. ‘Oh, yes, they’re Willow’s towels,’ she lied in agreement.
Not only had Roderick lit the log fire, but he’d replaced the tea-lights in the little candleholders that were dotted around the room. Kate stood by the fire, hands wrapped round her whisky glass, admiring the sparkly darkness. Everything looked better by candlelight, even arrogant-pig bosses with ulterior motives. He was sitting on the couch, long legs outstretched, T-shirt showing off muscular arms that were tanned all year round from working on the estate. His hair had crinkled in the rain and a dark curl was falling over his forehead. Not that she was looking, obviously.
He patted the space beside him on the couch. ‘Come and sit down. I won’t bite.’
He’s a horrible aristocratic bastard who is using you for his own gains, Kate reminded herself, as she sat down beside him. And you’re having a year off men. And you want a normal relationship with someone who loves you for yourself, not your bloody reproductive potential.
Unfortunately she misjudged her landing – two hefty glasses of malt whisky on an empty stomach having gone straight to her head. And now she was sitting beside him, and his hard thigh was right up against hers, and she could smell a hint of sandalwood in his aftershave, and he was turning and looking at her and . . .
‘Kate.’ A vein was jumping in his cheek. He looked down, into his empty glass. ‘I want to ask you something.’
Oh, help. Here it comes. She curled her nails into her palms, closing her eyes.
‘You’ve done so much for Duntarvie. You’re like a breath of fresh air.’
Kate opened her eyes and flicked a look sideways. Roderick was looking at her, and a lopsided smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. Oh, for goodness’ sake. He was bloody gorgeous. Perhaps being a brood mare wasn’t all that bad. But he’d probably have a bit on the side, called Araminta or something equally posh, and she’d have to live in the scullery and hide when visitors came. Or something. The whisky was really having a terrible effect on her brain. Her muddles were all worded.
‘I wanted to offer you—’
‘Yes! I know I ought to say no, but sod it!’ She felt the room swirling around her. This was a bit like living in one of Susan’s abstract paintings. ‘I’ll live in the kitchen. It’s nice in there. And Araminta need never know I exist.’ She hiccupped gently.
‘Kate?’ He put out a hand to steady her. ‘Who’s Araminta?’
‘Your wife. Or girlfriend. I can’t remember which.’
‘I don’t have either.’ Even through the whisky haze, Kate could see that he was completely nonplussed. ‘I wanted to offer you a job. A proper job, here on the estate.’
‘Of course you did.’ Kate blinked hard, twice, and sat up.
‘A job,’ he repeated. ‘What else?’
She took a deep breath. ‘But I already have a job.’
‘You’re living in this cottage and supposedly working as a Girl Friday. You should be giving Jean a bit of a hand with some admin and chasing up some of the workmen at the cottages, not managing the entire project and trying to find ways to market the estate and boost the island’s economy.’
Kate sat up, feeling a little bit pleased with herself. ‘When you put it like that, I sound quite efficient.’
‘You are far too hard on yourself, Kate.’ He leaned across, pouring another measure of whisky into her glass. ‘Do I take it, then, you’d be interested?’
‘Yes, please.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Do I have to wear a suit?’
‘No, please don’t. Muddy jeans are perfectly acceptable.’ Roderick looked at her pyjama-clad legs. ‘Maybe not dressing gowns, though. Shall we drink to it?’ He clinked his whisky glass against hers and took a sip, not taking his eyes off her. The fire crackled, but the room was silent.
‘Cheers.’ Kate was horrified that another second and she’d probably have leapt on him. Thank the Lord he’d thrown a metaphorical bucket of water over her, by offering the job. A proper job! Here, on this island, which felt more like home than home had ever done. She slurped the rest of her whisky, which seemed to be going down much faster now that she’d developed a taste for it. And bloody Fiona could bugger off now – she couldn’t be accused of hanging on Roderick’s coat-tails and living in Bruar Cottage with a part-time job. Now she would be part of the estate, the fabric of the island. God, she was drunk. The room was spinning slightly, and every so often she felt herself hen-pecking as she dozed off for a split second.
‘You have very nice arms,’ she said, reaching out a finger and running it along, smoothing the hairs on his forearm.
‘I think it’s bedtime, don’t you?’ Roderick stood up, changing the subject, extending a hand to Kate. ‘Before you do something you might regret in the morning. Or I do.’
It took a few moments for her to register what he’d said, and even then she wasn’t quite sure she’d heard right.
He pulled her up from the depths of the sofa. ‘Come on, you. Upstairs.’ He slipped an arm round her waist to steady her, and then propelled her upstairs to the bedroom. Thankfully she was dressed for bed, so it was a simple case of climbing through the muddle of books and coffee cups and sliding, blissfully, under the covers. He leaned over, brushing the hair from her face.
‘Watch it, Roderick Maxwell,’ she mumbled, half-asleep. ‘I’ve got your measure.’
