Saving Nathaniel

by Jillian Brookes-Ward

  SAVING NATHANIEL

  by

  Jillian Brookes-Ward

  ISBN 1453837914

  EAN 9781453837917

  Copyright 2009 Jillian Brookes-Ward. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious. Any resemblance between them and any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover photograph by Paul Hardy

  'Saving Nathaniel' is published by Taylor Street Publishing LLC, who can be contacted at:

  http://www.taylorstreetbooks.com

  http://ninwriters.ning.com

  *Some adult content and strong language*

  Chapter 1

  She was wet. She was cold. She was late.

  The rain made her fingers slippery and in her haste to get into the warm and the dry she fumbled with her keys. It took two attempts to unlock the heavy wooden door before she could dart through and slam it closed, shutting out the squall.

  She took a moment to examine the tattered article in her hand, but only one glance was needed. The damage to her umbrella was indeed terminal. She rammed the useless object into the waiting mouth of the waste bin, striking out with her foot for good measure.

  'A lot of bloody use, you were!'

  She shrugged off her coat, shook free a shower of water droplets and hung the sodden garment on the provided hook, all the while directing loud and vehement curses toward the unseasonably foul weather. With her back to the room, she failed to notice the kitchen already had an occupant.

  'And what time do you call this?'

  She wheeled around, her hand to her mouth, stifling the squeal of fright erupting from her throat. Her wide eyes sought the source of the unexpected voice and she found it, seated at the kitchen table.

  Leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, a man peered at her over a pair of reading glasses. His face carried an expression of quiet amusement. 'Good morning,' he said.

  She slid her hand from her mouth, letting it lie protectively at her throat where a rapid pulse fluttered beneath her fingers. The man had given her a thorough scare and her heart raced like a rabbit's.

  'Did I startle you?' he asked.

  She bobbed her head briskly, momentarily unable to speak.

  'I'm sorry,' he said, 'but I couldn't resist.'

  Her restored voice came out small and tight. 'You…you're not supposed to be here…why are you here?'

  As if addressing a half-wit, he said, 'Because it's my house, and if you're not who I think you are, one of us is in serious trouble.'

  She continued to stare at him, letting a drop of water run down her nose and cling to the tip. A flick of her hand brushed it away. He reached behind himself to a large pine dresser and opened a drawer from which he pulled out a cotton tea towel and tossed it over the table toward her. She mumbled a guarded, 'Thank you,' and reached for it. He waited patiently, observing her with interest as she dried her hands and face and stemmed a rivulet of water leaking from her hairline.

  'So,' he said. 'Would I be wrong in assuming you're my accident-prone housekeeper's sister…um...' He pulled a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket and squinted at it through his spectacles. 'Me-gan...at least I think that's what it says...I can't always read my own writing.'

  'It probably does, yes, I mean no, no you're not wrong…I'm her…Megan…Megan Thomas.'

  Oh good grief, stop flustering woman, she admonished herself. He's going to think your glass is cracked!

  'Good, I'm glad we've sorted that out,' he said, seemingly unconcerned by her babbling. He stood, and with a welcoming smile, offered her his hand. 'Nathaniel Mackie. It's very nice to meet you, Ms Thomas.'

  Megan's own smile was small and cautious and she warily placed her hand in his. His skin felt warm and smooth and the grip firmly masculine. 'Just Megan, please,' she said.

  After a perfunctory shake, the essentials of introduction were complete. Mackie gestured for her to sit and while she continued to dab her wet hair with the towel, he poured coffee into a squat, round mug, passing it over the tabletop to her. She thanked him and tasted the contents carefully; it was strong and quite delicious.

  An expensive brew, she thought. That's a good start.

  'You're late, Just Megan,' Mackie said.

  She shook her head. 'Now that wasn't my fault. I set off in plenty of time. It's been pouring with rain all night and there was a flood on the road. I had to detour and because I'm fairly new to the village, I got a bit lost. I know it's a pathetic excuse, but it's the truth.'

