by Marie Laval
She wasn’t. Or at least her cab wasn’t in the courtyard. The whole stable block was in darkness. Maybe the other driver – Duncan – had dropped her off and she was already in bed? Even though it was unlikely, he knocked on the outside door to her flat. There was no answer. He walked across the courtyard, tried the door to Raventhorn’s service entrance. It was locked.
Now what? He didn’t have a key. He hadn’t thought about asking for one, and neither Rosalie nor Lorna had offered to give him one. Even though he was reluctant to walk to Lorna’s lodge and wake her up at this late hour, he could hardly stay out there all night. He pulled his phone out, and dialled the number for Love Taxis again.
‘I don’t know where Rosalie is,’ the receptionist said. She sounded as if she was about to cry. ‘She’s not answering my calls. The last I heard from her she was driving on the Armathiel forest road that snakes through the Cairngorms National Park.’
‘Call the police immediately,’ he ordered, his bad mood now tinged with concern. ‘Do you have another driver who could come to get me at Raventhorn?’
‘I’m afraid not. Duncan left for Edinburgh so there’s no one else. I suppose you could always take one of Geoff’s cars,’ Fiona suggested. ‘The car keys are in the desk drawer in his study.’
‘That’s all very well but Raventhorn is locked and I can’t get in.’
At the other end of the phone, Fiona let out a loud sigh. ‘The keys are in the planter on the right hand side of the front door. Didn’t Rosalie tell you?’
That was the craziest thing he had ever heard. How many people knew where to find the castle’s keys and could have access to its antiques, and to McBride’s cars? Considering there wasn’t even a burglar alarm fitted in the place, it was a miracle Raventhorn hadn’t been looted and McBride’s garage emptied.
He walked to the front of the castle where he found the keys in the planter as promised. After experimenting with a couple of them, he managed to unlock the service door. He ran up to the ground floor, opened a few doors and found McBride’s study in a corner of the vast, oak-panelled library.
A couple of armchairs stood in front of a fireplace, books were piled up all over the floor, papers and files littered the desk. Marc pulled the desk drawer open, rummaged among a stash of invoices and bank statements, pens and various items of stationery before finding what he was after.
Two sets of car keys, each on a ring bearing a different car manufacturer’s logo. A Jag and a Range Rover. He closed his fingers around the keys to the Range Rover, then looked around for a map of the area. Fiona said that Rosalie was driving back from a hamlet at the foot of the Cairngorms, on a country road off the B970. The car probably had a satnav, but he wanted to get his bearings before setting off.
He spotted half a dozen road maps on a bookshelf, pulled out one of the Cairngorms and grabbed the keys to the Range Rover. He locked the service door again but kept the keys to the castle in his pocket. The days of leaving them in the planter were well and truly over.
For someone who kept expensive cars, McBride was sloppy with security, Marc thought as he pulled open the unlocked garage door, another converted stable block opposite Rosalie’s flat and office. He flicked the electricity switch on the wall. The two cars were alongside one another. There were empty spaces where other cars must have been parked in the past, judging from tyre tracks and oil stains on the concrete flooring.
He unfolded the map on the bonnet of the Range Rover and focused on the unfamiliar names and markings to memorise the route to Armathiel forest. He then did a quick search of the car and found a torch in working order, a pair of leather gloves, and a silver flask, which upon inspection proved to be filled with whisky. There was also a pair of men’s wellingtons, a shovel and a thick blanket in the boot. McBride might be negligent with security but at least he was prepared for bad weather.
Marc programmed the destination in the satnav and drove out of the garage. The Range Rover bumped over the old bridge, and the tyres bit into the thick layer of snow that covered the main road. Flurries of snowflakes stuck to the windscreen and danced in the broad beam of the headlights, making it difficult to see where he was going. If Rosalie was stranded away from the road, he probably wouldn’t be able to see her.