15
The Release
Kate was walking Willow, who was on a lead this time, and trying to subdue her hangover with fresh air. She’d avoided her island friends since her run-in with Fiona, suspecting their motives, realizing she had nobody to confide in who wasn’t close to Roderick.
‘You look like death,’ said Susan.
‘Thanks.’
‘I haven’t seen you for a few days and you end up looking like something the cat dragged in. Have I missed a
night out?’ Susan fell into step alongside Kate, walking along the estate road and back towards their houses.
‘A night in – and no. Willow ran off yesterday on her walk, and Roderick did his Sir Galahad bit,’ she scowled, before continuing, ‘and I got soaked, so he fed me the whisky I got as a present from Jean and Hector.’
‘I think we need a cup of coffee with this story. You busy?’ Susan shifted the huge armful of twigs she was carrying and they walked back to the cottage. They pulled off their boots, leaving them in the back porch, where they joined a mountainous heap of shoes, work boots and wellingtons.
‘Is there a reason for the giant pile of twigs?’ Kate was trying to keep the conversation topics general. She still felt a bit prickly, even though her logical mind kept telling her that it was Fiona who was not to be trusted.
‘I’ve had an idea for a painting. I knew there was loads of hazel up by the big house, so I left the children with Morag for half an hour, so I could go and collect them.’ She opened the kitchen door. Morag was sitting at the table reading the local paper, a sleeping baby Mhairi in her arms. ‘Where’s Jamie?’
‘Here I am!’ said a little voice, from the hall. Kate turned round to see a paint-splattered, very pleased-looking Jamie, hand-in-hand with Jean.
‘I think someone has his mummy’s talent for art – look at these.’ Jean helped him to fan the paintings across the floor to dry.
‘Sweetheart, they’re gorgeous.’ Susan leaned down, kissing him on the smudged nose. ‘D’you fancy a wee rest while we talk about boring grown-up stuff?’
‘Thomas the Tank Engine?’ Jamie’s silence was bought with a kiss, a biscuit and a DVD.
‘Right,’ said Jean. ‘I was only popping in on my way past, to see if Susan needed anything from the supermarket. But I’ll maybe stay for a wee cup of coffee, if there’s one on offer?’ She sat down at the table, looking over Morag’s shoulder, the two friends poring over the announcements page.
Sensing that Mhairi was about to stir, Susan scooped the baby from Morag, curling her into the crook of her arm. She settled down in the rocking chair to feed her, eyes half-closed, head against the colourful crocheted blanket that covered the cushions.
‘I’ll make us a drink.’ Kate filled the kettle, gathering mugs from the draining board and measuring out spoonfuls of coffee into the cafetiere. The friendly muddle of Susan and Tom’s kitchen reminded her of Emma and Sam. She really ought to call and see if Emma was feeling any better. Morning sickness was badly named – poor Emma seemed to feel dreadful the whole time she was awake, but she was so happy to be pregnant that she didn’t care. Of course she had Sam: a genuine, straightforward man who loved Emma for what she was. Unlike Roderick, the shit, muttered Kate, under her breath. Mind you, she’d been stupid enough to think that the laird of a Scottish estate would be genuinely interested in someone like her.
‘So,’ said Susan, one eyebrow raised in amusement, ‘apparently Kate spent the evening drinking whisky with Roddy and now she’s dying of a hangover. We want details, madam.’
‘There’s nothing to tell. Willow ran away, Roderick rescued her, I was soaking wet, he lit the fire while I had a bath, we had a glass of whisky, I went to bed.’ Kate rubbed her chin. ‘At least that’s all I can remember. It is a bit hazy.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Morag.
‘You know what it’s like, if you have a drink on an empty stomach? Well, I had three. One minute I was having a bath, the next Roderick was putting me to bed.’
Susan’s eyes were wide with excitement. ‘Ooh, yes?’
‘Ooh, nothing.’ Kate’s tone was resolute. ‘There is not, and never will be, anything going on between me and the laird of Duntarvie estate.’
‘That’s a shame,’ said Jean, ‘I thought with Fiona well and truly off the scene, there was a chance—’
‘Nope.’ Kate almost snapped her reply.
‘Have I missed something?’ said Morag mildly. ‘You get on well, you’re both single, and we all know what happened in the snug at the firework display . . .’
Susan cackled with delight. ‘And we’ve all seen the way you look at each other. If it’s not you sneaking looks at him, it’s him sneaking looks at you.’
‘Sizing me up, more like.’ Kate gave a hollow little laugh. ‘After all, he’s got to find someone to carry on the family line, hasn’t he?’
‘What?’ said Jean and Morag together.
Kate stood up, gathering the mugs, stalling for time. She was horrified to realize that her vision was blurred with tears.
‘Kate?’ Morag had joined her by the sink. She put a hand on her arm, her voice concerned. ‘What is it?’
‘Roderick is the Laird of Duntarvie. He’s from a different world. He wouldn’t be interested in someone like me, even if . . .’
