by Marie Laval
The vast, unspoilt scenery called to him. Soon, he promised himself, he’d work out an itinerary and hike up to the mountains, explore their crags and glens and secret places. Perhaps there, at last, the photos of the wreckage of his father’s helicopter that were etched into his brain would start to fade. What would never fade however was the guilt of knowing that the accident had probably been his fault.
He was about to turn round when a gust of wind ruffled the surface of the loch and he noticed a large shadow under the water about fifty feet from the shore. He narrowed his eyes. It was much too large to be a rock. Perhaps it was the remains of a sunken boat or a submerged islet. Then he remembered what Rosalie had told him the day before. A hunting lodge once stood on the shores of the loch, before a freak storm changed it from a small tarn into what it was now.
A freak storm caused by Harald Johansen’s – Harald the Cruel’s –grief and anger at having his new bride taken away from him. He had to admit that Rosalie’s story suited the mood and atmosphere of the area perfectly. The image of a feminine silhouette standing in the moonlight on top of the Armitages ruined castle flashed in front of him. He shrugged. Even he was falling prey to the romanticism of the place, it seemed.
He turned round, pushed the squealing door shut and went back downstairs. He tried to call Rosalie, but her mobile was switched off, so he phoned Fergus at Love Taxis and demanded that Rosalie phoned or text him, and never mind if he sounded a little too sharp.
After another pot of black coffee, he settled down to work in the drawing room. He had hardly fired up his laptop since his arrival and he had just started to look at his emails, when he heard a car drive up the lane, followed a couple of minutes later by loud banging at the kitchen door. It must be the cleaner. Fergus had warned that his wife would call today.
A small, wiry woman ensconced in a thick anorak as bright orange as her hair stood at the kitchen door, her face unsmiling. He opened the door wide to let her in.
‘You must be Marion. Good afternoon. Please come in.’
‘Why isn’t the key in its usual place?’ the woman asked, in lieu of greeting.
When he told her it would be kept in a safe place from then on and not in the planter where anybody could find it, she pursed her lips and pushed past him in disapproving silence that lasted the whole of five minutes, the time for her to take off her fur boots and parka, slip an apron and felt slippers on. Holding a dust rag and can of polish spray, she then followed him to the drawing room where she set to find out everything she could about him.
Once again he revealed far more about himself than he ever intended. The women of Irlwick were very skilled at extracting personal information, it seemed, or perhaps he was so tired he let his guard down.
‘Petersen. That’s not English.’ Marion stopped her energetic dusting of a massive oak dresser. Narrowing her eyes, she inspected him from head to toe.
‘My father’s family is from Denmark.’
‘You’re Danish? But, of course! Now I understand why you’re here. Geoff needs your help to translate his old papers, doesn’t he?’
She waved her dusting rag at him. ‘Have you seen the mess he made in the library? You can’t walk for fear of tripping over books and parchments but Geoff, that old fool, forbids me to move anything. I hope you’re going to sort things out.’
He would be quite incapable of translating McBride’s papers, since it was many years since he’d read any text in the Futhark alphabets most runestones were written in, but he didn’t set Marion right. If anything, pretending to be a translator was a great cover to explain his presence at Raventhorn since Rosalie didn’t want anyone to know the truth – it was certainly better than pretending to be a trainee taxi driver.
Marion frowned and a suspicious look crossed her face. ‘That’s funny, I could swear you’ve a bit of a French accent, like that chef on the telly.’
Did anything get past this woman? Half-amused, half-exasperated, Marc proceeded to explain that his mother was indeed French and that although he’d been brought up in England, he’d lived in Paris for some years.
‘Really? French and Danish, that’s glamorous!’
Marion left the room and he turned to his laptop again. His mind however kept wandering – to McBride and his fascination for Scandinavian history, to Rosalie and the thugs who had run her off the road, and to Loch Armathiel, and the tragic story of Harald and Isobel. He shook his head. He was daydreaming again, neglecting his work and putting off his phone call to Kirsty.
