by Marie Laval
She hurled another snowball at him. It hit him hard on the chin, peppering his dark beard with white.
‘That was pure chance. I wasn’t concentrating. I bet you can’t do that again.’
‘Watch me.’
She moulded half a dozen more snowballs and pummelled him with them. Every time they hit their target with a satisfying thump, she jumped up and down and shrieked with delight. In contrast, his aim was so poor he almost always missed her. It was almost as if he was doing it on purpose.
‘I won! Look at you, you’re all white.’ She laughed as she pointed at his hair, face and coat scattered with fresh snow.
Her foot caught a rock hidden under the snow and she stumbled forward, straight into his arms, making them both lose their balance. He swayed before falling backward and cushioning their fall with his body, and she found herself lying on top of him, his body hard and warm under her.
He wrapped his arms around her, so tightly she stopped breathing, and the world became a blur – the snowy fields, the dark green forest and the sharp, crisp blue sky all melted into a kaleidoscope of colours. Underneath her, he was no longer smiling, but tense and hard as steel.
He slid her up along his body until their eyes, their mouths were level. Slipping one hand onto the nape of her neck, he pulled her down toward him, slowly, inexorably. Her heart drummed as hard as a bendir. She held her breath, waiting, willing for their lips to touch. Her mind shut down. Nothing existed, nothing mattered but him and the flame that danced and burned inside her, higher and stronger with every heartbeat.
‘Damn it, gràidheag, I want you and I don’t care who you are,’ he said in a hoarse voice before pulling her down and bringing her mouth to his in a hot, rough, impatient kiss.
The thick stubble on his cheeks rubbed against her skin. It was wet with melted snow, at once soft and bristly, and made her tingle and shiver all over. She lifted a hand to the side of his face and her fingers stroked his cheek in a timid caress.
His breathing quickened, tremors shook the steely arms that pinned her to him. Pressing one hand against the back of her neck, he forced her lips open with his mouth. His tongue slid inside her mouth and he kissed her long and deep. It was like being devoured alive, possessed by an irresistible force. And vanquished.
The world exploded in millions of tiny, bright, colourful pieces and then there was only stormy darkness, waves of desire, and an unbearable heat coiling and spreading inside her. Her hands slid along his chest and onto his shoulders and stayed there, clinging and gripping as he ravaged her mouth. More, she wanted more. She wanted him.
The sounds of voices nearby shattered the dark spell, and knocked her back to reality. She tore herself away from him, pressed her hands against his chest and pushed hard.
‘Someone’s coming.’
‘So what?’ His eyes were a dark and stormy, his breathing fast and heavy, his heart thumped so hard she could feel it against hers.
Gripped by panic, she pushed harder.
‘Please. I don’t want anybody to see me … to see us like this.’
He narrowed his eyes, hissed a breath and released her, and she scrambled to her feet.
‘It’s only Garbhan and his family,’ he remarked as he got up. ‘What does it matter if they see us having a tussle in the snow when they know we spent two nights alone in the cottage?’
‘It matters. Of course it matters,’ she cried out. Gathering her skirts, she ran blindly up the forest track. She had to escape, far away from the man who played havoc with her mind, her body … and her heart.
‘Watch out, Miss Rose,’ Garbhan cried out as she bumped into him. ‘You look all upset and flustered. Has the stag come back to give you another fright?’
Next to him his wife and the three children looked at her with undisguised curiosity. She forced a few deep breaths down before answering.
‘No, it fled into the woods.’
‘We came to say “goodbye”,’ Garbhan began, ‘and to thank you for scaring that stag away. Our Lorna was so upset we couldn’t make head or tail of what she was saying. Lord McGunn was the first to understand what was happening and he shot out of the cottage. I never saw a man run as fast.’
He took hold of Rose’s hand, squeezed it hard.
‘There was no need for me to run,’ McGunn said behind her. ‘Rose was doing fine on her own.’
He stepped beside her, his arms filled with the tumblers and pots she had dropped near the stream, and looked at Garbhan.
‘So it’s agreed. I’ll see you all at Wrath in a few days.’
Rose frowned. ‘Wrath? I thought you were heading for Inverness.’
