by Marie Laval
The candles had almost burned down to stumps, and it was so cold her breath steamed. Marc Petersen reclined on the couch, with his coat on and her anorak wrapped around his shoulders, and one leg stretched out on a stool in front of him. Her throat tightened. Now she felt even more guilty for not asking him if he was in any pain.
He straightened up when he saw her. ‘Rosalie. Is there anything wrong?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I … well, I was wondering if you’d like these.’
She showed him the blankets. ‘It doesn’t seem fair that I should have them all when you’re freezing in here.’
‘Are you sure you won’t need them?’
‘Positive.’
‘Then I’ll take them. Thanks. You should go back to bed and get some rest. We’ll leave for Tomintoul as soon as it’s light. Even if we manage to get a signal and call an ambulance we still have a fair way to go.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t need an ambulance. All I want is to report the accident to the police and ask Niall to tow the Range Rover back to the garage, although I’m not sure it can be repaired.’
‘You’ll have to phone Fergus to let him know you won’t be able to drive for a while, which means that unless Duncan comes back from Edinburgh or you can find another driver at short notice, the only option is to close down Love Taxis straight away. You should let Fiona know too …’
He heard her intake of breath, saw her stiffen her spine. And when she marched up to him he could have sworn sparks flew and electricity sizzled around her.
‘I have been running my taxi business for four years, Petersen. I know what I have to do, so don’t you dare talk to me in this patronising tone as if I was some stupid, incompetent, clumsy little woman!’
He held out his hands in a calming gesture. ‘I was just making a few suggestions. Now, as you are clearly in pain and overwrought, I suggest you go back to bed and get some rest. Thank you for bringing me the blankets.’
He held out his hand. Without a word, she threw the blankets at him, swung round and strode out of the room. A few seconds later the bedroom door slammed so hard a couple of ornaments shook on the mantelpiece.
He bent down to pick the blankets up, wrapped them around his shoulders. He may have been a little insensitive just then, but Rosalie had to accept the inevitable, and in a painful and roundabout way, being injured and unable to drive would help her do just that.
Thoughts and questions about the accident swirled in his mind. Why had the four-wheel-drive failed to stop when they drove them off the road? And why had they not alerted the emergency services to rescue them but left them to their fate on the mountainside?
As soon as they were back in the civilised world, he’d go back to the chalet and confront the couple staying there. He was sure the black four-by-four had been on its way to the holiday lodge when they met on the mountain road. The road didn’t lead anywhere else, and he’d seen evidence of a vehicle being parked there. He couldn’t help thinking about the two rough-looking men he’d overheard talk with a cockney accent as they were leaving the pub and Rosalie’s comment about the couple at the holiday lodge. She said they had a London accent too, that they seemed overly keen to get rid of her, and that she had seen the woman with Rupert McBride – the same Rupert who was desperate to get money out of his cousin and inherit Raventhorn.
A memory niggled at the back of his mind. Rosalie had seemed distracted, shaken even, after talking to the tourists at the lodge, as if something unpleasant had happened there – something she hadn’t told him about.
Was there a connection between Rupert, the two men at the Stag’s Head and the couple at the lodge? He took a deep breath. Could their accident tonight be related to Rosalie’s crash on the forest road, since both times a black four-by-four had been involved? It was a shame he had so little to work on. The accident had happened too fast for him to read the four-wheel drive’s number plate or see anything that might help identify its occupants.
Tonight had been the latest of too many incidents. He may not understand what was going on, but he knew men who could help.
There weren’t many advantages to growing up in a boarding school – apart from developing a thick skin and a posh accent – but one of them was definitely making lifelong friends. Now was the time to call on his two best friends – Cédric Castel, daredevil freelance journalist, and Luc Peyrac, heir to one of Bordeaux’s oldest wine growing estates who had just retired from French intelligence services. If anyone could help him figure out what was happening at Raventhorn, it was them.
