by Marie Laval
The roar of waves crashing against the rocks and the shrill cries of the sea birds circling overhead filled her ears. As they rode through the gates and into a large cobblestone courtyard, a huge black cloud blew overhead, sucking in the last of the daylight, like a giant bird spreading its wings over the cliff top.
The yard was full of men shouting and women crying. Lord McGunn reined the horse in, lifted her off the saddle and down onto the ground and jumped down himself.
‘Something’s wrong,’ he said. ‘Please excuse me.’
He left her and strode across the yard to talk one of the men. Whatever the matter, it must be serious because he climbed right back onto his huge black horse, barked a few orders she didn’t understand and rode out without sparing her a second glance.
What was she supposed to do now? She looked around her in dismay.
‘Would you care to come with me, my lady?’
Rose turned to face a tall, sturdy-looking woman dressed in a severe black gown, a plain, starchy white bonnet partly covering her grey hair.
‘I am Morag,’ the woman said, ‘Lord McGunn’s housekeeper.’
Rose forced a smile even though the woman glared at her with barely concealed hostility. Uneasy, she pointed to the gates and the path only just visible in the failing light.
‘Where did Lord McGunn go in such a hurry?’
‘A girl’s body was washed onto Balnakeil beach tonight. People think it’s a lass who got lost on the moors last summer.’
‘Oh…’
‘She was from Westmore,’ Morag added, ‘and came here with her family after they were evicted.’
‘Evicted?’ Rose frowned. It was the second time she heard the word tonight.
The woman didn’t answer but turned away and started up the steps, and Rose followed, pausing as she entered a large gloomy hall where dozens of hunting trophies of wolves, foxes and stag heads stared from the walls with dead, glazed eyes. Rose shuddered. The inside of the Lodge was even more dreary than the outside, if that was possible.
A fleeting movement on the staircase caught her eye. Something – or someone – waited upstairs in the darkness. Dread tightened like a fist around her heart, she lost her footing and stumbled. When she looked up again, the staircase was empty.
‘Is everything all right, my lady?’ Morag asked.
‘Yes, I thought I saw… Sorry, it was nothing.’
She was imagining things, and it was no wonder. She was alone, tired and cold in this dreadful place.
The housekeeper showed her into an austere drawing room and asked her to wait while she had her room prepared. Shivering, her hands numb with cold, Rose walked to the stone fireplace where a meagre fire burned. It seemed to be made from pieces of compacted black soil, and let out an odd sweet, earthy smell. She rubbed her hands above the flames until her fingers tingled back to life and turned to take a look at the room.
No paintings, tapestries or artefacts adorned the wood-panelled walls. On a small table stood a chipped porcelain vase filled with fragrant branches of pine. Opposite the fireplace, a huge, polished sword shone on the wall. A tall bookcase stood in a corner of the room, its shelves lined with dozens of dusty leather-bound volumes.
For want of something to do as she waited for Morag, Rose trailed her finger along the books’ spines, cocking her head to one side to read the titles. Each one sounded duller than the next – historical and political treatises, estate management, accounting and the law. They were the kind of books her mother said she should read, the kind of books that gave her a throbbing headache or sent her to sleep.
She turned away from the bookcase and looked around the room. The most interesting feature in the room was the sword hanging on the wall opposite the fireplace.
Intrigued, she walked closer and read out aloud the inscription engraved on the blade in fancy lettering. Ne Obliviscaris. It sounded Latin. She didn’t remember much of the Latin lessons her mother had forced upon her when she was growing up. She’d always hated being cooped up in the house, staring at a book and willing the words on the page to make sense instead of blurring into long, black, sinewy lines.
What was the point of studying when there were so many better things to do, like wandering the medina’s narrow streets, watch a silversmith carve delicate bracelets or a rug-maker weave colourful threads into elaborate patterns? Then there was the oasis, where she escaped every day to sit on the shaded banks of the oued that meandered through the palm, jujube and other fruit trees.