‘Lord McGunn made us an offer we couldn’t refuse,’ Garbhan said with a beaming smile. ‘We will be forever grateful.’
‘Nonsense,’ McGunn retorted. ‘You’re the one doing me a favour. I told you, I need more workers at the fisheries, and a couple of scullery maids at the Lodge.’
‘God bless you, Lord McGunn,’ Alana said, her eyes full of tears. ‘I promise we’ll work hard for you. You’re a good man and what you’re doing for us, well, it’s wonderful.’
‘It’s no big thing. There’s no need to cry,’ he interrupted in a gruff voice.
Rose wasn’t fooled by his harsh response. He was preserving their pride as well as saving them from life in the slums. Her breath hitched in her throat, her heart felt so tight, so full, it hurt. She felt a tug at her skirt and looked down to find the youngest McKenzie girl smiling at her.
‘He looks mean but he’s rather nice, isn’t he?’ she asked, slipping her small hand into hers and dragging her along on the patch back to the cottage. ‘You must be glad he’s your gràidhean.’
‘You’re wrong, my dear,’ Rose replied in a wistful voice. ‘He’s not my sweetheart.’
It didn’t take long for the McKenzies to harness their horse to the cart, pile their bags and children at the back. The two women sat on the driver’s seat. The men slipped their bundles onto their back, shook hands with Lord McGunn and herself, and exchanged wishes for a safe journey.
When the family had disappeared down the path, McGunn walked into the cottage. He didn’t talk or look at her once while they packed their bags. It was as if he had never held and kissed her, back there in the snow, as if he’d never said he wanted her, and it had all been a dream.
Her hand shook as she fastened her bag shut. Only it hadn’t been a dream. It had been real, so real her lips were still swollen from the onslaught of his kiss, and she could still feel the hot imprint of his fingers on the nape of her neck.
‘We’re ready,’ he said as he brushed the ashes off the hearth before scattering them outside.
She didn’t answer but watched him shutter the windows and secure the door. Once again, the cottage stood empty and abandoned. She sighed.
‘What’s wrong?’ He glared down at her. ‘Aren’t you glad we’re leaving this place?’
‘Of course I’m glad. I can’t wait to be in Westmore and prove you wrong about Cameron.’
She adjusted her bonnet and tied the ribbons under her chin.
‘You’ll have your chance tomorrow. We should get there just in time for your grand ball.’ He looked down. ‘And then you’ll get your wish.’
‘What wish?’ She frowned.
‘You will be back with McRae and never have to lay eyes on me again.’
He was right. That was exactly what she wanted, so why did the thought suddenly make her want to cry?
Chapter Seventeen
Rose squinted against the sunlight that bounced and sparkled on the surface of the sea. The white seabirds with black-tipped wings Lord McGunn had called kittiwakes and gannets glided on the wind in an endless dance, their strident cries rising above the roaring waves. Gusts of wind whipped strands of hair out of her bonnet and around her face, seeped through her clothes like icy fingers and left a salty taste on her lips.
The ground shook as white-crested waves charged against the cliffs, h
it the rocks with such force sea spray flew high in the air, then retreated as if to gather strength, only to move forward again. It was awesome, and exhilarating. It was magnificent.
‘You’re cold.’ McGunn wrapped his arms more tightly around her.
She stiffened. ‘I’m fine.’
How could she tell him that the shivers coursing through her had nothing to do with the freezing wind and everything to do with him? His muscular thighs encased her body, his scent mingled with that of the ocean. Every time she breathed she felt the hard wall of his chest against her back, and remembered how it had felt to lie on top of him when he’d kissed her.
‘We should be in Porthaven by late afternoon,’ he remarked as he guided Shadow along the cliff path. ‘Tomorrow we’ll ride to Westmore Manor, a few hours away from there.’
She stared at the snow-covered moors which stretched as far as the eye could see and shook her head.
‘I had no idea Cameron’s estate was so vast.’
‘Half of it used to be ours before the McRaes stole it.’
Remembering what Cameron had told her about the long, embittered feud between the McRaes and the McGunns, she frowned.
