Dancing for the Devil

by Marie Laval

  ‘Don’t blame yourself too much,’ he said, his voice a little hoarse. ‘McRae is a consummate liar and a scoundrel. You were naive and easy to fool.’

  She stared at him. ‘You have a real way with words, Lord McGunn. You just made me feel a lot better.’

  ‘I only meant …’

  ‘I know exactly what you meant, and for once I agree with you. I was completely taken in by Cameron’s flowery words. All my friends knew he was just pretending, that it was impossible a man like him should fall in love with me and want to marry me, but I only heard what I wanted to hear and believed what I wanted to believe. I was a fool indeed.’

  Her lips quivered, and her eyes swam with tears which she quickly wiped away with the back of her hand.

  ‘I am deeply ashamed for having been so stupid.’

  He banged his fist on the table, so hard the glass and the plate jumped up and startled her.

  ‘If anyone should be ashamed, it’s McRae for lying to you and for … ahem … whatever else he’s done to you.’

  He swallowed hard. God knew the idea of McRae’s hands on her slender body, of his mouth on her skin, knotted his gut in a fist and made angry, red hot flashes flare in front of his eyes.

  ‘So what about that diary?’ he resumed gruffly. ‘Why do you think the McRaes, mother and son, are so interested in it?’

  ‘I told you already, it’s because my father wrote about the night he spent at Niall McRae’s deathbed after Quatre-Bras and the instructions he left him.’

  ‘What instructions?’

  ‘About his last will and testament.’

  He whistled between his teeth. ‘Now that’s interesting. How did McRae react when he read the diary?’

  ‘The first time Cameron read the entries about his father, he was shaking so much he couldn’t even turn the pages properly. I had to prise the diary from him for fear he would inadvertently rip pages out.’

  She frowned.

  ‘The second time wasn’t much better either. I’d left him alone to give him the privacy he requested, but I realised I’d forgotten my parasol and returned into the room. I found him kneeling next to the fireplace, trying to rescue the diary from the fire where he’d dropped it.’

  ‘A fire?’

  ‘He said he was overcome by a great chill while reading the diary and felt compelled to make a fire. When the diary fell into the flames, he was so shocked he didn’t even think of using the tongs! Thankfully I was quick-witted or the diary would have been lost there and then.’

  Bruce shook his head. McRae had inadvertently dropped the diary into the fire? His hands shook so much he almost ripped pages off? The woman was really too naive for her own good.

  ‘You mentioned that your hotel room was burgled,’ he remembered.

  She nodded. ‘Twice in a week! The manager of The Excelsior was mortified, and so apologetic. He said it’d never happened before and couldn’t understand how the burglars had gone past the security guards in the lobby. He suggested they might have had some inside help … anyway, thankfully nothing of any value was stolen. The first time, the thieves took a few trinkets I had left on my dressing table. The second time, they emptied my travel trunks, pulled out the desk drawers and had strewn all my papers around but left with nothing.’

  She sighed. ‘The hotel manager wanted to call the gendarmes but Cameron refused categorically. He said he couldn’t possibly have my name – and his – mixed up in a scandal. He was staying at The Excelsior too, you see.’

  ‘Where was the diary?’

  ‘After the first burglary I hid it under a loose floor tile on the terrace,’ she answered with a tight smile. ‘But after the second, I decided to store it in my mother’s safe at the Banque d’Algérie.’

  ‘So yours was the only room broken into …’

  ‘That I know of.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason, I’m just curious.’

  It seemed clear to McGunn that McRae was somehow behind all this. What if McRae had commissioned the burglaries after failing to destroy – or buy – the diary? When the thieves had been unable to locate the document, he had gone through the charade of courting and marrying Rose. He must have expected her to hand over the diary during their wedding night, for him to destroy once and for all. Then he would have sailed back on the Sea Lady. Alone. He had been away from Scotland, and Lady Fairbanks, for too long. The date of his real wedding was fast approaching, the banns had to be read and preparations had to be made, so it was imperative he returned to Westmore.

  Still, what were a few more days when he had been away several weeks already? He could have gone with Rose when the bank reopened.