No, she sighed, she was never any good at anything, apart from climbing trees, getting herself into scrapes… and dancing. Nobody, however, was likely to find out about that particular talent of hers. Dancing like an Ouled Nail wasn’t something a respectable girl could ever boast about.
There would be no more dancing barefoot now she was Lady McRae, no more climbing trees with her skirt tucked into her waistband, or eating candied dates until her fingers were all sticky with sugar.
Not for the first time a nagging voice whispered inside her, filling her with doubt. Was Cameron still angry with her? Did he regret marrying her? What would his mother, his friends and family say when he announced their wedding? She sighed, lifted her hand to touch the sword, and was surprised to feel that the blade was warm. Her fingers traced the curved lines of the inscription.
Behind her the fire hissed and shot up and the flames reflected onto the blade, so fierce that the sword suddenly looked like a bolt of lightning. The red hot metal scalded Rose’s fingers and she withdrew her hand with a startled cry.
The skin on her neck prickled as a sudden blast of cold air surrounded her and the reflection of a dark figure standing behind her appeared on the shiny metal. She swung round. The room was empty. She was alone.
She stared at the blade again. It was no longer shiny but dull and opaque. She rubbed her eyes. She was so tired she was having hallucinations.
‘My lady?’ Morag’s voice calling from the doorway made her jump. ‘Your room is ready now.’
Rose pointed to the sword.
‘Can you tell me what this inscription means?’
‘It means, “Do Not Forget”. It’s the motto of the McGunn clan. This was Fergus McGunn’s claymore. He was Lord Bruce’s great-great-grandfather. Lord Bruce used to practise with it every day, and he took it with him when he joined the 92nd Gordon Highlanders.’
So this was the infamous claymore Captain Kennedy talked about…
She knew a little about the Scottish regiment who had fought Napoleon’s army at Quatre-Bras and Waterloo. Her father had written about them in his diary, and about one man in particular – Niall McRae, Cameron’s father.
She gave the sword a last, thoughtful look and followed Morag along dark and draughty corridors to the hall and up the imposing staircase. Once on the first floor, the housekeeper showed her into a sparsely furnished bedroom.
‘Your bag has already been brought up for you. Please don’t hesitate to ask if you require anything else,’ she said.
As soon as Morag closed the door, Rose hurried across the room to draw open the heavy, musty-smelling curtains. Unable to bear the oppressive sensation of being closed in, she never closed curtains at night, and tonight would be no exception. She needed to breathe and see the sky, the stars and the moon.
Here at Wrath however, there were no stars or moon to light up the sky, only thick flakes swirling madly into the ink-black night. She leaned her forehead against the window pane and shuddered as she thought of the nearby beach where cold waves washed over a young girl’s body.
A servant girl knocked and walked in, carrying a bucket of steaming hot water. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face wet and blotchy with tears. She put the bucket down and curtsied briefly.
‘Feashar math, good evening, my lady,’ she said in a weak, shaky voice. ‘My name is Agnes. I will be looking after you during your stay at Wrath.’
Rose smiled and said she was pleased to meet her. The girl poured the water in
to a porcelain washstand, before curtsying again and asking if there was anything Rose needed. She looked so upset that even though Rose desperately wanted to ask for more wood, or whatever it was people around here fueled their fire with, she shook her head and replied she had everything she could possibly need.
Once alone, however, she didn’t linger at her toilette. Her teeth chattering, her breath steaming in front of her and her body covered with goosebumps, she slipped her nightdress on, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and grabbed hold of her comb to untangle her windswept hair.
Why couldn’t she have smooth, straight hair like Harriet, her brother’s wife? Why did her hair always spring back and coil around her face, no matter how long and how hard she brushed?
Perhaps she should cut it…
Memories pushed their way into her mind, vivid and unpleasant. Cameron’s hoarse, breathless voice as he tore open her nightdress, the way he wrapped her hair around his fist and yanked her head back before trailing hot kisses along her throat and on her breasts. And then he had hurt her even more… Her stomach twisted into a knot, bile burned her throat and a whimper escaped from her lips.
