by Marie Laval
‘Wait! Please don’t go. I don’t want to be alone in here!’ She started towards the door.
‘Who said you were?’ He laughed and slammed the door shut.
The bars and chains slid back into place with loud clinking sounds. She heard the tapping of his footsteps as he climbed the stairs. Then there was silence, filled by the roaring of her blood, and there was darkness – a velvety darkness, so deep and smooth it appeared to be changing shape like a living, breathing thing.
In fact she could swear she heard breathing inside the room right now, as if djinoun were lying in wait in a corner of the room. She heaved a sob, then another. Panic made her heart jump wildly against her ribs.
Calm down. McNeil lied to frighten you. Nobody’s here. It’s just the wind and the sea.
She looked around, her eyes searching the darkness in vain. She knew she was somewhere on Westmore estate. She had caught glimpses of the manor house earlier as McNeil dragged her out of the carriage. She had also heard waves crashing against the rocks and breathed the scents of sea and seaweed in the cold wind. Perhaps this was the dungeon of the McRae family’s ancestral keep.
She took a few tentative steps, her hands stretched out in front of her to feel for obstacles. Something – someone – shifted, slid and dropped onto the floor with a loud plopping sound and Rose stopped dead. Her heart bumped to a stop, her mouth dried up and spidery shivers crawled all over her skin. What if McNeil had told the truth and she wasn’t alone? What if some slimy creature slid its way towards her now? What if McNeil left her in here to rot and she never saw daylight again? She pressed her fist against her mouth to repress a scream.
There was another dripping sound. ‘Who’s there?’ she called in a weak voice.
There was no answer. Of course, there was no answer! It was only water dripping from the ceiling. She was alone and her terror of the dark was playing tricks on her, as usual. This time, however, she wouldn’t let fear rule her. She wasn’t an impressionable child any more. She was a grown woman and she would find a way to get out of this place. Her legs shaking hard she stepped ahead, and at last her fingers touched the uneven, cold and slimy surface of a stone wall. After a few steps she came into contact with a damp and half-rotten piece of fabric giving out a strong whiff of mould.
Her spirits lifted. A curtain. Could there be a window behind it?
She pulled the fabric to one side and uncovered not a window but a hard, wooden surface. Another door. Frantic now, she explored the thick wooden surface with her fingers, found a couple of hinges, a metal handle with a lock underneath.
She pulled the handle down and rattled it as hard as she could but the door was locked. Pressing her ear against it, she held her breath to listen. And heard only the sound of water swashing and the wind whistling.
This door was her chance to escape. All she had to do was to pick the lock.
Her brother Lucas had shown her how to do it. He had always professed that anyone, young lady or not, should possess basic survival skills which in his view included picking locks, shooting, riding and killing a mountain lion with a knife. Unlike her brother, Rose had never actually killed a mountain lion, or any beast larger than a sand rat for that matter, and she might be a good rider and a moderately competent shot, but she was by all means a decent lock-picker.
Well, she would have to try and unlock that door, and do it before McNeil came back. Now, what could she use? She never wore hair or hat pins, she wasn’t wearing a brooch, and the necklace hidden under her dress didn’t have a clasp long enough. A wave of despair choked her, until she remembered the Dark Lady’s posy in her pocket and the pin holding the bunch of pine and the ribbon together.
She took it out, slid out the pin and inserted it in the lock. Her hand shook so much, the pin rattled against the metal. The lock was too stiff, the pin too short. It didn’t even pass all the way through. As she pulled it out, it fell to the ground.
Tears of frustration stung her eyes. She’d never manage to get that door open, she just wasn’t good enough! As she bent down to retrieve the pin, her Ouled Nail’s necklace shifted from under her dress. Sliding down the baubles along the chain, her fingers patted Bruce’s medallion beneath the fabric of her gown.
He needs you. Do it for him.
So she knelt down on the cold, hard floor, leaned closer to the door and started again. She turned the pin slowly, and this time heard a faint clicking. Time faded and even the darkness seemed to recede as she carried on pushing and turning the hairpin. There was another click, then another. Finally she turned towards the right-hand side, pressed the handle down and the door opened.