  'I'm sure it is. And what happened to your brolly?'

  'The wind ripped it in two…serves me right for buying cheap rubbish.'

  Her initial surprise quickly began to subside. Her heart rate slowed and her composure gradually reinstated itself. Mackie appeared to be waiting for her to say something else. She thought an apology for her outburst, and tardiness, might be a good start. 'I'm sorry for being late and so…vocal,' she offered.

  'Nae bother,' he replied. 'Although last time I heard language like that I was down the docks.'

  She felt heat rising in her neck and feared she might blush. 'I'm really sorry. Rebecca told me you would be away until tomorrow; I wasn't expecting anyone to be here. I don't say things like that in company, honestly.'

  'I'm very glad to hear it. It's not at all ladylike.'

  She took a good drink of her coffee, savouring its richness, and all the while scrutinised Mackie over her cup. Her sister Rebecca's description of her employer had been fairly accurate; he was in his mid-fifties with soft grey-green eyes and hair nicely greying at the temples. He appeared to be a smart if casual dresser and overall, well groomed. Rebecca had, however, forgotten to mention his gently rolling Scots accent and that he was quite handsome, in a stern sort of way.

  'Rebecca said you'd gone on a business trip,' she said.

  'That's right.'

  'What sort of business?'

  'My business.'

  'Where'd you go?'

  'Glasgow.'

  'Really! That's a fair way and over the mountain too. Did you drive?'

  'Aye, I did.'

  'I didn't see your car.'

  'It's in the garage…and you ask a lot of questions.'

  'Do I?'

  Mackie cleared his throat, taking back command of the conversation. 'Rebecca left me a message telling me about her accident and to expect you in her stead,' he said. 'How long do you think you'll be here?'

  'For as long as it takes.'

  'I think that's for me to decide, don't you? '

  Be careful, Meg, she warned herself. Don't get the sack before you even start. Just tell him what he wants to know. Don't get clever.

  'Rebecca's got herself a complicated break to her elbow and they had to use all kinds of fixings to stabilise it,' she explained. 'It's likely it's going to be a good few months. Are you okay with that?'

  He shrugged. 'I don't appear to have a lot of choice in the matter. I just want the work done. If you don't want to do it, I'll get someone else in.'

  'There's no need to do that, I'm happy to do it.' She folded the towel neatly on the table, pressing the creases until they were straight and sharp. 'I actually started yesterday. Rebecca insisted I should, even though you weren't here. She thought I should get my bearings. It's a big house, all those bedrooms and bathrooms, there's a lot to take in.'

  'Were you late then, too?'

  'No! I'm an excellent timekeeper…usually.'

  'That's good to hear,
at least one of us will be.'

  He took a drink from his mug and Megan noticed the plain gold band on the third finger of his left hand. 'You have a beautiful home,' she said, admiring the ceiling rose from which hung a light designed to resemble an antique oil lamp. 'It's quite charming. Victorian isn't it? You must be very proud of it. I would be.'

  He shrugged again. 'It's just a house. It serves its purpose. It keeps me warm and dry and gives me somewhere to work and sleep in peace. What else would I need?'

  Home is where the heart is…isn't it? she thought, feeling his indifferent attitude towards his home to be a little sad.

  The old granite house was one of the most imposing in the village. It stood in proud isolation, set back from the road and enclosed by a high wall, ensuring privacy and security. A pair of wrought iron gates granted access to a wide gravelled driveway which swept in a lazy arc around a gigantic ancient oak tree and through immaculately maintained garden to deposit visitors at a front door guarded by twin bay trees in terracotta pots.

  On her visit the day before, she had been initially overwhelmed as, with Rebecca's instructions in hand, she made a tour of the house to acquaint herself with the layout.

  She had taken in the sitting room, dining room and conservatory on the ground floor – all impeccably decorated, spotlessly clean and tidy and it appeared, rarely used.