She put the comb down and buried her head in her hands. It was only what married men expected from their wife, Cameron had said afterwards, and she was spoiling his enjoyment of their wedding night by being headstrong and immature.
The mantel clock striking six drew her out of her dark mood. She leaned forward to examine it. A true work of art, its finely carved gold hands pointed to Roman numerals and the gilded figures of a shepherdess and a cherub stood on a marble base. A gold plaque on the base bore the words Juhel, Paris, 1743, engraved in gold letters.
It was so beautiful she couldn’t resist touching it. Her index finger followed the smooth lines of the figurine, lingered on the funny little bow that dangled at the end of the shepherdess’s crook, and reached the inscription on the base. How strange, she thought with a frown, the plaque was loose and moved when she pressed on it.
There was a sudden, loud metallic clanking, followed by a whirring sound. Rose jumped back in surprise as a slow, melancholic tune started playing and the shepherdess swirled on herself in a lonely dance. The clock was also a music box!
‘You’re a long way from Paris,’ she mused after the music stopped and the shepherdess resumed her frozen pose.
It must have belonged to a woman. Only a woman could own something so pretty and delicate. Yet she couldn’t imagine any ancestor of Bruce McGunn’s ever enjoying such an exquisite, romantic object. In fact, it was rather surprising that the clock had survived at Wrath Lodge at all.
Rose wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and hummed the tune whilst tidying her clothes. It sounded so sad, it had to be some kind of love song.
A noise outside her door stopped her in her tracks. Was it her imagination or someone was crying in the corridor? Perhaps it was Agnes. The girl had looked upset. Rose opened the door. The corridor was empty, dark and silent. Yet someone had been there. The scent of pine lingered, so strong it made her sneeze, and on the threadbare runner lay a posy of sprigs of pine held together with a hairpin and tied with a faded pink silk ribbon.
Chapter Three
He climbed up the tower’s spiral staircase just before midnight and with a weary sigh pushed open the door to his room. It wasn’t the howling wind he heard, or the waves crashing against the cliffs; instead he was oppressed by a heavy, almost threatening silence, the silence that surrounded him late at night before it was replaced by the memories, the nightmares and the ghostly whispers.
Throwing his wet coat on the back of a chair, he walked to the desk where Morag or McNeil had left a tray for him. Ignoring the pot of lukewarm tea and the plate piled high with slabs of bread and cooked meat, he poured himself a generous measure of whisky that he downed in a couple of gulps.
He immediately poured some more and, glass in hand, walked across the room to stand near the fire. No matter how close he stood, he still shivered. He was frozen to the bones, to the core, to the very soul…
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stone steps and the door flew open.
‘What a night!’ MacBoyd said as he closed the door behind him. ‘Mind if I get something to eat? I know I shouldn’t be hungry after what we’ve seen but I’ve had nothing to eat since noon.’
Bruce gestured towards the tray. ‘Help yourself. There’s more than enough.’
He lifted the tumbler to his lips and sipped more of the single malt whisky while his friend folded a few pieces of salted beef inside a thick slab of bread and ate. His own appetite had vanished as soon as he’d taken a look at the dead girl’s mangled body on the beach.
‘So it was young Fenella MacKay after all,’ MacBoyd remarked between bites. ‘Poor lass. I wonder what happened to her.’
Bruce swallowed hard. The marks on the girl’s body had spoken of terrible abuse and a violent death.
‘Kilroy thinks she was raped and strangled. Probably tortured, too.’
At first the physician had attributed the gashes and marks on the body to being thrown onto sharp rocks on the beach, but after thorough examination, he had concluded that the girl had been cut deliberately before being strangled. ‘I can’t be sure, but there appear to be burn marks too, made by some kind of circular object,’ Kilroy had added, pointing to the bizarre patterns on the girl’s body.