She must be fuming that he was here, in Scotland, when he knew that she wanted him to be in London on Saturday night. ‘I have been working on a proposal,’ she had told him before she left for Paris on Monday, ‘a very interesting proposal that I’m sure you won’t be able to resist. We’ll discuss it further at the weekend.’
He didn’t need to ask what she meant. Kirsty was working on a possible merger between Petersen Holdings and an American firm that his father had wholeheartedly supported. Marc, however, was not keen on the idea of relocating to the States – with or without Kirsty.
As he keyed in her number, he wondered fleetingly why he hadn’t thought about her these past couple of days. She was every man’s dream woman – beautiful, intelligent, sophisticated, successful – she just wasn’t his dream woman. He raked his fingers through his hair and blew an annoyed breath. How ridiculous … he was thinking about the mysterious woman that haunted his dreams here at Raventhorn!
When Kirsty didn’t pick up, he left a message on her voicemail and scrolled down his emails for an update from the Hong Kong police about his father’s helicopter accident. He was still waiting to hear whether or not his father had been piloting the helicopter – for confirmation that their phone conversation had upset him so much he hadn’t paid enough attention and crashed the craft against the side of the mountain. There was nothing from Hong Kong, so he turned his attention to Carl Fitzpatrick’s file. The man was an incompetent idiot and fully deserved to go bankrupt. Yet there was no way he would let that happen, no way he would risk another man’s life.
Marc reclined against the back of the chair, pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and closed his eyes. Figures and business projections scrolled across his mind, and soon a risky scheme started to take shape. Yes, that might just work. It was worth a try. If Fitzpatrick was willing to follow his advice.
Satisfied, he opened his eyes and blinked in surprise when he saw how dim the room had become, in sharp contrast with the white storm raging outside. Banging noises resounded in the corridor and Marion strode in, pulling an antique looking vacuum cleaner behind her.
‘That blasted boiler’s stopped working again,’ she grumbled. ‘I don’t know how many times I’ve told Geoff to do something about the heating, but he always says he can’t afford to have it fixed. You’d better fetch some wood from the shed across the yard. It’s going to get bleemin’ freezing in here before long.’ She plugged in the vacuum cleaner, which roared like a plane about to take off and spurted a cloud of dust.
A couple of hours later, Marc watched Marion’s car skid around the bend towards the bridge. He stamped his feet on the mat to get rid of snow sticking to his shoes and walked back into the castle. Eight inches, at least, of snow now covered the ground and it was coming down hard. The wind had picked up too. It blew through the pine trees in gusts so strong the whole forest shook, moved and groaned as if it were alive.
He was greeted by the cheerful glow of the fire he’d lit in the drawing room. Next to the fireplace was a satisfyingly high pile of logs, which he hoped would last all evening. Resolving to phone a heating engineer the following day, he put a couple more logs in the grate then stood a moment, arms folded on his chest, staring at the flames, and puzzled over the mystery surrounding Love Taxis again.
Why would anyone go to so much trouble to harass a small taxi firm in the Highlands? Hoax calls were unpleasant but hardly life threatening. They were the kind of st
unt a bored teenager would pull. However physical attacks and material damage, like the vandalising of Duncan’s cab and the previous night’s car chase, were completely different. What were the perpetrators hoping to achieve? Put Rosalie out of business, perhaps, but it wasn’t as if there was a turf war between rival cab companies. Maybe he was looking at this the wrong way. Maybe this was personal and Rosalie was the intended victim. If that was the case, it seemed unlikely that whoever was threatening her had any intention of stopping anytime soon.
The most sensible thing would be to close Love Taxis – he didn’t have to look at the books to know it was the most unprofitable business he’d ever owned. That would however feel like giving in to the threats, and was out of the question.
His phone rang, breaking the silence.