  A curved staircase carried her up from the hallway to the first floor where she counted seven bedrooms and four bathrooms. Apart from the master bedroom, Mackie's own she concluded, all the others too appeared not to have been troubled for a long while.

  She peered out of one of the bedroom windows and over the extensive rear garden. Even outside, everything was as neat as a pin. Neatly clipped shrubs bordered an expanse of manicured lawn in one corner of which stood an enormous apple tree, its trunk surrounded by a slatted wooden bench. She saw too a vegetable patch and a well stocked greenhouse.

  An elderly man in Wellington boots puffed on a pipe clamped between his teeth as he trundled a wheelbarrow across the lawn. When he reached the garden wall, he took out a pair of secateurs and through clouds of tobacco smoke, began snipping at a fading rambling rose. He, she presumed, would be Old John, the taciturn gardener.

  After her tour, she returned to the kitchen. It didn't take long to come to the conclusion that this was undoubtedly the hub of the house's activity, the room where she would be spending most of her time. A combination of rustic charm and modern efficiency, it too was immaculately clean. There was no doubt Rebecca did a good job, and she would have her work cut out maintaining such a standard.

  If only you could be this tidy at home, Becca, she thought.

  Mackie folded up his newspaper and revealed a small, red notebook hidden beneath. Megan swallowed down a fleeting panic. The notebook was hers. In her rush to leave the previous day she had inadvertently left it behind. It contained details of all her chores and responsibilities - and a few notes of interest about Mackie himself, including some personal comments. She groaned inwardly.

  'How did Rebecca manage to rope you into standing in as my châtelaine?' he said, drawing her attention off the book and back to him.

  'I owed Becks…Rebecca, a favour. And if you don't mind me saying, that was a quaintly old-fashioned term you just used.'

  'I am old-fashioned. Would you prefer some other title?'

  'A rose by any other name…' She took long, delicate sip at her coffee, feeling his eyes roving over her.

  'I suppose your sister told you all about me,' he said after a short pause.

  She nodded. Rebecca had indeed given her an inkling of what to expect of Mackie's personality, of his likes and dislikes, his peccadilloes and his eccentricities. It was quite a list. 'She told me everything she thought I ought to know.'

  He grimaced. 'Ouch! That leaves plenty of scope for misinterpretation.'

  'Not at all. It was all perfectly clear.'

  He looked her directly in the eyes and stroked his chin thoughtfully between finger and thumb. She read the intention immediately; he was going to test her. She steeled herself. Here it comes, she thought. Steady...

  'So she will no doubt have told you that I can be a wee bit…let's say, fussy,' he said.

  'Yes.'

  'Difficult, one might say demanding almost.'

  'Yes and yes.'

  Don't forget pedantic, fastidious and downright pernickety, she added silently.

  'And that doesn't put you off?'

  'Not in the least.'

  'I have high standards, some might say too high.'

  'So do I, and trust me there's nothing here I can't manage.'

  He raised his eyebrows. 'Is that a fact?'

  'Yes,' she said confidently. 'I've worked and lived with the masters of difficult and demanding all my life and from what I've seen so far I don't think you'll give me too much cause for concern.'

  'I see. That's your first impression of me, is it? Manageable?' He took off his glasses, folded them and put them in his shirt pocket. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms again.

  'Maybe,' she said, 'I'll have to wait and see. I like to take my time and wait for the true colours to show through.'

  'And what colours are you looking for?'

  'That would be telling.'

  'Then how will you know when you see them?'

  'Oh, I always know. It's a gift.'

  Mackie sucked air through his teeth. 'Hmmm, I can see I'm going to have to watch myself with you.'

  'You can try, but I'll still know.'

  A wry smile played on his lips. 'Aye, somehow I think you just might.'

  Their eyes remained locked until, suddenly aware that their casual exchange had somehow veered toward the flirtatious, Megan averted hers to concentrate them on her coffee cup.