‘Who’d do that to a fifteen-year-old lass? No one from round here, surely. It can only have been a passing traveller.’ MacBoyd shook his head and let out a deep sigh.
Bruce arched his eyebrows.
‘Nobody passes through here. This is Wrath. The end of the world, as far as most are concerned. You only come here if you have to and if you mean to stay.’ He paused. ‘As much as it pains me to say it, there is a strong possibility that the killer is local.’
He winced and rubbed his forehead. The headache which had plagued him all day had just got worse. It was like someone hammering long, ridged nails into his skull. He stared down at his glass and sighed. He shouldn’t drink whisky. It wouldn’t help. He put the glass down on the mantelpiece, walked to the desk and poured a cup of strong, warm tea.
‘What else did our good doctor say?’ MacBoyd swallowed his last morsel of bread.
‘He thinks she died only recently – in the last couple of days or so.’
‘But she disappeared months ago!’
‘Perhaps she was hiding somewhere, or she was held against her will until whoever took her decided to dispose of her.’
Despite what he had just told MacBoyd, Bruce found it hard to believe that anyone – let alone a local – should commit such atrocities. ‘Anyway, I can’t send a message to Thurso to alert the sheriff and the Procurator Fiscal in this storm, so I’ll have to write the preliminary report myself and help the MacKays organise the burial.’
MacBoyd nodded. ‘Poor folks. They must be devastated. It’s bad enough that their daughter is dead, without knowing that she died so horribly.’
The two men stared in the fire in silence.
‘Talking about the storm,’ MacBoyd said after a while, ‘what do you intend to do with the surprising and delightful Lady McRae? The clipper is too badly damaged to sail out, especially in bad weather, and it will take a while to repair the top gallant.’
Bruce exhaled sharply. ‘That’s all right then, since I’ve decided to keep her here.’
MacBoyd’s mouth gaped. ‘You’re not seriously thinking of holding her to ransom, are you? I thought you were joking.’
‘I’ll do what I have to do to secure the livelihood of my people, and the people I took on after the clearances on McRae’s lands,’ Bruce retorted sombrely. ‘And if that means using a little blackmail, so be it.’
‘You’re asking for trouble, my friend. You know how well connected he is at court and in the army. He’ll ask for the troops to be sent here. He’ll get you arrested.’
Bruce shrugged. ‘I can play as dirty as McRae. In the meantime, should
anyone ask, Lady McRae is staying here for her own safety while the Sea Eagle is being repaired.’
MacBoyd put his empty plate on the desk, drained his tea, and wiped his beard to dislodge a few crumbs.
‘I rather like her, you know. The way she stood up to you and the villagers was brave. She couldn’t be more different than that cold fish McRae or his mother.’
‘You’re wrong, MacBoyd. She’s just as heartless. You weren’t there when she promised me a good whipping.’
MacBoyd chuckled. ‘She didn’t, did she? What did you do to her?’
‘I only threatened to give her a wee kiss.’ Bruce’s lips stretched into a quick smile.
‘Good for her! I knew the day would come when you’d meet a woman who doesn’t fall for your claymore devil’s charm!’ MacBoyd yawned loudly. ‘Right. I’m off to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Alone, Bruce stood at the window and gazed out into the night.
He frowned. He could hear something now besides the wind. A slow, melancholic tune, the very one which used to haunt him years ago when he was a child. His mother’s favourite song.
Feeling a presence behind him, he swung round. His heart hammered against his ribs. They were back. Shadowy forms crept towards him, glided along the stone-flagged floor, moved on the walls. He knew there was nobody there, yet he could see them. They spoke to him in harsh whispers, called him the devil. They said he had to die for what he’d done.
The skin on his chest tingled. His fingers rubbed the spot just above his heart where he’d asked a tattoo artist to brand him after a long, drunken night in Lahore, and make sure he’d never forget Ferozeshah and the men who died because of him.
He clenched his fists and calmed the frantic gallop of his heart. Damn it. He was hallucinating again. How long before he lost his mind completely? Before he became crazy, like his mother had?