‘I thought your ancestor Fergus McGunn was to blame for the loss of the land. He joined the Jacobite rebels and that’s why his lands were confiscated and given to the McRaes who had remained loyal to the king.’
Bruce McGunn reined Shadow in and looked down, and she suddenly felt a little nervous about the steely glare in his eyes, the way his jaw had locked and the silence that stretched between them for what felt like long minutes.
‘It is true that, unlike most clan chiefs from the northern Highlands, Fergus fought for the Stuarts’ cause,’ he said at last. ‘He had managed to survive Culloden and was travelling back to Wrath with what was left of his men when Gordon McRae and his men intercepted him. McRae had him beaten him up and dragged him to London in shackles. He was executed on Tower Hill. After that McRae was rewarded by the king with a large chunk of our family estate.’
He paused. ‘McRae’s actions had nothing to do with being loyal to the king and everything to do with revenge. By having Fergus executed, he killed two birds with one stone, so to speak. Not only did he get the lands his family had coveted for generations, but he took his revenge on Fergus for snatching his fiancée from him.’
‘Snatching his fiancée?’ Cameron hadn’t told Rose anything about that.
McGunn nodded. ‘A few years before, Fergus had captured her ship as it sailed around Cape Wrath. He took her hostage and asked McRae for a ransom.’
Her eyes widened. That story sounded strangely familiar.
‘McRae paid up, Fergus returned the ship but kept the woman.’ A brief smile touched McGunn’s lips and sparkles of silver lit his eyes.
‘You mean he kept her a prisoner?’
‘Not at all. She came to her senses and realised she’d rather marry a McGunn than a McRae.’
‘The poor woman probably never had a choice. What became of her after Fergus was executed?’
‘On his way back from London, McRae lay siege to the Lodge and demanded that she marry him now she was a widow, but instead of giving in, Noelie threw herself from the top of the tower, leaving her son behind – my grandfather.’
His eyes darkened and she wondered if he was thinking about his own mother.
‘Anyway,’ he started again, ‘some claim she still haunts Wrath Lodge.’
‘The Dark Lady,’ Rose said in a whisper.
Was Noelie the lonely presence lurking in the shadows at Wrath Lodge, the shadow of the woman she’d spoken to and followed around the castle – and the one who’d left the sprigs of pine she still carried in her pocket? After all, Noelie was French, and the woman did have a French accent.
A shiver crept down her spine. By Old Ibrahim’s beard, she’d spoken to a ghost! She looked up. ‘You’ve seen her, haven’t you?’
Lord McGunn turned his grey gaze towards the line of the horizon.
‘No, of course not. It’s just a story.’
‘Lord McGunn, you are a liar. You have seen her, many times probably. If she’s just a fabrication as you claim, then how do you explain this?’
She slipped her hand into her dress pocket and pulled out the posy.
He glanced at it and lifted his eyebrows. ‘What’s this supposed to be?’
‘A very old bouquet that she left that in front of my door the very evening I arrived at Wrath Lodge.’
He shrugged. ‘It must have fallen from someone’s pocket.’
She tutted and put the posy back into her pocket. Insisting was pointless, he’d never admit she was right and he was wrong.
‘The music box belonged to her, didn’t it?’
He gave a brief nod. ‘Fergus had it made in Paris as a wedding present – My Fair Love’s Lament was Noelie’s favourite tune. It was my mother’s too. She used to play it to make me fall asleep at night, or so I was told. It’s been broken ever since she died.’
‘It’s not broken. I heard the music.’
He glared at her. ‘You must have imagined it.’
His voice was so sharp she didn’t dare argue this time.
‘Anyway,’ he went on after a short silence. ‘It’s a damned shame Fergus didn’t pass on the secret of the rebel gold before he died.’
‘What gold?’
‘The gold King Louis of France despatched for Charles Stuart. After their ship ran aground, the Jacobites threw part of it in Lochan Hakel but a few rebels escaped to Balnakeil with the rest. I can’t tell you how long and hard I searched for it when I was a lad. I explored every cave, every derelict bothy and ruined caisteal I came across, but never found anything.’
He took a deep breath.