‘What are you thinking of, letting me down at the last minute? Don’t you realise what strings I had to pull to get the opera tickets and a table at Jules’ for Saturday night?’ Kirsty snapped at the other end of the line.
‘I’m sorry. This trip to Scotland is turning out to be more complicated than I originally thought.’
She let out an exasperated groan. ‘I had arranged the whole evening so that Ben Turner and his wife could be with us. Ben is vital to our New York project. Now I’m going to have to ask Maguire to come with me.’
‘Don’t bother Maguire. It’s his anniversary tomorrow night. He’s been talking about it for weeks. His wife hasn’t been well and he’s taking her to some country hotel for a break.’
‘Well, he’ll have to celebrate another day.’
He frowned. ‘Turner can wait. In fact, the whole New York project can wait. Maguire’s wife is very ill. There may not be another chance for him to—’
‘Then she should be resting,’ Kirsty cut in. ‘Anyway, since when have you been a champion of your employees’ family life? You don’t usually care about the people who work for you. And rightly so, I might add. They get paid to work, not to socialise with their wives.’
The tone of her voice riled him, especially since she was only stating the harsh truth. He worked hard, rarely took any time off, and expected his staff to be as committed to their job.
‘I don’t want you to bother Maguire this weekend,’ he repeated. ‘I’m sure you can ask someone else from the office to accompany you or go on your own.’
She fell silent. ‘All right then, since Maguire’s anniversary is that important to you, I’ll leave him alone. What are these complications you’re talking about?’
‘I’m not entirely sure but it looks like I’ll have to stay up here longer than I expected.’
She laughed. ‘Come on, Marc, admit it, you’re enjoying being the lord of the manor, aren’t you?’
‘No, of course not.’ There was the noise of an engine outside, followed by a door slamming. Glancing out of the window he saw Rosalie’s cab in the courtyard. At last, she was back.
‘I have to go. Sorry about the opera and the restaurant but I’m sure you’ll be fine.’
Chapter Nine
The drive back from Inverness had been slow and treacherous, with snowdrifts building up on either side of slippery roads. It didn’t help that she’d constantly peered in the rear-view mirror, dreading to see the black four-by-four that had driven her off the road the previous evening. She had gripped her steering wheel so hard her neck and shoulders now ached.
What she needed was a long soak in the bath, hot food and a rest. Talking to Petersen could wait until the morning, especially if, as she suspected, he was going to get all dictatorial again about what she could or could not do. As more snow was forecast, she parked in the garage, and went straight up to her flat.
As usual, she felt guilty the moment she walked into the cheerful living room with its sunny yellow walls, bright blue curtains and matching throws on the sofa. Geoff had spared no expense in renovating the stable block to turn it into a lovely flat for her, but it wasn’t home. Nowhere except Raventhorn Castle would ever be. And yet, she reminded herself once again, she would soon have to find somewhere else to live because even this flat now belonged to Petersen.
She hung her anorak up, kicked her boots off and glanced at the pictures hanging on the walls. There were several of Raventhorn and two of her mother and herself, and these she treasured because they were the only ones she had of her since her mother was camera shy – or camera-phobic, as Alice used to say.
She opened the fridge and let out a disappointed sigh as any prospect of a warm evening meal vanished. Except for a slab of butter, a bag of wilted lettuce and a few slices of ham, the fridge was empty. She took a sniff of the ham and pulled a face before throwing it in the bin. A quick search of the cupboards produced a bag of plain crisps and half a packet of digestive biscuits. Her only hope of a decent meal was to raid Raventhorn’s kitchen, but as she had no intention of talking to Petersen, she would wait until he had gone to bed.
She switched on the television, caught the end of the local news, then stepped into the bedroom to undress. She had time to take a bath before her favourite crime series started. Dropping her clothes into the laundry basket, she wrapped herself in her bathrobe and went to the bathroom to run a bath, in which she poured a generous squirt of her favourite peach bubble bath. As the bathroom steamed up, she pinned her hair up and dipped a toe in.
