by Marie Laval
‘You don’t smoke? Too bad. These Partagás are imported from Havana especially for me.’
He lit the cigar, and took a few deep, long puffs.
‘So tell me, what can I do for you? I take it you’re not here to wish me a happy birthday or congratulate me on my engagement to Lady Sophia.’
‘It would be rude of me not to,’ Bruce said. ‘Many happy returns, and my best wishes to you and your fiancée.’
McRae nodded. ‘Thank you. By the way, where is your travelling companion?’
‘Miss Saintclair?’ Bruce asked, nonchalant. ‘What about her?’
‘Is she here with you?’ The twitch at the side of McRae’s mouth became more pronounced.
Was he afraid of Rose waiting for the chance to ruin the ball and his engagement Lady Sophia, or was he only thinking about Colonel Saintclair’s diary?
‘No, she’s not here,’ he replied after a short silence. McRae flicked ash off his cigar into a silver ashtray and added, his voice unsteady.
‘Ah … may I ask where she is?’
‘I left her in Porthaven this morning. As far as I know, she’s still there,’ Bruce lied. By now he fully expected the young woman to be safely tucked away on Wallace’s farm, out of reach of Morven and his gang.
‘The thing is, Miss Saintclair has something my mother is most anxious to see, something she was bringing from Algiers especially for her.’
‘Does she now? And what would it be?’
McRae tapped his cigar against the side of the ashtray.
‘She didn’t tell you anything?’
‘I am afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about, McRae.’
The man squirmed in his seat, and Bruce was enjoying every second of it. It was obvious he wondered how much Bruce knew about the fake wedding and the journal. It was a damned shame Bruce couldn’t use Rose’s pretend wedding as a lever to use against McRae’s bankers. He had thought about it, but without any proof that it had ever taken place it would be Rose’s word against McRae’s. What was more, he was reluctant to expose the young woman to public scrutiny.
McRae drew on his cigar and his face soon disappeared behind a cloud of smoke. An uneasy silence descended between them, a silence that Bruce had no intention of breaking.
At last, McRae leant over the desk.
‘Why are you here, McGunn?’
Bruce stared him straight in the eye.
‘I have a business proposal for you. About Wrath and the bank loans.’
McRae cocked his head to one side, his lips stretched into a conceited smile and he let out a long sigh.
‘At last you realise you have no alternative than to sell Wrath to me. That’s excellent news, excellent news indeed.’
Bruce opened his mouth to say that hell would freeze over before he sold him even a handful of McGunn soil and was about to inform him that the Sea Eagle was being held to ransom at Wrath when McRae added.
‘My lawyers, Langford and Stewart, happen to be here, putting the final touches to my marriage contract. I’m sure they can have the preliminary sales agreement drawn up in no time.’
Langford and Stewart were the lawyers Colonel Saintclair wrote to with Niall McRae’s last will and testament, the ones Pichet had met in Inverness before getting himself killed, and the men who knew about that mysterious third letter …
He glanced at Niall McRae’s portrait and his breath grew short. Suddenly it was vital that he stay at Westmore to look at the painting again and talk to the lawyers. For that he needed to change his plans and pretend he wanted to sell Wrath.
‘I want it to be clear that I’m not agreeing to anything until I see your lawyers’ proposal,’ he said, rising to his feet.
‘Of course.’
McRae stubbed the end of his cigar in a silver ashtray and stood up too.
‘Please attend the ball tonight and be my honoured guest until the lawyers produce a draft sales agreement. I can’t wait to tell everybody the news. It’s not every day a McGunn bows down to a McRae.’
He laughed again. ‘In fact, I don’t believe it ever happened before.’
Bruce curled his fist by his side, striving to repress the urge of smashing it into the man’s pasty face and swallowed hard. He would bow to no man, and certainly not to a McRae. Yet he had to let the McRae believe he had won for now.
‘No one is to know until I agree to the proposal,’ he cut in sharply. ‘You only tell your bankers and the lawyers, or the sale is off. Is that clear?’
