by Marie Laval
‘Me, of course. I could spend a few days reorganising everything and won’t even charge you a penny for it.’
‘How good of you to offer.’ Rosalie’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
‘No, I mean it. I worked here so I know Geoff’s filing system … I see he’s still crazy about all that Viking stuff. I forgot what he told me this alphabet was called.’
‘Actually there are two alphabets – Elder Futhark and Young Futhark,’ Marc said.
He felt Rosalie’s puzzled gaze on him and smiled, feeling a little smug.
Rupert shrugged. ‘Whatever … I can’t believe these old papers hold the key to the location of Harald’s treasure.’
Rosalie shook her head. ‘Geoff never said it was a treasure, at least not in the sense you imply.’
‘Of course it’s a treasure. Harald was going to a royal wedding. He must have carried a casket filled with coins or jewellery, precious gems or artefacts.’ He gestured to the pile of papers again and looked at Marc. ‘Marion said you were translating them.’
‘That’s right,’ Marc lied. He had only flicked through McBride’s papers late at night when he’d had enough of working on accounts and balance sheets. Despite what he’d claimed, he would be quite unable to decipher much without doing some serious work. Yet he felt it was important to pretend he could.
He didn’t trust Rupert McBride. He didn’t like his bullish attitude, but above all he didn’t like the way his small, shifty and bloodshot eyes stared at Rosalie and followed her every move like a predator about to pounce on his prey.
‘I still have quite a bit of work to do,’ he stated in a cautious voice, ‘but you’re right, the documents contain clues about Harald’s treasure.’
Once again, he was aware of Rosalie staring at him in surprise.
‘Now,’ he carried on, ‘what exactly are you looking for? I don’t want to be rude but Rosalie and I have had a long day.’
Rupert pulled a face. ‘I’m after some personal documents … and a diary I left behind when I resigned. The diary has a dark blue cover, and is about this big.’ He made a gesture with his hands and looked at Rosalie with an anxious look in his pale blue eyes. ‘You haven’t seen it, have you?’
Rosalie curled her fists on her hips and tilted her face up to look at him. ‘No, I have not. And you didn’t resign. Geoff sacked you.’
‘It was a misunderstanding. Geoff told me so himself when I visited him in hospital.’
‘I very much doubt it! You upset him very much that day.’
A cloud seemed to pass over McBride’s face. ‘Really? What did he say?’
‘He was worried about something, someone … a woman. Talking about women, I met your girlfriend at the holiday lodge.’
McBride frowned. ‘What girlfriend? I don’t know who you’re talking about.’
‘Dark-haired girl, pretty, a bit brash, London accent,’ Rosalie insisted. ‘I saw you with her in the hospital car park.’
‘Ah … well. What about her?’
McBride sounded so defensive Marc looked at him more closely.
‘Nothing. I thought it was a bit strange that she should be staying in such an isolated place, especially when the weather was that bad. She and her friend could have been cut off.’
McBride’s cheeks flushed. ‘Her friend?’
‘There was a man with her. He was in another room. I heard him. He sounded … angry.’ She shuddered and turned to Marc. ‘I’m tired. I’m going to my flat now. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Before Marc could insist that she stay at Raventhorn another night, she walked to the door.
‘She was always highly strung.’ One side of Rupert’s mouth lifted into a sneer and his eyes narrowed to slits as he watched her leave. ‘Shame about that temper of hers. Takes after her mother …’ Rupert shook his head. ‘Sophie Heart was a very attractive, but strong-willed, woman, like Rosalie. Always fancied her – well, both of them, really.’ He licked his lips and made a loud smacking sound.
Overcome with the gut-wrenching urge to punch him in the face, Marc clenched his fists and drew in a deep, long breath. ‘That’s enough, McBride,’ he growled. ‘I won’t have anyone talking that way about Rosalie.’
The man chuckled. It was a slow, slimy laugh that grated on Marc’s nerves. ‘Fancy her yourself, do you? Can’t say I blame you.’