  No, he thought, raking his fingers in his hair, something had happened that night, something that had prompted his hurried departure.

  ‘I think we’ll take a look at that diary now,’ he started, but his words were drowned in the strong, regular beat of a bodhrán. A lively fiddle tune followed and several couples took place on the dance floor. The ceilidh had started.

  Rose turned to him, a smile on her lips and her eyes shining like stars.

  ‘What beautiful music, it makes me want to dance too!’

  It was as if all her sorrows, all her worries, had vanished with the first notes of the fiddle. An overwhelming feeling swept through him, fierce like a winter gale. He wanted to see her smile this way again. Every day. Nothing mattered at that moment but to make sure she was safe and happy, whatever the cost.

  He was being ridiculous. He had never felt like this before, about anyone. Hell, he didn’t want to feel this way ever. So he’d taken a fancy to a woman … it wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. He couldn’t afford being distracted by Rose or anyone else, not when he had his estate to save from ruin, and a killer to catch, and a riddle to solve. And that Saintclair diary was a riddle indeed.

  He rose to his feet. ‘We’re not here to dance or listen to music. We’ve wasted enough of the evening already. Let’s go and read that diary of yours.’

  A familiar voice called his name across the crowded room and stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘Lieutenant McGunn!’

  He turned, frowned as he scanned the crowd and broke into a smile at the sight of the tall, fair-haired and solidly built man waving and striding across the room.

  ‘Wallace! What the devil are you doing here?’ Bruce clasped the man’s hands in his and gave him a slap on the back.

  ‘I could ask you the same question, Lieutenant. You’re a fair way from Wrath.’

  Bruce nodded. ‘I have some business to attend to in Westmore.’

  ‘Westmore? Don’t tell me you’re invited to McRae’s engagement ball.’

  ‘No, but I need to see the man about a rather sordid and complicated affair.’

  ‘Isn’t it always, where that scoundrel is concerned?’ Wallace retorted with a shrug of his powerful shoulders.

  ‘What about you? I thought you were still in India. When did you come back?’

  ‘Three months ago. I didn’t re-enlist when my time was up. My father died last year and my mother can’t cope on the farm on her own, so I came back to help. Actually there are a few of us who are back home. The lads will be well jealous when I tell them I bumped into you.’

  His weather-beaten face suddenly creased into a broad grin and he shook his head.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Lieutenant. Let me buy you a pint of ale or a dram of whisky.’

  Bruce’s chest constricted. ‘You know I don’t have any right to be called “Lieutenant”, not any more.’

  Wallace waved his large hand.

  ‘That’s rubbish. The men and I always knew who was to blame for what happened at Ferozeshah. It was damned unfair you were made to carry the can for that poltroon Frazier. If he hadn’t run away, we would have mounted a diversion and our men would have rigged the depot before it exploded.’

  Bruce’s heart seemed to stop a second, his throat tightened. ‘W
hat’s done is done,’ he said in a low voice. Whatever Wallace or anybody said, the ultimate responsibility for his unit lay with him. He had failed his men, and that’s all there was to it.

  ‘Will you have that drink with me?’ Wallace asked again.

  Bruce snapped out of his dark thoughts and forced a smile.

  ‘I will, but I’m buying. First, let me introduce you to Rose Saintclair, the young lady I’m travelling with.’

  He gestured towards the table where Rose sat, her eyes riveted on the musicians and the dancers.

  Wallace opened his eyes wide and let out a curse.

  ‘She looks beautiful, just like a princess from a fairy tale. Who is she?’

  Bruce couldn’t repress a smile. ‘I didn’t know you read fairy tales, Wallace. Come, I’ll introduce you.’

  After brief introductions, Wallace pulled a chair to sit down and Bruce made his way to the bar. It was busy so it took him a while to get served. As he pushed his way back into the room, carrying two pints of ale and a small glass of sherry for Rose, the noise level seemed to suddenly increase. The music became louder, faster. The crowd cheered, clapped and tapped their feet on the wooden floor.

  What was happening back there? And where were Rose and Wallace?