McRae chuckled. ‘Oh, very well, if you insist. Shall we toast to our agreement? I have an excellent fine Napoleon cognac.’
‘No, thank you. It would be a little premature.’ He paused. ‘Actually, there was something else I needed to talk to you about. Two bodies were washed up on my beaches earlier this week – two women, one of whom Rose Saintclair identified as her best friend Malika Jahal.’
He watched McRae closely for a reaction. There was none. The man’s eyes didn’t show a flicker of emotion, regret or even surprise. Rose would have been disappointed. Contrary to what she thought, the man wasn’t in the least overwhelmed by the news.
‘Malika, dead?’ he said at last. ‘How very sad. She left Westmore about ten days ago. Rumour has it she ran off to Inverness. Actually, that would have been at around the same time you were there, wouldn’t it? Maybe you met her there …’
Bruce’s stomach knotted. Why did McRae mention his visit to Inverness? Images of Malika flashed before his eyes. Malika alive and scared, barely dressed, in a large brass bed. Malika’s dead, empty eyes staring at the grey sky on the beach.
‘Why would I?’ He forced the words out. ‘Anyway, Miss Saintclair is understandably very upset, and very surprised too, since her friend never mentioned her intention of travelling to Scotland on the Sea Lady.’
He stared at McRae. ‘I assume she travelled on the Sea Lady.’
‘Indeed. She was planning a surprise reunion here with Miss Saintclair,’ McRae replied. ‘Apparently the two young ladies had argued and Malika felt remorseful.’
‘Then why did she leave Westmore before Miss Saintclair arrived?’
McRae shrugged and looked away. ‘Who knows? She was a volatile, headstrong young woman. To tell you the truth, she and I didn’t really get on.’
This time McRae looked uncomfortable. Something wasn’t right, but Bruce couldn’t quite point out what.
‘So you have no idea why she left Westmore and what happened to her?’
‘None whatsoever. Have you?’
Bruce stiffened. ‘Of course not. I didn’t even know the woman.’
McRae opened the door and the two men walked out of the library.
‘Of course, how silly of me …’
Once again Bruce has the uneasy feeling that McRae knew something he didn’t, and he didn’t like it one bit.
‘Perhaps I could question the dancers and musicians,’ he suggested.
This time, McRae laughed.
‘You’re welcome to try, but they only speak Arabic, and a few words of French. They will be performing here tonight, so you can try and speak to them then. Anyway, I must leave you now. As you can imagine I still have a lot to organise for the ball.’
‘Baxter will take you to your room now. He’ll sort out a suit for you and everything you might need for tonight. Please make yourself at home.’
There was little chance of that, Bruce thought as he watched him walk down the corridor. He glanced back at the library door with a stab of regret. He would have to come back later to take a closer look at Niall McRae’s portrait, when the ball was in full swing and everybody was too busy enjoying themselves dancing to McRae’s string orchestra, eating his canapés and drinking his champagne to pay McGunn any attention.
Chapter Twenty-two
Rose didn’t see the pothole until it was too late. The mare stumbled straight into it, almost throwing her to the ground and into a large puddle filled with mud and partly melted snow.
‘There, there, that’s a good girl.’
She patted the horse’s neck with a shaky hand and issued soothing words. It wouldn’t be able to carry on much further, it was exhausted. So was she, but that was no excuse. She should have been paying more attention to the road.
She dismounted and started walking on the uneven track, leading the horse behind her. Where was she? She should have reached Westmore by now. The light grew dim and blue, shadows thickened and closed in on her. She pulled the sides of her cloak more tightly as the sea breeze blew colder. If she didn’t find Westmore or some kind of shelter before nightfall, she would be in serious trouble.
Not for the first time since riding out of Porthaven that morning, doubt gnawed at her. Perhaps she’d been wrong to leave Wallace behind and come here alone: it might have been safer to go to his farm and wait there for Lord McGunn. She’d had to turn back on herself several times since the morning, and now it looked like she’d taken the wrong road once again.
