The Limbo of Luxury

by Traci Harding

  ‘Must be somebody home.’ She encouraged herself to keep going, although her legs were beginning to fail her. Next thing Riane knew, she was face down in the snow. ‘Get up!’ she cried. The rest was blissful and her body longed to take its repose. She raised her head to find the front door was within her sight. ‘Come on,’ she whimpered, when her body would not respond to her command and the wild winds whipped over her, covering her with icy flakes. ‘Fuck this,’ she hollered in the face of death and managed to roll on to her back. ‘I will not die here.’ Riane rolled on to all fours and staggered upright. ‘All right,’ she clapped her hands once to acknowledge her efforts, and then stumbled on all fours up the manor stairs. ‘I made it,’ she mumbled. She clung to the large doorknocker, exhausted from the effort. Her head was spinning as she began pounding the knocker against the solid timber doors, her enthusiasm waning after a couple of minutes.

  She turned and leaned against the barrier, admiring how pretty the snow looked dancing around the gas lanterns that lit the pathway to the house. Riane didn’t notice that she’d slid to a seat on the ground and was only vaguely aware when the door opened and she dropped completely to the ground with a thud.

  ‘Good heavens … are you lost, girl?’ a blurry figure asked.

  He was male, she could tell from the voice, which was rich with a Scottish accent. But Riane’s eyes would not focus; they wanted to sleep. ‘Save me,’ she appealed, as her mind seized control of her suffering and she blanked out.

  Out through the windshield the night is dark and the falling snow looks like sparkling stars during a jump into hyper-space as the flakes lit by the headlights speed toward the vehicle.

  Her hand rummages through her bag; she glances aside only for a moment.

  Then, returning her eyes to the icy roadway, the headlights of the oncoming car blind her.

  Both cars swerve violently and headlights illuminate the rockface for a second before impact.

  After the deafening jolt, many minutes pass before the windscreen shatters.

  A woman, as pale as the snow around her and dressed in a tattered wedding gown, is perched on the bonnet, peering inside at Riane. Her dark hair and hollow eyes command attention. ‘Men are deceivers,’ she hisses. ‘Cursed is the woman who trusts her heart to a man’s safekeeping.’

  ‘Huh!’ Riane woke with a start to find herself submerged in a warm tub and still dressed in her innermost layer of clothes. Her opulent surroundings were like something out of a fairytale. She’d never imagined a bath, or a bathroom, so grand or beautiful as the one she currently occupied.

  ‘Rest easy now.’

  A hand touched one of her arms and she followed it up to discover a tall, dark-haired man, who was smiling broadly at her. ‘My name is Marcus MacCloud. It was my doorstep you stumbled upon and I have your welfare safe in hand.’

  He was young and handsome, with the fresh, intelligent face of a member of the gentry. He was attired in warm, casual clothes of good quality, that were not too dressy, not too flash.

  Riane smiled, amused that her greatest wish had been granted. She had the bath and a gorgeous man. ‘Now all I need is a glass of port,’ she joked to herself, half-delirious and believing she must have died and gone to heaven.

  ‘We have everything here.’ Marcus placed a port glass in her hand and filled it. ‘Go on. It will warm you on the inside.’ He encouraged Riane to drink, but all she could manage was to giggle hysterically.

  However, a few sips did wonders in bringing Riane back to reality, and she relaxed upon realising that the fairytale was all true. ‘I’m sorry to have collapsed on your doorstep … I realise, in retrospect, that I should have stayed with my car until help came.’

  ‘I don’t know if you would have fared any better. Hereabouts, people don’t do a whole lot of travelling in the heart of winter,’ he explained, although Riane thought he was just trying to make her feel a little less like an idiot. ‘You’d be a tourist, I gather?’

  Riane nodded, ashamed that it was so obvious. ‘Only a tourist could be so daft …’ She guessed what he was thinking.

  ‘Nay,’ he was amused by her view. ‘I can tell by the accent. What is it? American?’

  ‘It’s Australian, actually,’ she informed him, and Marcus gave a nod, sporting a vague expression of comprehension. ‘My name is Riane Wolfe and I’m greatly obliged to you Marcus, for dragging me back from death’s door.’ She held out a hand to him and he shook it.

