by Marie Laval
‘Of course, my lady, but the weather is unpredictable and the cliff path treacherous. You wouldn’t want to slip and fall to your death, would you?’
The housekeeper’s voice was calm, her face impassive and her eyes a clear, cold blue, so why did Rose feel there was a threat behind her words?
‘No, of course not,’ she replied in a whisper, a shiver running down her spine. Morag definitely made her ill at ease. At times she almost looked as if she hated her …
‘Is there anything else, my lady?’
Rose hesitated.
‘Actually, yes. I wanted to ask you about the clock in my room. Do you know what the music is called? I assume it is a French song, since the clock is from Paris.’
Morag narrowed her eyes. ‘What music? That old clock is broken, it doesn’t play any music.’
‘Why does nobody believe me when I say the clock is almost a music box? It plays a lovely tune every hour to which the shepherdess dances,’ Rose protested. ‘It kept me awake most of the night …’
The housekeeper swayed on her feet and gripped the back of a chair.
‘Are you all right, Morag?’ Rose asked. ‘You do look pale all of a sudden. Maybe you should sit down.’
Morag stared at her, completely still. ‘Did you touch the clock? You’re not to touch that clock, do you hear?
‘Well, I only touched it a little to examine it, but I was very careful.’
An uncomfortable silence hung between them, before Morag spoke again.
‘Did you see her? If you heard the music, you must have seen her.’
‘Seen who? I don’t understand who you mean. The only people I met yesterday were Agnes and you … oh yes. There was that poor Frenchwoman who was weeping in the corridor, but I didn’t see her, not really, and I hardly had the chance to speak to her before she ran away. Maybe you know who she is? I was very worried about her.’
Her face ashen, Morag gripped the chair harder and closed her eyes.
‘The Dark Lady,’ she whispered. ‘She’s back.’
Chapter Five
‘The Dark Lady? Who is she?’
Morag didn’t seem to hear. Her face deathly pale and her lips bloodless, she stepped forward.
‘What did she tell you?’
Rose took a step back.
‘Morag, I’m really sorry if my question about the clock upset you.’
‘Tell me what she said.’
Alarmed by the woman’s menacing tone and the half-crazed glint in her eyes, Rose took another step back. She bumped against the bookshelf and a handful of books fell on the floor with a loud crash.
Morag towered over Rose and grabbed hold of her hand.
‘Answer me.’
‘She said that she was lost and that she wanted to die,’ Rose started, desperately trying to pull her hand out of the woman’s strong grasp. ‘Then she ran away and I followed her.’
‘Where to?’
Confessing that she had ended up in Lord McGunn’s bed wasn’t something Rose was prepared to do.
‘I lost her in the hall and went back to my room,’ she lied.
The housekeeper squeezed her hand harder.
‘Did she say anything about Bonnie?’
Rose frowned. ‘Bonnie? No, I don’t think so. She hardly spoke before she ran off.’
Annoyed now, she yanked her hand out of Morag’s grip, crossed her arms on her chest and tilted up her chin.
‘You are acting very strangely, Morag, and I must say I don’t much care for your tone. I told you, I don’t know who this lady is, why she was crying or where she went. Now will you tell me what this is all about?’
Morag hissed and two bright red spots appeared on her cheeks. With a strangled cry, she swung around and ran out, leaving the door wide open and Rose staring after her in astonishment. What had just happened? Who was the woman Morag called ‘the Dark Lady’ and Lord McGunn claimed didn’t exist?
Pensive, Rose pulled the posy out of the pocket of her dress and looked at it for a moment. It was bound together by a faded pink silk ribbon, so old and frayed it was almost threadbare, and yet its pine scent was still strong, as if the pine had been cut just a few days before.
She toyed with it for a moment, then decided not to mention it to anyone until she found out who the woman was. She put the posy back into her pocket, picked the books up from the floor and looked out of the window again.