Marc forced another breath down, and made himself uncurl his fists. He had to calm down. He really was turning into a Neanderthal, at least where Rosalie was concerned. ‘Get what you came here for and leave.’
He sat on a battered leather armchair and picked up a folder overflowing with papers and manuscripts. He didn’t believe Rupert’s story for a minute. The man had come to snoop around, but what was he after – his cousin’s will, or the location of Harald’s treasure, even if it only existed in Geoff McBride’s imagination?
Marc flicked through the papers. There were dozens of photos and transcriptions of runestones from all over Scandinavia as well as Orkney – presumably because this was where Harald had his estate. As he painstakingly deciphered a few lines, his grandfather’s tales started to come back. It was as if his memories were buried under a layer of dry sand a cool North Sea breeze was blowing away – the same cool, gusty breeze that swept across the long beaches and sand dunes he used to roam during his Jutland summer holidays.
A muttered curse at the other end of the room broke his concentration. He lifted his eyes from the papers. Rupert McBride was rummaging through the desk drawers, a bundle of what looked like bank statements in his hand.
Frowning, he rose to his feet. ‘These are your cousin’s.’
Rupert’s face reddened. He shoved the sheets of paper back in the drawer and slammed it shut with an impatient sigh. ‘Well, that was a bloody waste of time.’ There was the hint of desperation in his voice.
The two men walked down to the kitchen where Rupert glanced at the alarm. ‘I’ll have to come back, and it would make sense if you gave me the code. I don’t see why you should know the code when I don’t. You’re only an employee whereas this place is as good as mine.’
Marc gave him a cool stare. ‘So you keep saying.’
Rupert stood staring at him, waiting to be told the alarm code.
Marc ignored his request. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘would you mind giving me the name of your friends – the ones who were staying at the lodge?’
McBride stiffened. ‘Why?’
‘Rosalie and I had a serious accident on the mountain road – an accident caused by the driver of a black four-by-four who I believe was visiting the lodge. He didn’t stop to help us when our car went off the road. He didn’t even report the accident. We could have died that day.’
‘That had nothing to do with my friends.’
‘I’d like to check with them anyway. They might know who the driver was.’
‘They’re not in Irlwick any more. I have to go now. Goodnight.’
Marc hardly had time to step aside as McBride, suddenly in a great hurry to leave, flung the door open and rushed out towards his car.
Chapter Sixteen
Marc watched McBride’s sports car speed away, so fast it skidded on the bend of the lane. The man was hiding something, and hopefully Luc or Cédric would find out what it was.
After picking up a bottle of Angus’s beer, he went up to the library to collect a couple of books and a folder filled with papers, and took them to the drawing room.
He lit a fire, and uncorked one of Angus’s pine needle ales with a popping sound, like a bottle of champagne. The smell emanating from the bottle, however, was so bitter it made his eyes water. ‘It’s an old Highlands recipe,’ Angus had explained, ‘and just what you need as a pick-me-up, my lad, you’ll see.’ He had leaned closer and winked. ‘It won’t do Roz any harm to drink a wee drop either.’
Marc smiled. So Angus believed his ale could increase his libido … As if he needed help in that respect! Being near Rosalie day in, day out
was enough to give any man raised blood pressure, not to mention the dreams that plagued him every night as he tossed and turned in that big bed in the Crimson Room. At times he could almost believe that Isobel’s bed was indeed enchanted.
He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank a swig of beer. Although the taste was sharp, it wasn’t as unpalatable as he’d feared. In fact, he thought after a few more sips, it was rather nice. With the heavy green curtains drawn against the night, and the soothing, almost hypnotic crackling of the flames dancing high in the fireplace, a pleasant torpor soon crept inside him. Stifling a yawn, he relaxed on the sofa. So much for the beer’s special powers. It was more likely to make him fall asleep than give him any lustful urges.
