She turned, gazing back towards the cottage, which was totally lost in the mist. “This is weird.”
Thierry began to walk back towards the cottage. “Agreed.” His fingertips stroked the inside of her wrist. “So how do you feel? Want to make love?”
Heat surged through her. “I’ve just made love with you,” she retorted. “Several times and in several different ways. Fabulous as you are, I have physical limitations!” So why, then, was the heat induced by his suggestion so intense? Why did it mingle so urgently with the lust already growling in the base of her stomach?
“Do you?” He stopped, turned her into his arms and laid his hand deliberately over her breast. As the breath caught in her throat, he bent his head and kissed her mouth. Lust surged gamely through her sated body.
One more time wouldn’t hurt… One more time, here, now, in the mist, oh yes.
“Do you feel that?” he whispered against her lips as he rubbed his impressive erection against her hip, her tummy. “Not ten minutes ago, I was as sated as I’d ever been in my life. One way and another, I’ve had you three times this afternoon, and after the third, amazing as you are, I was as boneless as a filleted trout. Hell, I was actually asleep when you spoke my name. Yet now…”
He pushed his tongue into her mouth, kissing her thoroughly, and she threw her leg up over his hip, as if trying to climb on him, get him inside her all the faster.
“Now,” she muttered into his mouth, seizing him around the neck. “Now.”
“Now, I could take you here on the ground, as desperate as if I hadn’t had you—or any woman—in years.”
“So do it. Take me now,” she pleaded, and latched her mouth back on to his while she forced her hands between them to get at his zip.
“I can’t see where we are,” he murmured. “What if—”
“I don’t care where we are,” she said, tugging down his jeans and freeing the straining cock within. With a purr of anticipation, she took his hand and drew him towards the ground. He sank with her, finding and caressing her hard, sensitive nipple. It was sweet, it was amazing, but she couldn’t wait. She straddled him, holding his cock in both hands, and impaled herself upon him with a moan of satisfaction that intensified as he thrust upward, hard.
And then, abruptly, she was spinning, under him, and he was driving into her in a frenzy of lust while she bucked and strained beneath him. It was wild, basic, almost animalistic in its urgency, and it seemed neither of them was willing or even capable of making it last. The mist swirled around the angles of his face as if trying to disguise him from her, and she spoke his name like a plea as she came.
“Thierry…”
His hands cupped her face. One more jerk and he emptied himself inside her with quiet gasps rather than the full-voiced shouts of joy she’d grown used to with him. As she clung to him, she almost felt the mist surrounding them like a presence. Perhaps it was all Thierry’s nonsensical talk…
His earlier words came back to her. “Next time the mist comes down, I challenge you not to fuck me.”
As orgasm faded, a chill seemed to replace it. Over Thierry’s head, tendrils of thick, cloying mist seemed to writhe in imitation of what they’d just done, rising and swirling into, surely, the shape of a person, a woman.
Staring, Louise tugged hard at Thierry’s heaving shoulder. “Look,” she whispered. “Look, Thierry, tell me I’m not insane.”
With what seemed an almighty effort, Thierry hauled himself off her and turned to follow her gaze. The indistinct face in the mist seemed to smile and come closer.
Again…
Louise had no idea where the voice came from, whether it was inside her head or deep in the mist, or even her imagination.
“Oh no,” Thierry said. “This isn’t about you or for you. We decide.”
The misty figure seemed to throw its head back as if laughing. And when it straightened, a stab of lust struck Louise so sharply it was almost painful. In shock, she pressed her hand to her lower abdomen. Thierry’s arm came round her shoulder, holding her to his side. Part of her wanted very badly to jump him again whether this mirage was real or not, but the rest of her, her thinking self, knew instinctively that this was enough. That she and Thierry sprawled in the open, scarcely a few steps from the beach, with their clothes in disarray, having made love more times in a short space of time than was strictly normal. More, to be frank, than her brain had wanted.