  He put the drinks on their table, scanned the room and let out a resounding curse. Sure enough, there they were, dancing in the middle of the floor as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

  Had Wallace gone mad, and Rose taken leave of her senses? Had she already forgotten what trouble she'd narrowly avoided by showing up in her exotic costume only an hour before? She must have asked Wallace to dance and the big fool had probably been too dazzled by her smile to refuse.

  He stuck his hands in his pockets and leant against a wooden post to watch. Rose’s cheeks were flushed a deep pink, her eyes glinted with pure happiness. Her lips parted in a breathless smile at she swirled at Wallace’s arm. Her blonde hair caught the light as it skimmed past her waist and bounced onto the swell of her hips.

  Her feet hardly touched the ground and she looked about to fly straight into Wallace’s arms, which, judging by the wide grin on his former sergeant’s face, he wouldn’t mind at all. Not surprising, he thought with a pang of longing, a man would do anything to have a woman look at him like that. No, he corrected. A man would do anything to have this woman look at him like that.

  Was it only six days ago that she had come into his life, blown into his winter by the gailleann? Wallace was right. She was a princess, a fairy-tale creature from a sunny, faraway land, a woman whose very scent drove him insane. Right now, it felt like he had known her, desired her, ached for her all his life. He let out a ragged breath and turned away. He had no right to feel that way. No right at all.

  As he started back to his table, his attention was drawn to a man standing near the entrance. Even though he had his back to him, there was something familiar in the way he stood, his shoulders hunched in his thick brown coat, his dark hair flicking in his thick neck under a grey woolly cap. Bruce narrowed his eyes. Strange, he looked just like his man McNeil …

  But McNeil was in Alltnacailich, miles away from here.

  An unwelcome thought sprung into his mind. Perhaps McNeil had come looking for him because there’d been an accident at the fisheries, or trouble in the village, or again because Morag had taken a turn for the worse. Yet how would McNeil know where to find him?

  As he pushed his way through the dense crowd he caught another glimpse of the man. This time there was no doubt. It was indeed McNeil. He called out and waved, but McNeil didn’t hear and by the time he reached the doorway, he had left.

  He couldn’t have gone that far, Bruce thought as he swung open the door of the tavern to go after him. Cold, sharp air stung his face and burned his lungs. Only a misty, blurred crescent of moon and a couple of gas lights lit the night. He put the collar of his jacket up, pushed his hands into his pockets and left the hazy lights, the music and noise of the inn behind. A hundred feet away from the tavern, the streets were quiet and dark. Where had the man disappeared to?

  As he started down a cobbled lane leading to the harbour, instinct made him pat the side where he usually carried his pistol. Damn. He’d left it in his room at the inn. A noise behind him resounded in the empty lane. He froze and looked over his shoulder. A cat darted along the wall and melted into the shadows. He carried on along the quays, stepping over empty baskets and coiled ropes, and walking around piles of fishing nets.

  A dozen fishing boats, all empty, danced on the surf, their masts clanking in the breeze. The sea appeared black with only a few curls of silver where the moonlight touched its surface. Smells of seaweed and rotting fish filled the air, waves lapped at the jetty and the harbour wall.

  McNeil wasn’t here. Nobody was. He was wasting his time.

  Suddenly the hair at the back of his neck prickled. Sounds of rapid footfall behind him echoed in the silence. He spun round, just in time to see the huge shadow of a man lunge at him. A fist connected with his face, hard enough to slam his head back. Stunned, he fell to his knees with a grunt. Before he could scramble up to his feet, another man kicked him hard in the stomach.

  One of the men grabbed hold of his arms, twisted them behind his back while the other punched him again, knocking the air out of him. He groaned, tasted the metallic tang of blood. The man holding him let go suddenly and he slumped down, his face scrapping the slimy, wet cobbles.

  ‘He may be a devil with a claymore, but without it he fights like a sissy,’ his attacker sneered.

  Bruce caught his breath. He recognised that voice. It was the post guard.

  ‘Got your knife?’ the other asked in a harsh whisper. ‘Good. Finish him off while I go after the woman. She’s the one Morven wants. He wasn’t happy when you messed up at Sith Coille.’