  Mackie picked up the notebook and fanned through the pages. 'This is a handy little thing,' he said. 'I had a read of it last night. Some very interesting points have been made.'

  Megan stirred her drink with a teaspoon. 'It was Rebecca's idea. She thought it might help me get things in order. Prior preparation is the key to efficiency after all.'

  He flicked the pages again. 'And it might well be if it weren't for a few key points you missed.'

  'I thought we'd covered just about everything.'

  'Not quite.' He leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. With barely a pause, his manner switched from one of friendly welcome to being totally businesslike. Whatever he had to tell her was obviously of utmost importance and it would be in her best interests to listen and take note. She followed the cue and immediately gave him her full attention.

  'Assuming I do take you on,' he said. 'And I haven't yet made that decision, there are a few other points you might wish to take on board.'

  'I'm listening.'

  'First off, don't answer the phone, not even the extension. It won't be for you. I work from home most of the time and more than likely any phone calls will be business. Even if I am home, let it ring. The answer machine will pick up. You may make calls connected with deliveries, orders et cetera, but ask me first. No personal calls. Use your mobile for that.' He didn't give her a chance to explain that she didn't have a mobile phone to use.

  'Next point,' he continued. 'As you already know, Struan Lodge is a gey big house and you'll have the run of it – except one room. I have a study at the front of the house. It is to be considered completely private and out of bounds. If the door is closed I expect not to be disturbed unless it is a most dire emergency. You can go in there to clean by invitation only. Is that clear?'

  'Absolutely.' She made sure her impassive expression did not betray the fact she had already violated his sacred space the previous day.

  'As far as you are concerned, how you structure your day to do your work…once you get here of course, is entirely up to you. You are free to come and go as you please and I have no interest in the ins and outs of your shopping trips.'

  She nodded despite feeling
slighted by the fact he felt it necessary to mention her lateness again.

  'On the other hand,' he continued, 'I feel it only reasonable I should tell you whether I will be at home or not. I tend to go away at short notice and it can be for a couple of days at a time.'

  She nodded again. 'Fair enough.'

  'The same working hours will stand; weekdays only eight 'til six; weekends by arrangement.'

  'As long as you give me plenty of notice.'

  'If I can,' he said. 'I wouldn't want to interfere with your social life.'

  She snorted. 'There's not much chance of that, I don't have one.'

  'Then there'll be no problem, will there?' he said flatly. 'Have I made everything clear?'

  'As crystal.'

  'You don't want me to go over anything again?'

  'No.'

  'Good,' he said. 'Is there anything you want to ask me?'

  She mirrored his posture. 'Yes, three things.'

  'I'm listening.'

  'Firstly, I know you're expecting me to cook for you, but I warn you now, I don't do fancy stuff, just plain and simple. If you're expecting some exotic Cordon Bleu concoction you're going to be disappointed. If that's going to be a problem, I'd rather you tell me now.'

  He shook his head slowly. 'No. Whatever you do will be fine.'

  'You might want to reserve judgement on that. Even our dog turned up its nose at my offerings.'

  'Secondly?' he prompted.

  'How do I pay for things? Groceries and such like? My own pockets are rather shallow and I take it you won't want the supermarket budget range.'

  'I'll give you a credit card to cover expenses, legitimate ones that is. I'll be checking the statement closely and any abuse will mean instant dismissal.'

  'I wouldn't dream of it,' she said, deeply annoyed by his presumption of dishonesty.

  'Next?' he said.

  'Do you have any preference as to how you would like to be addressed - Mr Mackie or Sir?'

  He leaned back in his chair and regarded her. 'Good question,' he said, pulling thoughtfully on his earlobe. After a moment's contemplation he said, 'My bank manager and my solicitor call me 'Mister' but only because they have to, and the only person who ever called me 'Sir' was a policeman as he wrote out my speeding ticket and he didn't mean it either. So…I suppose, when it's just the two of us we can keep it on a fairly casual footing if you like. I will call you Megan and you can call me Nat.'