‘We are talking about the same Roderick Maxwell here?’ Morag laughed, despite herself. ‘The same man who mucks in and works at the fishery and the wood-yard? The one who spent his overdraft on a Hogmanay party? Roddy’s not one for airs and graces.’
‘His overdraft?’ Kate was dazed. ‘You’re joking? After I spent ages working out the financing for the cottages? I could murder him.’
‘Sorry, but could we get back to the “even if” bit, please?’ said Susan.
‘Fiona found me the other night before she left. She told me Roderick needed someone to produce an heir for Duntarvie. She had quite a lot to say about his behaviour with women. And . . .’ she paused for a second, gathering the nerve to confront them, before the words tumbled out in a rush, ‘that you all turn a blind eye, and that he’s only interested in finding someone to have his children.’
There was a moment of silence while the three women took in what Kate had said.
‘And you believed her?’ Jean’s face was a picture of shock. She looked at Morag, and then across at Susan, before erupting into peals of laughter.
‘Well, I’m not exactly in his league, am I? I come from a semi-detached house in Essex. He lives in a blooming castle.’
‘Right,’ snorted Susan. ‘So you think, because that bloody lunatic Fiona told you, that Roddy wants to have his wicked way with you, produce a son to carry on the Maxwell line and then lock you in the attic?’
‘It does sound a bit unlikely,’ Kate conceded. She twisted her hair up in a ponytail, biting her lip.
‘Unlikely? It’s completely bloody insane, Kate.’ Susan’s voice was loud enough to rouse Mhairi, who stirred in her sleep, letting out a little cry. ‘How much did you have to drink last night? I think it’s destroyed all your brain cells.’
Kate allowed herself a tiny smile as Morag put her arm round her waist, squeezing her tightly. ‘Kate. The man is clearly mad about you. It’s just that neither of you can see it. Believe me, I have inside knowledge of the Maxwell men.’
Kate caught her breath.
‘I’m very happy with my Ted. But that boy is his father all over again.’
Jean looked thoughtful. ‘Ahh, no, Morag. There’s a wee difference. James didn’t speak up because he didn’t have the confidence. If you ask me, Roddy’s seen enough to be scared off relationships for life.’
Well, thought Kate, that’s positive. Glad we sorted that out.
‘I tell you what,’ said Jean, looking across at Kate, her face thoughtful, ‘I will not stand by and watch that boy make the same mistake his father made.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Kate.’ Morag took her by the shoulders. ‘You’ve got one life. Take what you want from it. Tell him how you feel.’
‘Well, I can’t think about that right now.’ Kate stood up, untangling Willow’s lead from the back of the chair. It was easy for them to say all this, but it was so much to take in that she couldn’t get things straight.
Susan opened her mouth to speak, ready to persuade Kate to stay, but Jean laid a warning hand on her arm. ‘Let her go. She’s had a bit of a week of it.’
‘Just promise me you’ll consider it, Kate.’ Morag shifted aside
, making space for her to escape.
‘I will.’ She needed time. And something for her hangover. She could tell that the three of them were dying to discuss all this in great detail, but right now she needed sleep, not an in-depth analysis of her non-existent love life.
Closing the door, she could imagine the scene within. She called Willow and walked, slowly and carefully, down to Bruar Cottage.
Kate sensed that it had snowed as soon as she woke up. She’d grown into the habit of sleeping with the curtains open, so that she could lie in bed and watch the sky at night as she dozed. Standing up, she peered out of the window. Over the trees, the dawn light stretched pale fingers across the night sky. Her dreams had been a jumble of past and present, faces from her old life mixed with those from the new. Waking was hard this morning. She closed her eyes, last night’s dream coming back to her. She’d been in Cambridge visiting Emma and Sam, but she’d been with someone – curled up beside her on the sofa, chatting comfortably, had been Roddy. It had felt quite natural – but it was a dream. The reality was that she hadn’t seen him since the other night when he’d put her to bed and, with every day that passed, her resolve to follow Morag’s suggestion wavered a little more.
She yawned, jaw cracking as she stretched. Today would be a long day. She’d secured a last-minute booking for both cottages; the two families would be arriving on the ferry late tomorrow afternoon. She hadn’t been up to check on the cottage Fiona had been staying in, but thinking about it filled her with dread. She was fairly certain that it wasn’t going to be pretty. And then there was Billy, who needed to talk to her about the tiles in the bunkhouse shower room; and then, tomorrow, Flora was coming home. Kate smiled at the thought of the seal pup making her way down the beach and back to the sea.
‘Mind yersel and drive carefully on that snow,’ warned Bruno.
Kate had popped into the cafe, deciding to treat herself to breakfast to bolster herself for the long day ahead. The windows were steamed up, and the air filled with delicious smells. Outside, Kilmannan High Street looked beautiful, sparkling with an icing-sugar coating of snow. The sea was inky, reflecting a strange, plum-grey-coloured sky.
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