Then she spotted the stone figures that stood on top of the high stone wall running alongside the track and her heart beat faster – half lion, half bird. Griffins! So she had reached Westmore at last.
Now all she had to do was find the main entrance, slip into the park unnoticed by the gatekeeper and make her way to the hunting lodge where she planned to talk to the dancers and musicians. This time luck was on her side. Just as darkness stifled the last glimmers of daylight, she came across a small opening in the wall with a wrought-iron gate flapping in the wind with a squeaky noise.
Still pulling the mare behind her, she pushed the gate open and started on a lane winding its way between the trees and their wide, sweeping branches. The snow had melted in patches and her feet crushed a thick carpet of pine needles, releasing a scent so strong it was as if Bruce were here, right next to her.
She swayed against the horse and leant against its comforting warmth. Where was he this evening? Probably on his way to Wallace’s farm. He could hardly stay at Westmore after issuing threats to destroy the Sea Eagle. She didn’t want to think about the way he’d react when he found out that she wasn’t there. Would he worry that she’d been hurt in the riots and look for her in Porthaven, or would he guess that she’d come here despite his instructions?
She let out a long sigh. Suddenly it wasn’t just doubt, but guilt as well, niggling at her. Well, it was too late for either. She was here now, ready to confront Cameron about his lies. Strange how it didn’t seem so important now she realised she did not love the man, and probably never had. What was important, though, was to find out what had happened to Malika.
She tossed her head back, gave the reins a sharp pull, and walked out of the woods.
The sight of the castle made her draw breath in awe.
With its tall spires and dozens of towers darting toward the sky, with fountains and statues lit by coloured lanterns and the main road lined with blazing torches, it looked like a fairy-tale castle … and a far cry indeed from Wrath Lodge.
She followed the lane toward another copse. Soon lights glowed through the trees and the outline of a large two-storey stone house appeared. As she got nearer, echoes of a music she recognised only too well drifted toward her – the high-pitched gisba flute, accompanied by the dull rhythms of bendir drum and melodious chords of a luth. Suddenly she wasn’t in the far north of Scotland any more, but home in Bou Saada.
She approached the house with caution, but there were no guards at the front door. Just to be on the safe side, however, she tiptoed around the back. After tying the mare to a post, she paused to listen to the music again. It came from one of the downstairs rooms.
Creeping close to the window, she peered inside. The three musicians she remembered from Algiers sat on large cushions on the floor. They were alone. Rose tapped on the glass, and the luth player turned to her. His eyes opened wide in shock. He dropped instrument to the floor, jumped to his feet, and ran to the window.
He lifted the window sash up and leant out. ‘Ourida? hl htha hqyqi؟’
She couldn’t help but smile. It was good to hear her name in Arabic, Ourida, ‘Little Rose’ – the name her father, family and friends called her back at home.
‘Salaem’alekoum.’ She bowed her head. ‘Yes, it’s me, and no, you’re not dreaming,’ she whispered in Arabic.
‘Wa’alekoum salaam,’ the musician replied, bowing in return, his greeting echoed by his companions who had rushed to his side.
When she raised her hand to silence their questions, she wasn’t smiling any more. ‘I need your help, my friends.’
‘My clerks will work on the documents tonight, my lord, and I’ll have a draft agreement ready by tomorrow.’ Charles Longford gathered a pile of papers into a black leather portfolio before rising to his feet.
‘That soon?’
Two faint pink spots appeared on the old man’s cheeks and there was a flicker of unease in his pale blue eyes.
‘With all due respect, my lord, we have been preparing for this eventuality for a while.’
Bruce narrowed his eyes.
‘You have?’
‘Well, it’s no secret that your estate is in a delicate financial situation and that you are not in the best of health …’
This time Bruce had to make a conscious effort to retain his calm.
‘I had no idea my health – or lack of – was worth gossiping about.’