  ‘My pleasure, Riane,’ he conceded. ‘After all, it’s not every day that death drops a beautiful woman at my door.’

  Riane could hardly believe it — she was blushing like a schoolgirl. She knew she was attractive and, being well versed in the game of love, such a comment could usually have been easily brushed off or twisted to her best advantage, but in this instance she was too deeply flattered to play games and couldn’t think of a single witty response. His deep blue eyes were like magnets that seemed to stare right into her soul and she shivered violently.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Marcus stood up, ‘that water must be rather cool by now. There are some dry clothes in the dressing room.’ He pointed through an archway, then backed up to the door. ‘The fire is on,’ he advised her, after a pause. ‘I’ll be back within the hour to see how you’re faring.’

  ‘Thank you!’ She stressed her appreciation, wanting to say more, but before the words would come he had gone.

  Naked and submerged in a fresh hot bath, Riane felt one hundred percent improved, although a chill clung to her bones. All her digits seemed to be in working order and, surprisingly, free of frostbite. A bump on her head had bled streaks into her long, auburn hair, freshly dyed a deep shade only days before. Riane’s hair was naturally deep brown, but she liked a little more colour than God had granted. Nevertheless, Riane decided blood red was a tad outrageous and rubbed it out.

  Though she was constantly told she was too skinny and that she ate like a bird, her lack of appetite had served her well today, as she was used to running on empty and a pack of cigarettes. A rumble from her stomach let her know that she was really hungry now though.

  Dried and robed, Riane entered the dressing room where the fire was roaring in the fireplace and a tray of tea, sandwiches and cake awaited.

  ‘Make a wish,’ Riane muttered in quiet delight, and planted herself in front of the tray to partake of its bounty.

  As she ate and took in the elegance of her saviour’s home, Riane began to fancy that perhaps destiny had led her to Marcus. After all, if she hadn’t crashed, she wouldn’t be in this fine predicament. Her good mood dissipated as the thought of the crash brought to mind the strange waif-like woman from her sleep who had warned her away from all men.

  A shiver ran through Riane’s being and she wriggled her body as if shaking off the unwanted memory, for it clashed with the wonderful ‘Lady of the Manor’ visions she was having.

  The door opening startled her.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Marcus chuckled softly and immediately Riane felt safe and assured.

  ‘I had fancied that I’d be a ghost by now,’ Riane returned his warm smile. ‘I owe you my life.’ She nearly choked on the realisation and her eyes unexpectedly filled with tears.

  ‘You’d be going into shock then,’ he advised, placing a fresh pot of tea on the table and going down on one knee before her.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she brushed the streaming tears from her cheeks, ‘I don’t know why I’m crying like this.’

  ‘You’ve had a huge fright.’ Marcus’s accent exaggerated the fact, which made Riane giggle. Sliding up on to the lounge beside her, Marcus placed an arm across her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. ‘Give yourself a break, Riane.’

  ‘It’s just that I heard all these stupid ghost stories back in the last town about girls going missing on the highland road.’ Riane let her fears come pouring out. ‘I was so scared I was going to end up as one of them.’ She collapsed into tears once again, her face becoming
buried in Marcus’ warm, woollen sweater.

  ‘Women haven’t gone missing in these parts since the last war,’ Marcus informed her gently, ‘and their deaths were not accidental, in the main, but suicides.’

  Riane had stopped crying, intrigued by his version of the tale. ‘Why would they want to kill themselves? The war?’

  He nodded. ‘Mostly. There are many seafarers around here … fishermen, navy men. For centuries, many have left these shores and not returned, leaving wives and lovers to despair for them. All the cliffs along the coast provide an easy release from love’s torment.’

  ‘Love’s ghosts,’ Riane concluded sadly, feeling for the women who had managed to catch a good man only to lose him to the sea. ‘That would explain why she was so dark on men.’ This information put a whole new slant on her ghoulish dream.

  ‘Who?’ Marcus queried politely, but Riane was still dwelling on the tale.

  ‘The locals said some of the women had been found at ruins and sacred sites?’ Riane recalled.

  Marcus shrugged. ‘Different strokes for different folks.’