He leaned back against the sofa and stared ahead. Sleeping was out of the question. He had to keep watch in case someone had spotted their vehicle or had reported them missing, and a mountain rescue team drove past, looking for them.
The candles soon burned down and he found himself in pitch darkness. The blankets Rosalie had given him hardly fended off the freezing cold, the gash on his leg throbbed more than he wanted to admit and with nothing to occupy him other than his thoughts, it was the longest, most silent night he’d ever spent.
Chapter Twelve
The following morning however proved anything but silent. From the moment she got up, Rosalie let him know exactly how she felt. Doors he hadn’t known existed slammed. Walls shook. Ornaments juddered. He rose to his feet and winced as he stretched. Damn it, he was stiff. His back ached and pain shot through his leg. He needed coffee. Black. Hot. And strong.
Rosalie strode across the room, darted murderous looks in his direction before undertaking the destruction of the kitchen – or at least it sounded that way. If the woman could make that much noise with her left hand alone, how much worse would it get when she regained the use of her right arm?
He followed her into the kitchen, but stopped in the doorway in case she tried to throw a plate or a pan at his head.
‘If you have quite finished making a racket,’ he said in a calm voice, ‘I suggest we have breakfast and leave as soon as possible.’
He pointed to the window and the low, grey clouds that held the promise of more snow. ‘I am glad to see that your shoulder doesn’t seem to be causing you too much pain this morning,’ he added.
‘Oh, yes? And how would you know?’ she shot back.
She pushed a steaming cup of coffee across the table. ‘I made you some coffee.’
He smiled, pleasantly surprised. She couldn’t hate him that much if she’d made him coffee. ‘Thank you.’
She looked at him. ‘You’re welcome. I hope it’s to your taste.’
Something in her tone made him pause, but he shook his head. No. She wouldn’t dare. Would she? He drank a gulp, coughed, and almost spat the disgusting liquid out.
He forced himself to swallow the vile concoction and slammed the cup down onto the worktop. ‘Hell. What did you put in there? Rat poison?’
‘I couldn’t find any. What’s wrong? Is it a little too strong for you?’ she chuckled. ‘Perhaps my hand slipped as I was pouring in the coffee granules … unless I mistook the pepper container for sugar.’
She fluttered her eyelashes and smiled such a sweet, innocent smile that blood surged like hot lava in his veins and his body hardened. He’d never let anything or anyone get to him in this way. He prided himself on his cool, even temper and his ability to remain calm and detached in the most tense and stressful business meetings. Right now, however, he was wrestling with the basic, primitive urge to yank this woman against him, and kiss her senseless.
Rosalie had a way of bringing the worst out in him. Around her he felt distinctly uncivilised, primal even. It was as if he was fast reverting to an unknown version of himself, a man he hadn’t even suspected existed.
He took a deep, long, steadying breath. ‘We’re leaving in ten minutes. Since you managed to create so much mess in this kitchen all on your own, I gather you’ll be able to tidy up too.’
It didn’t take him long to get ready and fold the blankets up. Searching through his wallet, he pulled out
a business card on which he scribbled a note explaining about the door and the food and left it together with a handful of banknotes on the worktop. Then he went outside and waited for her in the crisp, cold morning. The air was so cold it stung his face and burned his lungs.
Rosalie came out a few minutes later, and started on the path out of the holiday village without a word, or even a look in his direction. He secured the door as best he could and caught up with her. They didn’t talk as they hiked through snowy paths snaking in and out of the pine forest on the side of the hill. In places the snow was so deep it reached up to his knees. As morning wore on, the cold made the cut on his leg more painful. Rosalie soldiered on without even a whisper of complaint, although it must have been hard with her arm still in the makeshift sling.
It was almost lunchtime by the time they emerged out of the forest and onto a road. Rosalie immediately took her mobile out of her coat pocket. ‘I have a signal,’ she announced, before slipping her right arm out of the sling and keying in a number.