Never mind McGunn’s orders and Morag’s warnings about the dangers of the cliff path, she had to go out or she’d go mad. She yearned to see the ocean, feel the wind on her face, and leave footprints on the thick, soft white mantle covering the ground – something she’d never done before. But most of all she wanted to forget all about mysterious ladies, crazy housekeepers and scowling Scottish lairds!
Ten minutes later, all wrapped up against the cold, she let herself out of the front door. She walked past the stables where boys shovelled manure out of the stalls and onto a steaming pile in the courtyard. Housemaids rushed past carrying baskets filled to the brim with wrinkled apples, fat turnips and cabbages, their cheeks and hands red raw from the cold. At the far end of the courtyard, half a dozen men were busy unloading what looked like compacted black soil from a cart and carrying it into a shed – more of the ‘peat’ Agnes had mentioned.
Expecting to be challenged for disobeying Lord McGunn’s orders, Rose pulled her hood down and hurried through the gates, and was relieved when nobody stopped her or even glanced her way. She hardly noticed the hem of her dress and coat becoming wet and stiff with snow and, her heart pounding to the rhythm of the waves crashing against the rocks below, she carried on towards the cliff edge.
Here it was. The ocean, beautiful and deep, grey and haunting under the stormy skies. The same grey as Lord McGunn’s eyes … what a silly thought. McGunn’s eyes might be grey but they were harsh and mean, and not in the least beautiful.
To her right were rugged cliffs standing tall and impregnable, to her left a wide, empty bay lined with silver sand. Like an enchanted land, its outline disappeared into a mauve haze. Maybe if she stared at the sea long enough, she would catch a glimpse of the mermaids who were rumoured to haunt the coast, of the blue men who lurked in the sea waiting for passing ships, or of the sea creatures Captain Kennedy called kelpies and said were half men and half seals – whatever that meant. This country was so strange. Hostile and bewitching, it was a land of mythical beings, of cruelty and hardship …
She stood on the cliff until her body ached with cold, her feet were numb and her face frozen. Little by little the hazy skyline fused and melted into the ocean and dusk made the silver sands glow like the surface of the moon. A dark shape, a piece of driftwood probably, moved at the edge of the water.
An unwelcome thought crossed her mind. What if it was another body? Perhaps she should walk nearer to the edge to take a look.
She didn’t have the chance. Rapid footsteps crushed the snow behind her, a strong arm grabbed her around the waist and she was lifted off the ground.
‘What the hell are you doing out here on your own?’ Bruce McGunn’s voice was as cold and sharp as ice. ‘Are you mad or plain stupid? Can’t you see there’s a five hundred-foot drop off that cliff?’
He plonked her down on the ground and turned her roughly towards him without releasing her. His arm still wrapped around her waist, he glared at her, his eyebrows drawn in an angry scowl and his black hair flying around his face.
Her temper rose at once.
‘I was perfectly safe before you arrived,’ she shouted back, pushing her balled fists against his chest. ‘There is no need to rumble and grumble at me like a grumpy old camel. You really are the rudest, most unpleasant man I’ve ever met. In fact, forget McGlum, I’ll call you McGrump from now on, it suits you a lot better.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
His jaw was clenched, his nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed to dark slits of gunmetal. A warning rang inside her head – a loud
and clear warning to hold her tongue for once. As usual she ignored it and forged ahead.
‘Don’t you like McGrump? That’s all right since I can think of a few others names, all suited to your delightful personality. Maybe you would prefer McGrumble or McGripe, since you seem to suffer from that particular ailment. No doubt it’s the gripes which give you that permanent scowl.’
He didn’t answer but the arm around her waist tightened. Now he was very angry. She held her breath and waited for him to start shaking her until her teeth rattled. Instead, he broke into a disarming smile, his face lit up and his eyes sparkled with silver. Once again, a strange feeling of déjà-vu made her ill at ease. Who could the man remind her of? Someone she knew, someone she’d seen not that long before. She shook her head. Some big ape she’d seen performing in Bou Saada market, perhaps …
‘I swear you’re the most entertaining female I’ve ever met,’ he said, before releasing her at last. ‘Come now. You’re not used to the cold and you’ve been here far too long. You’re turning blue.’