“Come on,” Thierry murmured, rising to his feet, drawing her with him. He released her for long enough to fasten his jeans, and then, taking her hand, turned his back on the misty woman and began to walk.
Louise corrected their direction, her heart beating with dread as if they were walking away from threatening muggers. At the cottage steps, she couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder. The mist was thinner and she could see no human form in it.
“Was that real?” she said huskily. “Was she real? You saw her too, right?”
“I saw her,” Thierry said slowly. “I think we’ve been feeding her. With all that sex.”
“You mean if we don’t want the mist to come down, we’re not allowed to have sex anymore?”
His hand slid up her arm and across her shoulders. “I’m not agreeing to that.”
“Maybe we’re both just insane. From too much sex.”
“Good sex,” Thierry said, pushing up her face so he could kiss her lips. “Beautiful sex. Even the last one.”
Louise pressed her cheek to his. She didn’t need to lead him now. The mist had thinned enough to see through.
Back in the cottage, Louise made them instant coffee from Aidan and Chrissy’s little stash beside the kettle on the kitchen floor, while Thierry stood by the window, watching the mist fade into the watery spring sunshine that should probably have followed straight after the shower that had soaked them on the way down from the big house.
Then they sat against the wall opposite the window, their shoulders touching, and drank the coffee.
“There has to be a totally rational explanation for all of this,” Louise said. “For the mist and what we saw. Or thought we saw.”
“Hysterical hallucination,” Thierry offered.
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“I don’t believe it either.” He took a sip from his mug. “You can’t explain everything in the world rationally, you know. Some people dream the future or see it in flames. Other people see ghosts. Magic, witches, mythical creatures like selkies and werewolves must have a basis somewhere. Taken in the light of all that, our mist isn’t so very unlikely.”
“But it isn’t just ours, is it?” Louise objected. “Everyone saw the mist last week, and everyone who was up saw the one on Friday night.”
“There was another on Wednesday night,” he said. “I’d have bored a hole in my mattress—or my fist—for wanting you, so I lost myself in work instead. That’s how this game idea was born.”
“Wednesday,” she repeated. She blinked, found herself blushing in spite of their recent intimacy. “I wasn’t aware of the mist, but I might have dreamed about you that night.”
“A naughty dream?” he asked, his eyes darkening and gleaming at the same time.
“Maybe.” She nudged him to keep him on track. “The point is, people see it. The mist is real.”
“And it makes us randy. Randier, more urgent, whatever. It affects us. I think we just proved that.”
Louise gazed into her coffee, then raised her eyes back to Thierry. “Again. I heard the word again. Or thought I did.”
He nodded. “So did I. So the mist wants us to have sex constantly. Wants everyone to have sex constantly.”
“Because it strengthens her—it, damn it!—or because that’s its purpose? None of this makes sense, Thierry. It’s like some bizarre erotic fairy tale!” She took a thoughtful sip of coffee. “You really think that’s what happe
ned to Ron? Got such a fit of the randies that he walked off the waterfall by accident?”
“Maybe,” Thierry said.
Louise frowned and sighed. “But then, if it’s about you and me, why had it already formed here before we got back from Oban? Come to that, why is it only here, around Ardknocken?” Her frown deepened until it felt like a scowl. “Or is it?”
“I don’t know,” Thierry said. “But we should probably try to find out before other tragedies happen.”
“How?” Louise asked helplessly. “Where would you even start to find out stuff like that?”
“Well.” Thierry considered. “It spoke to us. Maybe we can talk back, communicate, the next time it comes. Until then, we could look into the history of these hills and any local legends, see if they shed any light. Once we understand it, perhaps we can deal with it.”
“Perhaps.” Louise shivered, remembering the chill she felt when she’d noticed it through the kitchen window. “But what if it’s more than some kind of weird aphrodisiac? If it’s sentient enough to talk to us, powerful enough to make people—even strangers—have sex, then what if it…”
Thierry’s brow contracted, as if he knew where she was going with this and didn’t like it. “What?” he asked.