With a sigh of relief, she jumped to her feet, leaned against the door and pushed it open onto an underground passage. The door squealed shut behind her, the lock clicking back into place with a metallic sound that echoed and reverberated around her. The air was so cold it cut her throat and lungs. Water dripped from the ceiling and seeped out of the walls to pool on the uneven, rocky floor. Her heart pounding, she felt her way forwards, flinching in disgust as her fingers touched slimy stone walls on either side. Gritting her teeth as she stepped in yet another icy puddle, she carried on until her feet bumped against a stone step. In front of her was a flight of stairs cut straight into the rock. She straightened up and started climbing. She had found the way out, she would soon escape … hope swelled in her chest with every step.
Then she reached the top of the staircase. Moonlight filtered through a sturdy iron gate and thick overgrown shoots that curled and twisted around the bars, casting strange shadows on the walls. She was still a prisoner. Gripping the gate’s rusty bars, she shook them as hard as she could. The gate rattled against the stone flags, but remained stubbornly closed.
‘Bedbugs!’ With a moan of despair, she pressed her forehead against the cold metal and lifted her eyes to the cold, dark blue starry sky. She was so close to freedom, she could taste the salty breeze!
A rustling in the bushes outside the gate startled her. Letting go, she jumped back with a shriek as the shadow of a man loomed closer and blocked the sky.
‘Dear God, is there someone in there?’ A burly voice called.
Rose stepped forward again. ‘Wallace? Is that you? Thank heavens you’re here!’
‘Miss Rose? Is that you, lass?’
She heard the disbelief in his voice.
‘Yes! Oh please, Wallace, get me out of his horrible place!’ She pressed her face against the rusty metal gate.
‘What are you doing here? That’s the old McRae tower, the one they used as a jail. It’s been abandoned for years.’
‘I’ll tell you later, but for now please hurry. Bruce – I mean, Lord McGunn – needs our help.’
‘Please move back, miss. I’ll get that old rusty gate out of the way. It won’t take long.’
Wrapping his fingers around the bars, he lifted the gate out of its hinges with the thick ivy creepers curling and hanging around the bars like tentacles, and threw it to one side.
Rose walked out of the dungeon at last and breathed deep lungfuls of cold, fresh air, delicious after the tower’s foetid atmosphere.
‘Here, take my hand, lassie, and hurry. We need to get to my horse before someone spots it. I’ve just come back from the manor house where I spoke to a lass I know who works in the kitchens. She said there’d been a lot of comings and goings this afternoon. Lady Sophia and her mother left for a nearby estate to get ready for the wedding next week. The dancers have been taken to Thurso to board a ship bound for North Africa.’
‘They’re going home,’ Rose interrupted.’ That’s good news. At least they’ll be safe now.’
‘Safe?’ Wallace turned to her.
Rose nodded. ‘Safe from Lord McRae. Did your friend know anything about Lord McGunn’s whereabouts?’
He shook his head. ‘She saw him leave with Lord McRae and a small army of his men. He was ill and had to be practically carried into the brougham while McRae and his mother climbed i
nto another carriage.’
‘Does she know where they are going?’
‘She was told they were heading for Wrath.’
‘Why would Cameron and his mother leave for Wrath so suddenly, and why did Bruce travel in a carriage instead of riding Shadow? He must have been too ill to ride,’ Rose whispered. She gripped Wallace’s arm.
‘My lieutenant’s the strongest man I know, he’s never been ill in all the years I’ve known him,’ Wallace scoffed, with a shrug of his massive shoulders.
‘I found out today that he is being poisoned by a man who works for him.’
Wallace cursed through his teeth and turned to Rose. ‘Why the hell would anyone want to poison the lieutenant?’
As they walked away from the old tower, Rose told him all about Cameron and her fake wedding. She told him about Malika and Fenella McKay being found dead at Wrath, and about her father’s diary now in Cameron’s possession. She left out what she now knew about Bruce’s father being a murderer and a thief.