  Riane raised her brow and, finished with that issue, she moved on to another of even greater interest to her. ‘So, Marcus MacCloud, do you live all the way out here in this huge house all by yourself?’

  He shook his head. ‘My younger brother and his minions drop in from time to time. I had half expected to see him this evening, which was why all the lanterns out front were lit. Normally I wouldn’t have bothered.’

  ‘A happy coincidence,’ Riane joked, breathing a sigh of relief.

  ‘Indeed,’ he agreed, and the underlying expression on his face was engaging.

  Riane’s heart stopped beating as she thought he would kiss her.

  ‘The tea.’ He remembered himself, and moved to pour it.

  A true gentleman. Riane’s heart was set fluttering in her breast, making her short on breath. And he is pursuing me. The chill still had a grip on her bones, but that didn’t prevent her cheeks and heart from feeling like they were on fire.

  She recognised that look of longing in his eyes, but there was an element of hesitation underlying his desire. Perhaps he’d been hurt before? ‘So,’ she broke the silence, ‘a young man of means, alone in the highlands in the dead of winter. Are you an artist of some kind?’

  ‘Good guess, but … no.’ Marcus poured her a fresh tea. ‘My younger brother, Jasper, got all the artistic talent. I run the family business.’

  ‘And what business are you in?’ Riane accepted the cup as he passed it to her.

  ‘Shipping,’ he explained in a word. He sounded as if he thought it wasn’t tremendously exciting.

  ‘So, you’re a bit of a seaman yourself then?’ she assumed.

  ‘Was.’ He forced a smile, and Riane decided that was not a good topic to pursue.

  ‘What does Jasper do?’

  ‘Jasper!’ Marcus seemed undecided as to whether he should scoff or laugh. ‘Jasper lives in a constant party. Heaven forbid that I should ever let him near the family’s business affairs. Better that he is left to do what he is most accomplished at … nothing.’

  ‘You don’t get along, I take it?’ Riane could see how the brothers might clash, as Marcus certainly wasn’t your wild party-animal type.

  Marcus smiled warmly, which confused Riane. ‘Everyone likes Jasper. That is his one true talent, he’s irresistible.’

  ‘Must run in the family.’ Her flattery captured the lord’s full attention, as she knew it would and the cheekiness she felt was reflected in her smile.

  ‘You won’t think so once you meet my brother … he way outshines me, I’m afraid.’ Marcus seemed quite happy about the fact.

  Riane sipped her tea to discover it was just to her taste.

  ‘White, no sugar … how did you know?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Marcus appeared to have forgotten himself. ‘Force of habit. That’s how I take it,’ he explained.

  ‘So we have something in common,’ Riane granted.

  Marcus glanced at her quizzically, obviously reading more into her comment. ‘We are not so different as we might seem, Riane.’

  There was that stare again: the one that made her feel as if she was drowning in a sea of formality and begged to know what her heart was really feeling. Not tonight however. As enchanting as Riane found Marcus, if she didn’t retire soon, she was going to jump straight in the deep end as she always did. You want him to think well of you, she lectured herself in her mind. Don’t blow this. ‘I’d like to think you’re right,’ she answered him at last, and then let slip a small ladylike yawn in the hope that he might direct her to a bed. ‘Sorry,’ she apologised, politely. ‘It’s not the company, just the mileage.’

  ‘That’s perfectly all right.’ Marcus raised himself. ‘It’s late and you’ve had quite a day. I have a room ready, if you’d like to follow me.’

  Anywhere, Riane drooled on the quiet, suppressing a grin as she trailed him from the room, unable to resist admiring the rear view of his tall, slender form. This must be heaven, she decided, as it seemed that the man of her dreams had been plucked from her mind and made manifest.

  A bright, full moon and a sky of stars light the roaring ocean beyond the dark outline of the cliff edge. A biting cold wind is ripping at her hair, freezing the features of her face as she watches.

  Between her and the cliff edge, some distance away, is a lone, cloaked figure, silhouetted by the sparkling moonlight reflecting off the ocean. At first it is hard to tell if the figure is male or female, but the sound of weeping is carried on the wind. Casting aside the cloak, a waif in a white wedding dress walks toward the edge. Both the long white skirts of her gown and her long dark hair whip wildly about as she staggers with each step, overwhelmed by her grief.