‘Niall? It’s me.’ She held the phone to her ear. ‘We had an accident last night on the road down from the holiday chalets … yes, it was after we checked on the tourists … I’ll explain later. No, I’m all right but it was a close call and the Range Rover is stuck halfway down the mountain. I think it’s a write-off.’
She frowned as she listened to the man at the other end of the phone. ‘Can you come to pick us up? The roads seem fairly clear around here. I reckon we’ll be in Tomintoul in about an hour. We’ll wait for you at the Old Fire Station café. Yes … don’t worry. And, Niall, thank you. I mean it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
She then keyed in another number and blew out a frustrated sigh. ‘I can’t believe this. This stupid phone has run out of charge. I can’t now call the hospital to ask about Geoff. His operation was rescheduled for today.’
Shaking her head, she flipped the cover of the phone down and shoved it back into her pocket. ‘At least Niall is coming for us. He promised to call the mountain rescue services to help tow the Range Rover back onto the road.’ She glanced up at him. ‘He’ll phone Fergus too … In the meantime, we’ll eat something in the village. It’s not too far.’
The clatter of an engine broke the silence, and they both turned to watch an old blue van appear around the bend. At last luck was with them.
Marc waved for the van to stop. It skidded as it braked and stopped at the side of the road.
‘Hi, folks. What’s up?’ The elderly driver asked in the deep, hoarse voice of a smoker after he’d wound his window down.
Marc explained they’d had an accident and needed to reach Tomintoul.
‘Sure. Hop in.’ He cast Marc a puzzled glance and pointed to the bruise on his cheekbone. ‘What happened to your face?’
‘I walked into a frying pan,’ Marc answered as he held the passenger door open for Rosalie. He slid in next to her and tried not to cough at the strong smell of woodbine cigarette smoke that permeated the van. There wasn’t much space at the front, and Rosalie almost sat in his lap.
‘I know it’s Sunday, but is there a doctor’s surgery or a chemist’s open in town by any chance?’ he asked, when the van rattled into motion again.
The old man arched his bushy eyebrows. ‘They’re shut for the weekend by now, son, but if it’s medical attention you need, I can take you to my brother-in-law. He’s in the trade, so to speak, and he’ll sort you out.’
‘I told you I didn’t want to see a doctor,’ Rosalie protested.
‘You may not want to, but I do,’ Marc replied.
She was so close her thigh pressed against his and if he moved, the side of his arm brushed against her chest. He left Rosalie to make conversation with the driver and turned towards the window and looked out at the white fields crisscrossed with half derelict stone walls, at the pine forest that stretched as far as the eye could see and the snowy Cairngorms peaks in the background. It was the wildest, the most hostile landscape he’d ever seen, but at the same time the most breathtaking.
Ten minutes later the van pulled into an untidy farmyard.
‘Follow me.’ The old man climbed out and slammed the door.
Marc held out his hand to help Rosalie get out but she ignored it and followed the man into a house that smelled of muddy old boots, musty raincoats, of mutton and boiled vegetables.
‘I hope we’re not interrupting your brother-in-law’s lunch,’ Marc said.
The old man turned to him, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘I’m sure our George will be eternally grateful for it, and if you’d tasted my sister’s cooking you’d understand why. Anyhow, it’ll soon be time for his afternoon surgery, so you can be his first customers. Come with me, I’ll tell him you’re here.’
He pushed a creaky door open and they walked into a large, sparsely furnished room that smelled strongly of antiseptic and something else – something he wouldn’t expect from a GP’s surgery. Wet dogs.
‘It’s a little basic for a doctor’s surgery, isn’t it?’ Marc cast a doubtful eye at the white walls, the stainless steel benches that ran all around with the black table at the centre.
Rosalie shook her head, a pitying look in her eyes. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t worked out what this place is.’
A small man with bright blue eyes and silver grey hair cropped short strode in before he could ask what she meant.
‘Good afternoon,’ he greeted them with a cheerful voice, and an even more cheerful smile. ‘Toby said you’d had a wee bit of bother with your car and were in need of help. I’ll see what I can do. I’m George, by the way. So, who’ll be my first patient today?’