She nodded. ‘What do we do now?’
‘We’ll ride after them in the morning, of course. I’ll get your horse back from the Kirkhouse Inn, then I’ll see if I can round up a few comrades on the way.’
‘Not before the morning, but …’
He squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t you worry, Miss Rose. McRae won’t harm him, at least not until he has what he wants, and I suspect that whatever it is, it’ll be at Wrath.’
The whisperers were back. Death’s angels murmured in his head.
He groaned, tried to move and gave up. He was too damned tired. Was it his heart he could hear or a tenor drum resonating, loud and steady as it marched into battle? And why was the ground moving under him? He cursed, and looked around. He was tied up like a hog and lay on the floor of a carriage travelling at the devil’s speed on a bumpy road. What the hell was going on?
He pulled on his ties and tried to sit up straight but the carriage bounced and swerved so much, all he achieved was to hit his head against the wooden bench. A wave of nausea and dizziness washed over him. He closed his eyes and waited for his pulse to stop racing. Where was he, and how had he got here?
Images floated through his mind, confused and disjointed.
He’d come back from the Kirkhouse Inn, freshened up and shaved in his room at Westmore Manor, then requested an urgent interview with McRae. It took hours for the valet to come back and tell him that McRae would see him in the library, and by then, Bruce had all but lost patience and was pacing his room like a tiger in a bamboo cage.
The library was once again empty when he got there.
‘Please help yourself. His Lordship won’t be long,’ the valet said, indicating a tray of food and drinks had been laid on an elegant console table near the fireplace.
To kill time rather than because he was hungry, Bruce ate a couple of small beef and horseradish sandwiches, and sipped a cup of strong, fragranced tea. There was definitely something wrong with his taste buds, along with everything else, he thought grimly as he forced the drink down, because much of what he ate and drank these days seemed to have the same sickening herbal tang.
His gaze had then wandered to the wall with the paintings.
‘Damn it!’
Slamming his cup down, he had walked across the room. Niall McRae’s portrait had been taken off and replaced by the painting of an old woman in a feather-topped hat. He hadn’t realised how much he wanted to see the man’s portrait again, how much he needed that visual connection with Niall McRae – his father. It made him feel odd and guilty to admit it, as if he were betraying the long line of McGunns who’d fought against the McRaes over the centuries, betraying the hatred and the resentment ingrained into him since he was born.
He raked his fingers through his hair. If nothing else, the removal of the painting only proved his suspicions were well-founded. Someone here was nervous about Bruce, or anyone else, noticing the extraordinary resemblance between the two men.
He forced down more tea, and was sipping his second cup when McRae came down.
‘You wanted to see me, McGunn? I didn’t realise the lawyers had already drafted the sales agreement.’
The heels of his shiny black shoes clicked on the parquet as he walked across the floor. He sat behind his walnut desk and immediately reached for his cigar box.
‘Still no cigar for you?’ he asked with a cold smile. Without waiting for an answer he glanced at the tray of food and smiled.
‘I hope you enjoyed your collation. I am particularly fond of these Angus beef and horseradish sandwiches. Was the tea to your liking? The blend is quite unusual and refreshing too, don’t you think?’
‘I’m not here to exchange recipes or discuss tea blends,’ Bruce stated as he stood behind the desk and looked down at McRae. The time for pretence had long passed. ‘And I’m not here to sign any sales agreement either. I know who I am. I know who my father was.’ Saying the words aloud almost choked him. He gestured towards the portraits. ‘And I gather you know too – probably knew all along. You and I have things to settle. We can do it here and now, discreetly, or I can ask my lawyers to start a lawsuit – a very public lawsuit. Your choice.’
His direct approach broke through McRae’s composure. The cigar slipped from his fingers and rolled slowly across the desk. Without looking at Bruce, he reached out for it, stuck it between his lips and proceeded to light it. It took him two attempts but at last he drew in a few puffs and reclined on his chair.
‘How did you work it out?’