The lawyer had the decency to look embarrassed. He coughed to clear his throat, smoothed his thinning grey hair with a shaky hand and tucked the portfolio under his arm.
‘I can assure you that my associate and I do not gossip,’ he replied stiffly.
Bruce walked to the window. He had been given a room on the second floor at the front of the castle with a good view of the grounds and of the stream of elegant carriages that queued in front of the porch steps, waiting to disgorge their well-dressed, perfumed and bejewelled occupants.
He had bathed and shaved, and now wore his spare black jacket, trousers and a crisp white shirt a maidservant had pressed for him. His lip curled as he looked at his reflection in the window. If it weren’t for his hair, far too long for the prevailing fashion, and the cuts and bruises on his face, he could almost pass for one of McRae’s cronies.
He turned to face Charles Langford and crossed his arms on his chest.
‘Enlighten me, Langford, what exactly is wrong with my health?’
The two pink spots on the man’s cheeks deepened to dark red. He coughed again.
‘We heard my lord suffered from … I mean, there have been rumours that my lord was afflicted with …’ He paused, drew in a deep breath. ‘… an incurable illness.’
Bruce arched his eyebrows.
‘Is that so? And you carried draft sales documents with you just in case I happened to stop by at Westmore before I dropped dead?’
Looking even more agitated, the lawyer shook his head.
‘No. Of course not. My associate and I were going to travel to Wrath this very week to put to you a purchase offer from Lord McRae. Your coming here today saves us a long and uncomfortable journey.’
‘I’m glad to oblige,’ Bruce replied pleasantly, but inside he was seething.
Someone from Wrath had talked. Someone who knew about his debilitating memory losses, his headaches and the nightmares that had these past few months kept him from sleeping at night – someone who had noticed his slow descent into insanity. Who could it be?
However infuriating, there was no time to dig deeper right now.
‘Will that be all, my lord?’ Charles Langford looked at him in earnest.
‘What do you remember about a French officer, a man named Pichet who paid you a visit about Niall McRae in August 1815?’ Bruce asked abruptly.
He had intended to take the man by surprise. He had succeeded.
Charles Langford’s face drained of all colour, his mouth opened on a silent gasp, and panic flickered in his eyes. The portfolio slipped from his grasp and fell on the floor w
ith a loud noise.
‘Well?’ Bruce asked again.
The old man bent down and picked up the leather wallet with trembling fingers.
‘Thirty years ago? I am sorry, I don’t recall ever meeting this gentleman.’
Bruce stared at him. He was lying. The question was why.
‘The McRaes being your most important clients, I would expect you to remember everything about them, especially something as unusual as Pichet’s visit.’
The old man closed his eyes briefly.
‘Pichet, you said? Now that you mention it, I do vaguely recall a Frenchman visiting our offices.’
‘What do you remember about him?’
Langford shook his head.
‘I am afraid my memory is hazy. I shall have to confer with my associate – it was a long time ago.’
‘Nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with your memory! You just gave me a list of most of my assets without even reading your notes, so surely you can remember the Frenchman who brought you Niall McRae’s last will and testament.’
Bruce walked towards him. Langford stepped back, a terrified look in his watery blue eyes. Damn it, did the old man think he was going to hit him?
‘How do you know about that?’
‘Let’s say I came upon some papers – some very interesting papers. So what changes did the new will make to McRae’s succession?’
‘You must realise I cannot discuss any confidential matters regarding the McRae family affairs with you or anyone not related …’ he coughed, and spoke the rest of the sentence so fast his words seemed to stumble over one another, ‘not related to the family of the deceased, my lord.’
Bruce shrugged, impatient. ‘I know Pichet was carrying three letters. One for you, one for Lady Patricia. Did he tell you about the third letter?’
His hand clutching the portfolio tightly, the old man took another step back toward the door.
‘I don’t recall the man Pichet mentioning another letter, my lord.’
It was plain Langford wasn’t going to say anything more. Bruce took a deep breath. He had to try something else.