  ‘We didn’t mess up,’ the guard retorted, indignant. ‘Everything was going to plan until he got in the way. Now I’ve lost my job, and if McGunn reports me for abducting the woman, I’ll probably hang. Anyhow, the woman’ll be easy to deal with once this bastard’s dead.’

  Bruce tensed up. A dark, hot knot of rage twisted and grew inside him. So it was true. The post guard worked for Morven. But what did Cameron’s factor want with Rose? Whatever it was, these two thugs wouldn’t get rid of him so easily, and they certainly wouldn’t touch a single of Rose’s hair, not as long as he had a breath of life inside him.

  With a mighty roar, he leapt to his feet, tackled the man closest to him and brought him down. He straddled him, punched him in the face. There was a sickening sound of bone crushing under his fist and the man stopped struggling.

  Bruce sprang up just in time to see the post guard pull a knife out of his pocket. The blade glinted in the pale moonlight. Hunching forward, he shifted on his feet, ready to pounce.

  Bruce didn’t give him time. He grabbed hold of his wrist, punched him hard in the stomach then kneed him in the groin before prising the knife out of his hand. It fell on the cobbles with a clinking sound. He then smashed his fist into the man’s face in a single, powerful blow.

  The guard stumbled, fell on his back with a loud thump and lay sprawled on the cobbles, grunting and spitting blood.

  ‘What do you want with Rose Saintclair?’ Bruce asked, pushed the tip of his boot onto his throat.

  ‘Don’t know what ye mean,’ the man wheezed.

  Bruce bent down and twisted his fist into the man’s collar. Lifting him up at arm’s length, he slammed him against the wall of a cottage. The moonlight was just bright enough for him to see his attacker’s features.

  Small, beady eyes deeply set under thick, dark eyebrows stared back at him.

  ‘Why did you lock her up in that house at Sith Coille? And why is Morven interested in her? Answer, damn it, or I’ll finish you and your friend right now.’

  His arm ached. His head ached, hell, his whole body ached. He wouldn’t be able to pin the man against the wall for much longer.

&
nbsp; The man’s eyes opened wider and stared at something beyond Bruce’s shoulder.

  Bruce glanced back and let out a curse.

  Two tall, dark figures stood behind him, both armed with clubs. They were upon him before he could step aside. Blows rained on his head and back, flashes of light exploded in front of his eyes. His last thought before he slipped into unconsciousness was that he could have sworn he’d heard these men’s voices before – in Inverness, the night he and McNeil were attacked on the docks.

  ‘I wonder where my lieutenant is.’ Wallace scanned the room, empty now the ceilidh had ended. ‘Something’s not right. He bought us drinks then disappeared, but that was over an hour ago.’

  ‘He may have gone for a walk, or to meet someone.’ Rose frowned. Her cheeks burned and she added, ‘There is this red-haired serving girl he seems to like rather a lot …’

  ‘A girl? Somehow I don’t think he’d go dallying with a lass and leave you here with me,’ Wallace protested, an indignant look on his face. ‘No, something’s up and I —’

  ‘Good Heavens, Lord McGunn!’ The landlord’s voice resounded in the hallway, interrupting him. ‘Look at the state of you! Did you have an accident?’

  ‘He’s back.’ Wallace rose to his feet but Rose was faster.

  Pushing past him, she darted towards the hallway, so fast that she tripped on a mat and fell straight into McGunn’s arms.

  ‘Watch what you’re doing, woman!’ He winced in pain as he caught her. ‘I don’t need any more bruises.’

  She gasped as she took in the blood trickling from a cut to his forehead, the contusions on his cheekbone, and his swollen left eye.

  ‘By Old Ibrahim’s Beard, you’re hurt!’ She disentangled herself from his grasp but stomped on his foot as she moved aside.

  ‘Oops. S-sorry.’

  He scowled at her and hissed between clenched teeth.

  ‘Why is it that you happily trample all over me but never once stepped on Wallace’s feet when you two were twirling on the dance floor earlier?’