Marc and Rosalie pointed at each other and spoke at the same time.
‘He is.’
‘She is.’
Rosalie’s face went pale and she edged towards the door.
‘All right,’ Marc sighed, ‘I’ll go first.’ He sat on a metal chair, stretched his leg in front of him and pulled his trouser up a little to enable the doctor to examine him.
‘The good news is you don’t need stitches,’ George declared after a couple of minutes, ‘but that’s a nasty gash you’ve got there. I hope you’re up to date with your tetanus injections.’
Marc answered that he was, and explained about the accident in a few sentences while the doctor dabbed a thick antiseptic wipe all over his shin. He then rummaged through a cupboard for a dressing and pulled out a box with the photo of a horse printed on the side.
Marc blinked in surprise then relaxed into a smile. So that’s what Rosalie had hinted at before. The man was no doctor. He was a vet, and he was about to strap a horse dressing to his leg.
‘Now, it’s your turn, lass.’ George turned to Rosalie. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’ Rosalie backed further towards the door.
‘You seem to have hurt your arm,’ the vet carried on in a soft, patient voice – the voice he must use to reassure a frightened puppy – ‘or is it your shoulder?’
‘I’m not letting you anywhere near my shoulder. No way.’
‘Don’t be childish, Rosalie,’ Marc cut in, impatient, ‘either you’re getting it checked out here or we’re going to the nearest hospital, and I don’t care how much you shout or how many doors you slam.’
Rising to his feet, he told the vet about Rosalie’s dislocated shoulder. When he’d finished George too insisted he examine her.
Rosalie must have realised arguing any further was futile. A sullen expression on her face, she divested herself of her coat and reluctantly perched on the examination table.
‘It looks like your friend did a good job re-setting your shoulder.’ George patted her hand a few minutes later.
‘He’s not my friend,’ Rosalie muttered between her teeth.
George ignored her and turned to Marc. ‘She’ll be right as rain after a few days rest. Of course, she must do no strenuous activities.’
‘You mean no lifting … or drivin
g,’ Marc said.
The vet nodded. ‘That’s right. Our young lady mustn’t drive for at least a week.’
‘I hate it when people talk about me as if I wasn’t there,’ Rosalie snarled as she slipped her good arm into the sleeve of her coat and the vet helped her secure the scarf against her chest again.
‘Driving is my job,’ she added. ‘People rely on me and my cab. How will they get by without me?’
George laughed. ‘Of course! Now I know where I’ve seen you before.’ He slapped his forehead with the flat of his hand. ‘You’re the lass who drives that pink taxi, aren’t you? Well, petal, people will just have to rely on someone else for a while. You need to mend first.’
He rubbed his hands together. ‘Can I offer you some refreshments before my brother-in-law drives you into the village? A cup of tea, or something to eat, perhaps?’
Leaning closer to Marc, he added. ‘Although I’d steer clear of the mutton and turnip stew if I were you. I love my wife dearly, but I must say this. Her stew’s a killer.’
They were in a hurry to reach Tomintoul and meet Niall, so they declined the offer and climbed into George’s brother-in-law’s old van once more. Half an hour later they pushed open the door of the village’s former fire station, which had been converted into a café.
As soon as they walked in, they were surrounded by delicious smells of broth, warm bread and grilled bacon, of coffee and hot chocolate. A fire blazed in the stone fireplace. The dining room was full of couples and families enjoying a late Sunday lunch. Marc selected a table close to the fire. He pulled a chair out for Rosalie but she shook her head. ‘Before I sit down, I’m going to ask the waitress if I can use their phone to call the hospital.’
After she explained why she desperately needed to make a phone call, the waitress led her into a small office and left her alone. She was put straight through to intensive care, where a nurse told her Geoff’s operation had gone ahead as planned, that he was comfortable but heavily sedated and not allowed any visitors for the time being.