‘It doesn’t matter how, what matters is what we’re going to do about it.’
‘Even if you managed to prove anything, you wouldn’t gain much by a public lawsuit, you know. Bastard sons don’t count as far as the law is concerned.’
‘That may be so, but your … I mean our father changed his will in my favour on his deathbed. He got Colonel Saintclair to write to Langford and Stewart, and to your mother, too. Yet his instructions were blatantly ignored and his letters destroyed.’
Now was the time to bluff. Pity he felt too damned ill all of a sudden to enjoy seeing McRae sweat.
‘All but one, of course … suppose I recently found the missive he wrote to my mother, the one Pichet delivered before he was killed by Donald Robertson? By the way, the man worked for your mother, didn’t he? She was the one he talked about when he told the police constable he’d been hired by a person of high status to carry out the attack on the Frenchman – that same person had him killed in his cell no doubt …’
Cameron glanced up and narrowed his eyes.
‘Pure speculation on your part, McGunn.’ He paused, clenching his fists. ‘So you read the diary, and you have the letter. Where was it? Where did your mother hide it?’
‘Never mind that. The question is, are you prepared to see our family secrets exposed in a lawsuit? You said your mother was unwell. What do you think such a public scandal would do to her?’
It was a low blow, but he didn’t care if he sounded as callous and cold as McRae. He tried to breathe deeply but his chest felt uncomfortably tight. His legs suddenly too weak to support him, he reached for the back of the armchair and gripped it hard.
Damn. Of all the times for a fit, this was probably the worse yet.
‘You don’t look so good, McGunn. Is there anything I can do to help? A little more tea, maybe?’ McRae’s cool blue eyes lingered over him, assessing, and a slow smile curled his lips.
‘I feel fine,’ Bruce growled. ‘Listen, McRae, I want to make a deal with you.’
His words sounded distant, as if spoken by someone standing at the other side of the room.
Snap out of it and focus, damn it. Since last night, he’d thought long and hard about what he really wanted, what was important for him and his people, and now was the time to make his claim.
‘Another deal? Yesterday you were prepared to sell me Wrath to extricate yourself from the debts your drunken fool of grandfather plunged you into – debts my lawyers a
dvised me to buy off the bank so that I could take control of Wrath and kick you out of your miserable, crumbly old tower. I wonder what kind of deal you have in mind now.’
As he puffed on his cigar, his face became faint and disappeared behind the smoke.
Don’t let him see you’re ill.
‘I’m not interested in the titles, in this fancy castle or in your wealth,’ Bruce said in a slow voice. ‘Believe it or not, I don’t want to be a McRae, legitimate or illegitimate. I spent my lifetime despising that very name.’
His cravat was coiled around his neck like a snake, preventing him from breathing. What had possessed him to tie it so tightly? Letting go of the armchair he started to loosen it but his fingers were clumsy and it took two attempts. He undid the top buttons of his shirt as well.
‘So what do you want?’ McRae sneered.
‘I want the bank loans cancelled and Wrath financially secure. I want you to stop the clearances at Westmore, and I want assurances that the people you have displaced so far have adequate shelter and employment. That’s all.’
‘And I don’t believe you.’ McRae’s response shot cold and clear.
He stubbed his cigar into the ashtray, rose to his feet and walked to one of the patio doors overlooking the park, the dark patches of forest and the grey, forever moving surface of the sea beyond.
‘No man in their right mind would forsake all this – and a fat slice of the McRae fortune – for a draughty ruin at Wrath and the welfare of a bunch of crofters. Why do you care so much about them anyway? They’re little more than animals scratching the ground for a pittance. What is it to you if I move them out of the straths to set up sheep farms? Cheviot sheep, that’s where the money is, not crofters.’
Bruce forced a few deep breaths down. Sweat pearled on his forehead, rolling down to sting his eyes.
‘Not everyone is a greedy as you. I happen to value people more than sheep.’ He pulled his cravat off and used it to wipe his forehead.
‘Anyway, I have given you my terms. What's your answer? Shall we settle things here and now, or later in court?’