She drew in her breath. “What if it deliberately killed Ron?”
* * * * *
The impossibility of conducting a discreet romance within the confines of Ardknocken was impressed upon Louise all over again when she finally found a moment to drive in to the library late on Monday morning, and found Thierry there already, talking to Morag under the beady eye of two old men and the MacDonald sisters with their brood of toddlers.
Louise’s heart gave a jolt of fierce joy at the sight of him. He sat at one of the two study tables, with a couple of books piled in the middle. A third was open in front of him, and Morag, perched on the end of the chair beside him, was pointing to something on the page. Although Thierry’s head was bent, his face in profile, she could tell he was completely focused, a pose so much a part of him that she wanted to smile with sheer pleasure.
And yet, at the same time, an unwelcome twinge of jealousy curled around her heart because it was Morag who sat beside him, who had reason to because of her work. And Morag was everything Louise was not: witty, clever, university educated—like Thierry—a woman who’d travelled and seen the world and come home with a similar air of mystery to the one that surrounded Aidan. It seemed to surround everyone who left for a long time and then came back.
Louise had never left, never even travelled beyond Edinburgh.
And to top it all, Morag was beautiful in the kind of way Louise most admired: dark and aloof and yet somehow smouldering in womanly mystery. Her own blonde, elfin looks she found annoyingly ditzy and unattractive, without gravitas or anything to inspire men to more than friendship or fun. Which was fine most of the time. Friends were good. But she didn’t want that from Thierry, or if she did, she wanted more, much, much more, and now he had Morag beside him. She, Louise, wanted to be his femme fatale.
She swallowed hard, as if that would get rid of her unwanted and unworthy spurt of jealousy. Then Thierry glanced round towards the door where she stood, and his face changed at once, breaking into a spontaneous smile that made her heart turn over and her knees weaken.
Alerted, Morag looked up too and gave a knowing, slightly crooked smile of her own. Only then did Louise realize her lips had stretched into a no-doubt ridiculous, infatuated grin, and that she was the prime focus of several other pairs of eyes.
Shit. After all their efforts at concealment, rumours would be flying around the whole village by lunchtime. Oh well, in for a penny…
Blatantly, she breezed across the library to Thierry and Morag. “Morning all,” she said, sitting opposite Thierry. “Are we researching mists?”
“Old Celtic legends,” Thierry replied. “The people of Brittany have Celtic roots too, you know, so our customs and legends and gods are not so far apart. According to this”—Thierry spread his hand across the Victorian-looking book—“the waterfall near Ardknocken was a holy place to the ancient Celts, where gifts of gold and weapons were made to the local gods to ensure fine weather.”
“In the west of Scotland?” Morag murmured. “Dream on.”
But Louise’s gaze had locked with Thierry’s. “As in, please don’t send us any mists?”
“Maybe,” Thierry said. “Or please give us lots of strong children to be warriors. Send in the mists.”
“Very sudden pea-souper yesterday,” Morag remarked, standing, “but nowadays we don’t blame the gods. You want to talk to a meteorologist.”
“Could do worse,” Thierry agreed. “Know any?”
“I know one in London. I’ll email her if you like, but Izzy might know someone closer to home.”
Louise sat straighter. “In fact, we could do with Izzy’s help anyway. She researches for a living.”
“And,” Morag added, smiling towards the door where Harry MacConnell had just come in, “don’t forget the library at the big house. There’s all sorts of local stuff there, much of it in poor condition, but I think Izzy’s been trying to rationalize it. Or at least meaning to. Damn it, I have to go and do my job, but before you leave, I want to know exactly what you two are investigating!”
“She’ll think we’re insane,” Louise said as Morag went to check in Harry’s books.
“The librarian or Izzy will?”
“Morag, certainly. Izzy once saw a ghost in the big house, so she’s less liable to send me to the doctor.”