He sighed, and closed his eyes. What was he going to do about Love Taxis? The businessman in him knew exactly that he should already have shut it down. Of course he understood why Rosalie was so keen to keep it going – it was her project. He also had to admit that she more than compensated her lack of business acumen with her warmth, kindness and enthusiasm. It was plain to see how much people loved and respected her. With one smile she lit up a cold, grey morning, made a lonely old woman feel cherished and cared for, and reassured an exhausted, insecure young mother. From a more pragmatic point of view, there was definitely a need for affordable transport in the area as he had seen very few buses in and around Irlwick since he’d been there.
Perhaps he could turn Love Taxis into a social enterprise project and set up a non-profit bus company. He might be able to find ways of subsidising it, with company money and public grants. He could even turn it into a clever marketing ploy to promote the Petersen brand as humane and people-friendly.
Humane? With his and his father’s track record? He let out a derisive sigh, as once again his past rose up before him and the memory of what had happened to Van Bernd flooded his mind. Whatever he did, he would never atone for that tragic mistake.
The idea of half a dozen pink minibuses with the name Love Bus painted on the side and drivers wearing pink uniforms brought a smile back to his face though. It wasn’t a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. He grabbed a pen and a pad, scribbled a few notes and figures down and started working.
One hour later, he nodded with satisfaction as he looked at the spreadsheet on his screen and the notes on his pad. There was more research to carry out, but he already had a rough business proposal. He would put it to Rosalie the following day and ask for her thoughts and suggestions.
Rosalie … What was she doing right now? His pulse beat harder and heat flashed inside him as once again, images of her naked loveliness and the sensations of holding her in his arms swirled back to torment him.
Enough! This was turning into a seriously disturbing obsession.
He finished the beer and grabbed one of McBride’s books at random and opened it and recoiled. Two pairs of dark, beady eyes stared at him from the brittle, yellowed page.
A raven.
He started reading the text aloud. It had been a long time since he’d spoken any Danish and his voice sounded odd at first, but after stumbling on the first few sentences, the words started flowing and before long he was totally absorbed in the tale of Odin, the Raven God, who sent his two pet ravens to fly over the world every morning. Marc remembered how important ravens were in Norse mythology and how often they were depicted on shields, banners, helmets, and runestones.
There were many runestones on his grandfather’s land – his land now, even if he rented it out – but most of them were broken, buried and long forgotten. One however had stood near the gateway to the Petersen farm, a proud reminder of the family’s more glorious past. Even though it was worn, one could still see the ravens carved on its surface – a dozen small birds flying around a much larger one, its fierce claws on display and wings wide open. An old photo of it had even featured in the Newsweek article about his father and himself.
Ravens seemed to be everywhere here too. In the name the McBrides had chosen for their new castle – Raventhorn. In Isobel McBride’s nickname – Lady Fitheach, the Raven Lady. In the improbable tale that Harald, her murdered husband, was carrying a mythical Viking Raven banner from his Orkney estate to the wedding of his King’s daughter. Even in the name of the woods surrounding the castle – Corby Woods, or Raven Woods.
He closed the book with a sigh. Enough with fairy tales. It was time to go back to the real world. He rose to his feet, and pulled his mobile out of his jeans pocket. It wasn’t too late to call Kirsty. She was after all a workaholic like him, and they had things to discuss – a new office in the States if the proposed merger went ahead being one of them.
A small piece of paper stuck to his phone. It was the message that he’d retrieved from under the cab’s wipers at lunchtime – the message he hadn’t wanted to show Rosalie.
I am watching you.
The words were written in capital letters and in black marker pen. The sheet of paper was thin and white, and with its jagged edges appeared to have been torn from a notebook. Apart from that, there was no clue as to who had written it.
Anger tightened inside him. He may have vowed to keep Rosalie safe, but the note showed that he had failed miserably. Someone was still out there, making threats, and he still had no idea who that might be.
He scrunched the paper into a ball and threw it in the waste-paper basket just as the lights flickered and went out. Damn. The electrician had assured him that he’d checked the wiring and dealt with the worst issues at Raventhorn. There was obviously quite a bit of work still to be carried out.
He was about to make his way down to the kitchen when an eerie screech pierced the silence of the night. His blood froze. What the hell was that? It didn’t sound like Rosalie’s voice. Or any woman’s voice. He wasn’t even sure it was human. Perhaps there was an injured animal – a fox or a deer – out there.