‘I could certainly do with it right now. If McRae and his bankers don’t respond to my … ahem … arguments, I’ll have to put the fisheries and most of my land up for sale at auction to repay the loans my fool of grandfather had the bad judgement to contract.’
She frowned. ‘I thought you said I was no use to you any longer since you don’t believe I am married.’
‘I still have the Sea Eagle. It’s a brand new clipper. I’m sure McRae won’t want anything to happen to it whilst it’s undergoing repairs at Wrath.’
‘You wouldn’t destroy the ship, would you?’
The cold resolve in his eyes was the only answer she needed.
‘I’ll do anything in my power to save Wrath from McRae’s greedy clutches,’ he said. ‘Anything.’ He stared ahead and dug his heels into Shadow’s sides to urge him on the path.
They didn’t speak again until they reached Porthaven. As she watched the landscape unfold – the bare, rocky cliff top to one side and the majestic, snow-covered mountains to the other – Rose couldn’t stop thinking about poor Noelie and Bonnie McGunn.
Both women were linked not only by the way they’d died, but somehow by the music box too, that same music box which played for her even though it was supposed to be broken.
There must be a simple explanation for it. The clock’s mechanism had probably got jammed and somehow Rose had unstuck it when she handled the clock that very first night at Wrath Lodge.
Nothing, however, explained the woman in the black cloak – the Dark Lady. A shiver of unease ran along her spine. Like many natives of North Africa, she believed that djinoun inhabited the vast Saharan plains, rocky canyons or secret springs, and enjoyed stories about the antics of mischievous spirits like Old Ibrahim’s haunted black beard. But to have spoken with a real ghost was altogether different. Was it Noelie who had whispered in her ear on the night of the Northern Lights and urged her to rescue Bruce from the cliff top, or had that been just had a dream?
The sunset was setting the sky and the sea on fire when they reached Porthaven at last. Lord McGunn slowed Shadow to a walking pace to negotiate their way through the hustle and bustle of the main street where market traders dismantled their stalls and piled carts high with tools,
utensils and crates of food.
Shadow skirted sideways as a red-cheeked woman threw a bucket of water nearby to wash off fish carcasses and Rose had to hide her face in the folds of her cloak to avoid gagging at the stench. Further down, poultry clucked in wicker cages, dogs barked, and children ran across the street holding scraps of food they’d snatched.
McGunn stopped in front of an inn opposite the square.
‘We’re staying here tonight,’ he announced before climbing down.
He held out his arms to help Rose to the ground, and once again her face heated up and her heart did that annoying thump and flip when his hands encircled her waist and she slid down along him. Thankfully he didn’t seem to notice. Slinging the bags over his shoulder, he handed Shadow over to a stable boy and strode into the inn with her in tow.
‘You’re in luck, Lord McGunn,’ the innkeeper said after checking his ledger. ‘We do have two rooms left for tonight, which is unusual, it being a market day. What’s the young lady’s name?’
‘Rose Saintclair,’ McGunn answered.
‘You’ll be glad you chose my establishment,’ the innkeeper said, his face flushed with pride as he wrote their names inside his book. ‘The Nag’s Head is the most comfortable in town, that’s why the mail coach always stops here on the way to Thurso … although we didn’t see them this week.’
‘Really? Any idea why?’ McGunn asked in a casual voice.
‘Apparently the storm brought a tree down on the main road, they had to do a detour and skip Porthaven. At least that’s what Effie told us. She’s one of my serving women and the coach driver’s cousin … Anyhow, we’ll get you and the young lady settled right away. Supper is at six. Don’t be late down, it’ll be busy. It’s ceilidh night.’
Rose glanced at McGunn, expecting him to tell the man about the post guard and coach driver’s attempt at abduction, but he didn’t say anything.
‘Effie! Come here,’ the innkeeper called. He shook his head and let out a loud sigh. ‘That lass does nothing but look at herself in the mirror and gossip all day.’
‘About time, I had all but given up on you,’ he scolded when a pretty red-haired woman strolled into the lobby. He ordered her to have hot water and bath tubs brought to Lord McGunn’s and Rose’s rooms at once.