Chapter Seven
Too scared to turn round and glance over her shoulder, Rosalie ran towards the loch. Her pursuer must have stopped near the cab because the headlights of the four-wheel-drive shone through the trees, bathing the forest in an eerie glow. The wind carried sounds too – the humming of an engine, the crunching of tyres on the dirt road.
At last she saw the huts, dark shapes in front of her. She chose the furthest one, yanked the door open and stepped inside. It was cold and smelled of damp, musty wood. She leaned against the door to catch her breath and listen to the night but all she could hear was the rush of blood in her ears and the pounding of her heart.
As her eyes got used to the darkness, she was able to make out a pile of empty sacks on one side of the hut and lighter shapes on the walls – posters about local bird species and instructions for birdwatchers. Opposite were the viewing bays and a couple of benches, which would be her only hiding place should anyone come after her. For now, she stood shivering with cold and fear in her soggy boots, alert to every sound in the forest.
Anxious minutes ticked by. At last she heard the sound of doors slamming shut and the distant roar of an engine, and then there was silence. She waited a while longer before opening the door to peer outside. It had stopped snowing. The forest was pitch black. The four-wheel-drive had left. She rubbed her hands together, blew on her fingers to warm them, and retraced her steps back to the cab, peering into the darkness, expecting any second to see shadows lunging at her.
She had almost reached the cab when footsteps sounded on the path ahead.
‘Who’s there?’ a man asked.
She could have wept with relief. ‘Petersen! Thank goodness it’s you!’
He reached out. Strong hands grabbed her shoulders, pulled her closer. ‘Rosalie? I saw the cab from the main road. Are you all right? What happened?’
She opened her mouth but no sound came out. His fingers dug deeper into her shoulders and he gave her a little shake as if it would make the words flow.
‘I had an accident,’ she blurted out. ‘There was a car. It rammed into my rear bumper on the main road, and when I drove off, it came after me. I was so scared … I drove too fast around the bend and crashed. When I tried to call Fiona, the radio was dead, so I ran and hid in one of the birdwatching huts.’
‘Are you hurt?’ He loosened his grip but did not let go.
‘No, I’m fine.’ She started trembling. ‘The people in the car, they were after me. I don’t know why, but they were chasing me.’
‘Did you see the driver or any of the passengers? Can you give a description of the car – the number plate, perhaps?’
She shook her head. ‘All I know is it was a black four-by-four. I think there were two people in the car, but there could have been more.’
‘And you’re sure you’re not hurt?’
When she nodded, he let out a sigh. ‘Then we’ll get back to the road and phone the police if we can get a signal.’
‘How did you find me?’ she asked as they walked.
‘Fiona told me where you were heading. I borrowed one of McBride’s cars and found the forest road. Then, by sheer chance, I saw your taxi …’ He paused, took a deep breath. ‘You weren’t inside so I started up the path but McBride’s torch died on me and I was left scrambling in the dark. That’s when I bumped into you.’
He stopped and looked down. ‘Do you have any idea how much worse this could have been? None of this would have happened if you hadn’t sneaked out of the Four Winds against my instructions.’
Even though his voice was calm, his French accent was suddenly more pronounced. He was angry, very angry, and right now she couldn’t blame him.
She looked down, feeling g
uilty and miserable. ‘I’m sorry.’
He was right. It could have been much worse. Gordon Armstrong could have been in the cab …
When they reached the main road she flipped open her mobile to check for a signal and call Fiona and the police. While she was on the phone, Marc retrieved a blanket and a flask from the Range Rover – Geoff’s flask. Without a word he draped the blanket around her shoulders, opened the flask and handed it over to her as she finished her call.
The whisky burned her throat and left a fiery trail down to her stomach. As she stood there, safe at last, the events of the past few hours finally caught up with her. She buried her face in her hands and started to cry.
A primitive male instinct he didn’t even know he possessed fought a brief battle with his usual reserve, and won. He stepped forward and enfolded her into his arms. He half-expected her to push him away – she had after all made no secret of the fact she viewed him as the enemy – but she nestled against him and buried her tear-streaked face in his coat.