The water was hot, almost scalding, just the way she liked it. She was lucky to have her own boiler and heating system in the stable block and wasn’t subject to the vagaries of the boiler in the house. She slipped out of her robe, climbed into the bath and closed her eyes. Right now, she didn’t want to think about anything, or anyone – least of all about Marc Petersen who probably expected her to report in like a good little soldier.
He waited almost half an hour before storming out of the castle. The courtyard was empty, the garage door closed. What was the woman doing, and why hadn’t she come over to see him?
Looking up, he saw some light at the windows above the Love Taxis office and shook his head, at the same time relieved and annoyed. He would give her another half an hour or so and then go over. They had things to discuss.
He was walking back to the kitchen when a high-pitched scream pierced the silence and gave him goosebumps. He ran across the courtyard, yanked the door to the stable block open. It wasn’t locked. He took the stairs two by two, only to find that the door to Rosalie’s flat was unlocked too. Flinging it open, he stepped into a warm, comfortable living room. The lights and the TV were on but Rosalie was nowhere to be seen.
‘Rosalie?’ He glanced around, barely noticing the photos of Raventhorn on the walls, and others of a woman with a little girl by her side, or the fact that there wasn’t anything pink in the room, only deep blues and sunny yellows.
He called again, with more urgency, and strode into an empty bedroom. A door was shut to his right. He pushed it open and breathed in a cloud of peach scented steam. Then he saw her. She was in the bath, unconscious.
He rushed to her side, knelt down to grab her shoulders and shook her hard. Her brown eyes flew open. Her cheeks were flushed. Strands of dark mahogany hair had escaped from her loosely pinned bun at the top of her head and snaked down the slender curve of her neck. Fluffy bath foam clung to the pink tips of her full, round breasts. His mouth went dry and he was seized by an uncontrollable urge to slide his fingers down her bare shoulders and wipe the bubbles off.
Rosalie stared at him, her lips open, her chest heaving. For a few seconds neither of them moved nor spoke. At last he got a hold on himself. Letting go of her, he rose to his feet and stepped back.
She sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees.
‘What are you doing in here?’
‘I’m sorry. I heard a scream. I thought you were hurt.’ He took another step back towards the door.
‘Well, it wasn’t me,’ she said between clenched teeth. ‘Get out.’
He remembered the television in the living room. Could he have mistaken a television programme fo
r Rosalie’s voice?
‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ he almost stammered, closing the door softly behind him as he left.
She wrapped herself in her robe and tried to tie the belt around her waist but her fingers were shaking too much. Letting out a shuddering breath, she put her hand to her chest. Oh, the shame of it! Would she ever be able to face him when her skin still burned with the imprint of his hands on her shoulders, and when she hadn’t pushed him away or slid down into the water to hide, but sat naked and mesmerised by the hot, dangerous glow in his eyes?
She heard footsteps, and realised that he hadn’t gone back to the castle but was just the other side of the bathroom door. She almost fancied she could feel the heat from his body.
‘I’m going to sleep here tonight, Petersen,’ she called. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘It’s not a good idea, especially since you are so careless about your own safety. Both the downstairs door and the door to your flat were unlocked. Anybody could have come in and—’
‘And find me in the bath, like you did?’
There was a short silence. ‘I said I was sorry. It was a misunderstanding. Listen, Rosalie, I don’t want you to stay here alone. I want you to come back with me to the castle.’
There he was again, telling her what to do. She forced a deep, calming breath down. ‘I’m beginning to think that you are afraid of being alone with Raventhorn’s ghosts.’ Would he take the bait? She held her breath and waited a few seconds.
‘Don’t be silly, there are no ghosts,’ he retorted dryly, the way she hoped he would. ‘Very well, you can stay here on your own tonight if that’s what you want, but only if you promise to lock both the downstairs door and the door to your flat.’
She closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. At least she wouldn’t have to face him tonight.