She shook her head and pointed at the sands below.
‘There is something, or someone, down there on the beach. That’s what I was looking at before you came.’
He looked in the direction she indicated and muttered something in a language she didn’t understand.
‘What is it? Can you see?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he answered in a flat voice. ‘Nothing probably, but I need to check it out. Go back to the Lodge at once.’
He strode away without waiting for her answer, or even checking she was doing as she was told, leaving Rose to stare at his broad back as he started climbing down the path. Someone was down there, injured maybe … or dead. She’d heard it in his voice.
She cried out in frustration and kicked a few lumps of frozen snow with the tip of her boot. How she hated being told what to do, especially by that horrid Lord McGunn! What if she didn’t want to go back to the Lodge but wished to see what was on the beach? She wasn’t one of his servant women and he had no right to order her about.
She lifted her skirts above her ankles and followed into the big footsteps he’d made in the snow along the cliff top.
He hoped to God he was wrong but in his heart he knew he wasn’t. Death awaited him on the beach. He could swear he heard the mournful lament of the Bean nighe as he jumped onto the wet sand and started running.
The dead woman’s face was turned away from him. Her long black hair coiled and stretched like seaweed on the pale sand. Her dark cloak was open, exposing her naked body. He knelt beside her and moaned with horror. Purple and yellow bruises formed a line around her neck. Her stomach and breasts bore deep cuts and burn marks, similar to those on the body of poor Fenella MacKay.
He should be used to the sight of death by now, he’d seen enough of it during his time in the army, but this was different, this was pure evil. Someone had killed the women not as a necessity of war, but for some sick pleasure.
He rose to stare at the vast expanse of empty sand dotted with rocks, and the high cliffs above. The killer was long gone. Who was he? Did he know him? Perhaps he was someone he spoke to every day, someone who worked for him at Wrath, at the fisheries or on a farm, or even one of his staff at the Lodge.
A wave crashed onto the shore and lapped at the woman’s black cloak. He should move her further up the beach or the backwash would carry her off to the open sea.
He bent down to grab hold of her.
And saw her face.
Black butterflies danced in front of his eyes, blood roared in his ears and his heart thumped so hard it hurt. It was her. The dark-haired woman from his dream.
Slowly, he straightened up, closed his eyes and took long gulps of air to fight the dizziness which threatened to engulf him. After what felt like an eternity, the sickening sensations subsided and he could stand upright without swaying. A wave washed across the woman’s feet, dragging at the hem of her cloak before retreating down the sand. He had to move her now. He’d do his thinking later.
Seizing her stiff, frigid body under the armpits, he hauled her higher up the beach, her cloak sliding wetly over the ridges hundreds of tides had imprinted in the wet sand. A small, silver object caught into the folds of her cloak glittered in the dimming light and attracted his attention. Curious, he put the woman down to unpin it and he held it up in front of him.
It was an earring – silver and with chains dangling down from a triangular piece so finely chiselled it looked almost like lace. He looked at the woman again. Even though her face was bruised, she was still beautiful. Her eyes, open to the stormy dusk, were as dark as her hair.
Who was she? Who had abused her, killed her … and why the hell had he dreamt of her?
What if it hadn’t been a dream?
‘Lord McGunn!’
He spun round. Rose was making her way down the cliff. He slipped the silver earring into his coat pocket and strode towards her.
‘I told you to return to the Lodge.’
She had reached the end of the path and balanced precariously about eight feet from the beach. Her small fingers gripped the overhanging rocks so tightly her knuckles were white. Her feet in their dainty boots kept sliding down the smooth stone. It was a miracle she had come that far without breaking her neck. Once again, he thought she was either terribly brave or completely insane.