He walked to the window and pulled open the curtains to peer outside but couldn’t see anything.
Then he heard it again. Urgent, insistent.
His heart drumming hard, he rushed down the service stairs to the kitchen, and flung the door open. There wasn’t anyone out there, human or animal. He glanced towards the loch shimmering under frigid moon rays and muttered a curse. Someone was in the water … Without stopping to take his coat, he started to run.
As he got nearer, he could see who it was. A woman with long, dark curly hair. Rosalie! He’d never run so fast in his life, and pebbles clanged underfoot as he sprinted across the shore to the edge of the water.
‘Rosalie!’ he called, his voice hoarse and urgent.
Her face gleamed in the moonlight as she looked at him, then slid under the surface of the water. Seized with panic, he marched into the frozen loch, gritting his teeth against the cold. He had to get to her before she drowned. Perhaps it was already too late … There wasn’t even a ripple on the surface of the loch. It was as if she’d never been there.
‘Rosalie,’ he shouted again, his voice echoing in the dead of the night. Lunging forward, he started swimming, and when he thought he’d reached the spot where she had gone under, he gulped down a lungful of air and dived.
He could see nothing. Nothing but blackness. His eyes stung, his lungs burned, but he dived further down. He had to find her, save her. He couldn’t let her drown. When his lungs felt like they were bursting, he kicked his legs and swam back up to the surface. He took a deep, long breath and got ready to dive back down despite the terrible cold that bit into his body.
‘Petersen! Marc! What are you playing at?’ A woman shouted from the shore. ‘Are you out of your mind? Come back here, right now!’
He blinked the water out of his eyes. A white shape stood on the shore. Had the cold got to his brain and he was hallucinating, or was one of Raventhorn’s ghosts standing in front of him?
‘I said to come back. I have no intention of getting into that freezing loch to fish you out, do you hear?’ The voice was high-pitched and slightly hysterical.
It
was no ghost. It was Rosalie. But if she stood in front of him, who then was in the water? He glanced around him. The loch was empty. Its smooth surface reflected the moon and the stars. Had he imagined the woman? Had he drunk too much ale, or had some kind of dream?
He tried to swim but his arms and legs were too cold, too heavy, almost numb, and he gulped another mouthful of silty water. His muscles were seizing up. Now wasn’t the time to puzzle about the mysterious figure he thought he’d seen. He had to get out.
The shore wasn’t that far. He had to make it. He gave a few desperate kicks, his arms jerked into a clumsy breaststroke, and after what felt like an eternity he felt the pebbly ground under his feet at last. He reached out for a dead tree that stuck out of the water.
As he scrambled to his feet, a raven perched on a rock close by and let out the same blood-curdling cry he’d heard before. It glared at him, its small, shiny eyes reflecting the moonlight, then flapped its wings and flew off.
‘Come here, you big eejit.’ Despite what she’d just said, Rosalie didn’t hesitate for a second. She walked into the water, slid her hands under Marc’s arms and dragged him out of the loch and onto the beach.
The hem of her flannelette pyjamas was soaking wet, and so were the boots she’d hastily slipped on when she’d happened to glance out of the window of her flat and seen Marc run out of the kitchen towards the loch without even a coat. Something must be wrong, she thought, and she’d gone after him. Just in time, it seemed.
Now he was safe, anger took the edge off her fear.
‘What did you think you were doing?’ She curled her hands on her hips and tilted her face up to look at him. ‘If you fancied a bath there are plenty of tubs at Raventhorn, there’s no need to risk drowning in Loch Bran or catching pneumonia.’
He coughed, and struggled to pull himself upwards. His hair, his clothes dripped water onto the pebbly beach. His chest heaved as he drew in a few harsh breaths. He was shaking all over, his face grey in the silvery moonlight and his eyes dark and glazed, as if he was dreaming.
The truth dawned on her. Isobel. She’d never really believed any of the stories about Lady Fitheach. Until now.