  ‘You cannot come back from the dead,’ the bride screams. ‘I would never have married him had I known you lived! How am I to live in another man’s bed, whilst the one that I love sleeps alone, despising me as a fickle deceiver!’

  As she observes the tormented bride, it suddenly dawns on her that the grieving female means to end her life. ‘No! Don’t do it! Life is too precious.’ She makes haste to prevent the disaster, but the woman does not acknowledge her call.

  As the bride stands on the precipice, a foot poised in space, her dark eyes turn back. ‘Save yourself,’ the waif advises, then steps off the edge and plummets out of sight.

  She stops short of the edge to look down upon love’s victim, to find herself standing on the rocks below looking down over the broken corpse. The waif’s face, pale as snow, transforms into her own and the wedding dress into the clothes she’d arrived at the manor in.

  ‘No! I’m safe now, I’m safe.’ Her eyes shot open, and the deafening sound of surf and wind subsided into the soothing crackling of an open fire. She was shivering violently and a cold sweat had saturated her bedclothes.

  ‘Riane?’ Marcus stuck his head in the door. When he spied her shivering form seated bolt upright in the bed he entered. ‘I heard you shouting,’ he explained as he neared and felt her forehead. ‘You’ve got a fever and a chill,’ he sounded concerned. ‘I’ll get you some fresh clothes,’ Marcus backed away, ‘and I’ll get the maid to get some fresh linen.’

  ‘No, Marcus, please, it’s so early.’ Riane did not want to be a nuisance.

  ‘She won’t mind,’ he assured her. ‘Old Marge is very devoted to her duty. In fact, she will be most insulted if I don’t wake her. And besides, you need some broth.’

  ‘Oh …’ Riane was touched by his kindness and the lovely way he made her feel so at home. ‘Will you marry me?’ she joked, running her hands through her hair, knowing she must look a fright.

  ‘Only if you get better,’ he retorted, in a fake lecturing manner. ‘Now get out of that wet bed and sit by the fire.’

  As she settled herself in front of the roaring blaze, it suddenly struck her as odd that it should still be burning away so furiously. The logs were large, however, and
perhaps it was a slow-burn type of wood.

  ‘I think my nightmares are giving me an overactive imagination.’ Her teeth chattered as she scoffed at her own paranoia. ‘Christ, it’s cold!’ She found it hard to believe that, so close to such an abundant heat source, so little of its effect could be felt. She gazed around the chamber. The walls were of stone; the floor was polished timber and adorned with lovely rugs. It all added up to being hard to warm in the heart of winter. The thing about open fireplaces was that most of the heat escaped up the chimney. She fed another couple of logs to the flames for good measure.

  The door of her room opened and a woman of late middle age entered, clothes draped over her arm and carrying a tray of broth, bread and tea. She was dressed in a plain black dress that fell to the floor, and a white apron. Her grey hair was tied back in a bun. Riane thought she’d stepped back in time for a moment.

  ‘Here you go, missy.’ She set the tray down on the table by the fire. ‘I’m Marge,’ she informed Riane, warmly. ‘Anything you need, just ask me.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Marge, I’m Riane.’ She accepted the dry robe and pyjamas from the maid, and quickly changed. ‘I’m so, so sorry to have dragged you from your bed.’

  ‘Ah, fiddlesticks.’ Marge waved off the apology. ‘It wasn’t me beaten about by a storm last night and besides, I’ve been up for hours.’ She set to work stripping the bed.

  Eccentric as she obviously was, Riane liked Marge from the outset. ‘So you take care of Marcus?’ She made conversation as she changed her clothes.

  ‘Aye. I’ve been taking care of both the masters since they were born. They are my life’s work.’ She had the smile of a proud mother upon her face.

  ‘Marcus has been too kind,’ Riane offered her assessment. ‘He is a great credit to you.’

  ‘Aye,’ Marge agreed, but as she fluffed the pillows of the bed, the smile slipped from her face. ‘I thought I’d lost him once … he went missing at sea.’ The maid shook her head, as if casting off the memory. ‘A terrible business that followed.’ She seemed disinclined to say more, but she had Riane curious now.