‘Please help me. I can’t hold on any longer.’ She glanced at him, her dark blue eyes wide with fear.
‘I don’t want you here. Go back,’ he said, hardening his voice.
He fought the urge to pull her down against him and towards safety. The more scared she was, the quicker she’d scamper back up the cliff path and leave him alone to deal with the woman’s body.
‘I wanted to see for myself what you had found …’ She bit her lip and added in a weak voice, ‘… and help you.’
‘What help can you be to me when you can’t even climb down the cliff path on your own?’ he retorted gruffly.
‘By Old Ibrahim’s Beard, I’m going to fall,’ she said, breathless.
Who the hell was Ibrahim? There was no time to ask. She let go of the rock with a whimper and he had no choice but to extend his arms and catch her. Her hands knotted at the back of his neck and tangled in his hair. She looked up, their faces only inches apart. The blue of her eyes was darker, more intense in the darkening light. He breathed in her delicate scent, felt her soft body against him and his arms tightened around her.
‘You’re wasting my time. Now I’m going to have to take you back up.’
He let her down on the wet sand. He would return with MacBoyd and McNeil to collect the woman’s body. They just about had time before the night.
She didn’t move but stared at his coat pocket.
‘What is that?’ She pointed to the silver earring which dangled out of his coat.
‘Something I found on the beach.’
He pushed the earring back into his pocket. She would only become hysterical if he announced he’d found a dead body, and he wanted to be alone. He wanted space to think.
He gestured towards the cliff. ‘We must leave before it gets dark.’
She ignored him. ‘I want to see it.’
He repressed a sigh of impatience. ‘And I said we needed to get back.’
‘I won’t move from this spot until you show me. I don’t care if you growl and if you frown, you don’t frighten me.’
He gave her the look which made hardened soldiers shrivel and quake in their boots. She only put out the palm of her hand.
‘I don’t have the time or the patience for a temper tantrum, my lady. If you won’t come willingly, then I’ll toss you over my shoulder and carry you back up the cliff like a sack of grain.’
He saw her face go pale and smiled with satisfaction. But she still didn’t move.
‘At least tell me if it’s an earring. A fine silver earring with three tassels dangling down.’
Surprised, he frowned. How could
she possibly know that?
‘It is indeed.’
Her eyes filled with tears and she bit back a cry.
‘Please show me …’
Curious now, he took the earring out of his pocket and gave it to her.
She bent down to look at it, and her curly hair fell like a curtain, hiding the expression on her face.
‘Was there a woman on the beach – a young woman with long, black hair?’
‘Aye, I’m afraid so,’ he answered, stunned.
‘Is she dead?’
She looked up. When he nodded, she let out an anguished whimper and tears slid down her cheeks.
‘I need to see her,’ she said, putting her hand on his forearm.
‘Absolutely not. She’s been badly hurt.’
‘I need to see her,’ she repeated and her fingers dug into his arm.
‘Why?’
‘The earring. I recognise it. It belongs to my friend Malika.’
McGunn didn’t answer. His face remained stony, his eyes devoid of emotion, but then again, he was a McGunn. Why would she expect him to show any compassion?
‘She was wearing these earrings the last time I saw her in Algiers. They were made especially for her by a silversmith in Bou Saada.’
Her voice wavered. ‘Malika and I grew up together, Lord McGunn. She’s my closest friend, almost a sister. I pray to God it’s not her. I don’t even know how it could be her, but I have to be sure.’
At last he took a breath and nodded.
‘All right, if you’re certain that’s what you want, but I’m warning you, it will upset you.’
He took hold of her arm, his touch surprisingly gentle for once. As they got nearer an outcrop of rocks, she caught a glimpse of the black cloak, of long dark locks of hair spread out of the wet sand. Her head started spinning and her heart beat as loud as a bendir drum. She hardly noticed she was falling to her knees.
‘Oh no …’ She heard her own hoarse, heart-rending 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?’