“The man at the desk is staring at you,” Thierry said without ever having appeared to glance in that direction. Perhaps the experience of prison had made him more aware of his surroundings. Glenn had the same watchfulness, although in his case, it was less subtle.
“It’s only Harry.”
“Do I have a rival?” Thierry enquired steadily.
Pleased by this hint of jealousy, Louise smiled. “No. His wee brother was one of Aidan’s school friends, which may be why he looks out for me. Or he may just be curious.”
“Or fancy you.”
Louise laughed. “Oh no. He used to fancy Izzy.” In fact, Louise had once done her best to push him and Izzy together, since he was the most eligible bachelor in Ardknocken. Glenn had got in the way of that plan. And fond as she was of Harry, Louise had to admit, now that she knew Glenn a little better, that she would rather spend time with the ex-con too.
She picked up one of the books in the centre of the table. “So what am I looking for, here? Celtic legends, druids, gods and mists and waterfalls?”
“That sort of thing.” Under the table, the toe of Thierry’s shoe bumped hers. “I’ve missed you.”
She tried not to blush. It was the sort of thing Morag—and Harry—would notice. So she kept her eyes on the book. “I missed you,” she breathed.
“I don’t suppose we could go to the cottage again.”
“I think we’d get in the way of the kitchen fitters.” Damn them.
“Ah.” He sounded equally disappointed. “Research it is, then.”
“Afraid so.” She couldn’t help smiling into the book. At some point, she was going to have to focus enough to at least distinguish the words.
After a few moments, Harry wandered past their table. “Hello, Louise, how are things?”
“Pretty good!” she replied. “How are you? Not working today?”
“No, I’ve taken a couple of days off to relax. Treat you to coffee and cake round at the tea room, if you like.”
“Back, Beelzebub!” Louise replied. “No, sounds lovely, but I’ll have to get home after this. Got one of my truckers tonight and a four-guest fishing trip tomorrow.” Plus Sunday, spent largely in Thierry’s arms or vacantly remembering the time spent in Thierry’s arms, had been a write-off workwise. Two of
the bedrooms still had to be cleaned and changed.
“Sounds like business is booming,” Harry said lightly, glancing at Thierry as if to warn the ex-con not to muscle in on the proceeds.
“Well, it’s looking up a bit,” Louise modified. “Have you met Thierry yet? Harry—Thierry.”
“Ah, you’ll be the computer man,” Harry said with the faintest of smiles.
“I will,” Thierry agreed.
“Harry’s the law man,” Louise added. “Solicitor!”
“Which reminds me,” Harry said easily. “Did you hear about the body found under the waterfall? One of your guests, wasn’t he?”
Louise shifted in her chair. “Yes, he was. Should have been going home today.”
“Is it true he was really a policeman investigating someone at the big house?” Harry asked with an annoying innocence Louise didn’t buy into for a moment.
“Private investigator,” she corrected as mildly as she could, “but, yes, apparently he was here to investigate.”
“Me,” Thierry interjected. “Just to save time.”
“He was investigating you? Oh dear.”
Thierry shrugged. “Don’t worry on my account. I don’t need your professional services just yet.”
Harry’s face reddened as his eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond, merely nodded curtly to Louise and walked away towards the bookshelves.
“That reminds me,” Thierry murmured. “A couple of journalists have been sniffing around the house this morning. Just local guys, and Glenn sent them about their business, but they’re probably still lurking around the village. If they’ve connected Ron to me—and they probably will, if they haven’t already—you might want to keep your distance for a while.”
Louise gave him a tired smile. “It’s not easy living here, is it?”
His gaze lowered once more to his book. “Maybe it’s a little easier if you don’t care quite so much what people think.”
She frowned, not quite pleased, but did him the courtesy of thinking about it. “It’s not really that I care what they think,” she said at last. “It’s that I’m afraid their gossip…sullies what we have, contorts it.”
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