Her body shook as she sobbed. She felt so small and helpless that he was overcome with the need to draw her closer and hold her tightly.
At last she pulled away, wiping her face with the back of her hands. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry,’ she hiccupped.
‘No worries.’ He dug his fists in his coat pocket, feeling cold and oddly redundant now she’d stepped away. ‘You should sit in the Range Rover, and try to get warm.’
He held the door open, and she climbed into the car while he waited outside. He was far too restless to sit down. Ten minutes later two police four-wheel drives came to a halt by the side of the road. This time, the constable in charge – the same one who had visited Raventhorn the night before – seemed to take the incident a lot more seriously and questioned Rosalie at length, while his colleagues switched on powerful lights to take photos of the cab, scrape black paint off the bumper and check the road for clues, working fast because the snowfall was covering all traces of the incident.
By the time Rosalie had answered his questions, she was shaking with cold despite the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her face had turned deathly pale. Enough was enough, Marc thought. She needed to go home. He went over to the constable, said they were leaving, and, ignoring Rosalie’s protests, cupped her elbow in his hand and led her towards McBride’s Range Rover.
‘I have a few ground rules for you, and I want you to listen very carefully,’ he said, once they were both seated in the car. ‘For a start, you will stay at the castle tonight, and every night until I am satisfied you are safe.’ He paused. ‘Second, you will not take any new customers, and you will not work at night.’
She cast a fiery look in his direction. ‘And how am I supposed to make a living?’
‘I thought you weren’t making a living. That’s what you told me.’ His voice sounded calm, yet he’d never felt so close to losing his temper. He relaxed his grip on the steering wheel and drew in a long breath. Losing his temper was something he never did.
‘One last thing,’ he added. ‘You will not leave the castle keys in the planter any longer. Am I making myself clear?’
A mutinous expression pinched her face. ‘Who do you think you are? It’s not your place to organise my life, decide where I sleep or keep the keys of my house, or how I run my business!’
‘Let me rephrase this,’ he said, with as much calm as he was capable of. ‘From now on you will not keep the keys to my house in the planter, and you will run my business the way I see fit … or not at all.’
She recoiled as if he’d slapped her, then looked up, her eyes huge, dark, and filled with more tears. Cursing himself for his lack of tact when she was already in shock, he turned the key in the ignition and started to drive down the forest road.
‘By the way,’ she said, after a few minutes of frozen silence, ‘I need you to stop at the office in Irlwick on the way back. Duncan left his cab there before going to Edinburgh, and I need it, since mine is now out of action. I have to take Lorna to the train station first thing in the morning.’ She turned to him. ‘If that’s all right with you, of course, boss.’
He narrowed his eyes, gripped the steering wheel harder but didn’t answer. He may not be keen on her driving back to Raventhorn when she was still shaken by her ordeal, but he did as she asked.
It was well after one in the morning by the time they finally reached the castle. Marc parked the Range Rover in the garage and suggested Rosalie did the same with the cab but she refused, insisting that it would be fine outside. He chose to let it go rather than risk another argument and upset her again.
Rosalie went straight to her room and he carried out a systematic check on every window and door on the ground floor before going up to his room. How he longed for a long, steaming hot shower … the damn thing however only spurted out lukewarm water and he didn’t linger.
A towel wrapped around his waist, another around his shoulders, he stood next to the antique looking radiator – thankfully hot tonight – and rubbed his hair dry. He then put a black T-shirt and jogging bottoms on, climbed into bed and switched the bedside lamp off.
Outside, the wind howled and the forest groaned. It wasn’t much better inside with the wardrobe creaking and the ancient plumbing’s dribbling and banging. A freezing draft blew into the room and made the curtains move. Tonight the mass of the castle around and above him felt oppressive, almost threatening, as if it was telling him he had no right to be here. It was probably picking up Rosalie’s hostile feelings, if such a thing was possible.
Would he dream of his father’s accident, or about the mysterious woman, he wondered as he beat the lumps out of his pillow, lay down and pulled the covers up to his chin. He closed his eyes, and waited for sleep to come.
It was still dark when Rosalie went out the following morning and brushed the snow off the bonnet and roof of her cab. She should have followed Petersen’s advice and parked in the garage. Her small act of defiance now seemed silly and pointless, especially when her head hurt and her whole body felt sore and stiff – the aftermath of the accident, coupled with a sleepless night spent tossing and turning in bed.
Fergus was on morning shift and his voice came on as soon as she flicked the radio switch on and reported in.
‘Hi, lass, how are you doing this morning? Pretty shaken up, I bet, after last night.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Fiona left a note explaining what’d happened. Have you any news from the police about the yobs who drove you off the road?’
‘No and I don’t think I’ll get any since I couldn’t give them a detailed description of the car.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Fergus, can you ring round and ask if another taxi firm can take over the rides we have booked for today? I’m driving Lorna to the station and then I’m off to the hospital to visit Geoff and with Duncan away …’
‘No problem. What about tomorrow?’
‘I’ll be back to normal tomorrow.’
‘Well said, lass. You can’t let a bit of bad luck stop you.’
Unfortunately if bad luck didn’t stop her, Marc Petersen would, she thought gloomily.
‘I’ll call Ben McKay, and ask if his drivers can step in today. I’m sure they’ll want to help. Geoff will be upset when he hears about your accident.’
‘I won’t tell him. I don’t want him to worry about me, not when he’s in hospital.’ They had plenty to discuss anyway, including why he’d sold Raventhorn to the Petersens without telling her, why he had sworn Lorna to secrecy, and what she was going to do about Love Taxis. Then there was this mysterious confession Lorna said he wanted to make …
She gave Fergus instructions about only taking repeat customers from now on, and as a concession to Marc Petersen added that he wasn’t to take any evening bookings for the rest of the week.
‘It sounds sensible enough,’ Fergus said.
‘Please don’t breathe a word about last night on the radio,’ she urged. ‘Lorna will probably cancel her holiday and sh
e really needs a break.’
As she pulled up in front of the lodge, she took a deep breath, and forced a smile. She should have known she wouldn’t fool Lorna, even for a second.
‘What’s wrong, sweetie?’ her friend asked as soon as she opened the door.
Rosalie shrugged. ‘Nothing, why?’
‘You look awful.’
‘Well, if you must know, I didn’t get much sleep last night.’ At least, that bit was true. ‘I’ll load your bags in now. I don’t want us to be late.’
Lorna narrowed her eyes, suspicious. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Of course.’
But she felt a lot better an hour later when she helped Lorna into the train carriage and waved her goodbye. She was starting the cab when Petersen rang her mobile.
‘Where are you?’ he asked without preamble.
‘In Aviemore. At the train station. Why?’
‘I want you to phone or text me every hour. If I don’t hear from you and can’t get hold of you, I’ll call the police. Is that clear?’
‘Listen, Petersen, I’m a big girl and you’re not responsible for my wellbeing. I’m on my way to Inverness hospital and may not be able to get in touch for a while.’
‘This isn’t open to discussion.’ And he cut her off.
It took a few minutes for Rosalie’s anger to subside and her heart rate to return to normal. Never had anyone made her feel so helpless before. She closed her eyes and remembered the spine-tingling sensations he had aroused the night before when he had drawn her to him to comfort her, and keep her safe. His arms had been warm and strong around her, and his chest broad and solid as she moulded herself against him. She had felt something strange and disturbing – something which wasn’t safe at all.
She drew in a sharp breath and opened her eyes. No. This wasn’t right. She couldn’t be attracted to Petersen. She wasn’t attracted to Petersen! The man behaved as though he owned her, the way he owned Raventhorn, and was entitled to boss her around.