by Marie Laval
‘It was her, wasn’t it?’ she whispered. ‘She was there, she tried to kill you.’
He shrugged her off and stood up to his full height. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
He was lying. It didn’t matter. What mattered was to get him back inside and into the warm. She started to unfasten her coat. ‘Quick, put that on, you need it more than me.’
He shook his head. ‘No. You keep it. I’ll be all right. How did you know I was here?’ he asked, his teeth chattering, as they hurried back to the castle.
‘I saw you run out of the house and followed your trail. Then you were in the loch.’ There were no words strong enough to express the icy fear that had gripped her when she’d seen his head bob in and out of the water and his arms beat the surface of the loch.
She forced a smile. ‘I know you have Viking blood in your veins, but surely the loch is too cold at this time of year, even for you.’ She paused and asked in a softer voice. ‘So, if it wasn’t Isobel, what happened?’
‘I have no idea. One minute I was having a beer, the next the electricity went off, I heard something and went out to investigate. And then I thought I saw …’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
They were in the courtyard, outside the kitchen now. He pointed at the rectangle of light reflecting onto the snow where he’d left the kitchen door open. ‘That’s strange … the power is back on.’
His lips had turned blue and his hands shook so badly it took him several attempts to pull his drenched shoes off. The man was freezing. It would be a miracle if he didn’t slip into hypothermic shock.
‘You need a hot shower.’ Rosalie kicked off her wet boots, threw her coat on the back of a chair and led the way up the stairs and to the first floor. The cold, wet hem of her flannelette pyjamas slapped her legs when she moved and her feet felt like blocks of ice.
‘Can you show me how that blasted shower works?’ Marc asked when they reached the first floor. ‘I don’t think I can face any more cold water tonight. Or ever.’ His lips stretched into a tentative smile.
Her heart did a flip and started pounding hard. Suddenly all she wanted was to comb his wet hair back from his forehead, wrap her arms around him and snuggle up to him to make sure he was warm. He might act as if it was no big deal but he’d had a narrow escape tonight. Men had drowned in Loch Bran before. Big, strong men like him.
‘Sure. Get undressed.’
While he sat down on a chair to take his wet socks off, she went into the en suite and turned the shower control on.
‘It’s ready,’ she shouted when steaming hot water spluttered out of the showerhead.
The door creaked open. ‘How do you it? I’ve been here a fortnight and still can’t work it out,’ he said from behind her.
‘That’s because you have to turn the dial very slowly until you hear a click.’ She turned to face him and the words died on her lips.
He stood tall, strong and naked apart from the towel he held around his waist. Steam rose from the shower cubicle, drowning the en suite in heat and white mist, and the lack of air made her lightheaded – unless it was the man who stood only a few feet from her and whose broad shoulders filled the doorway.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ she stammered, her cheeks burning and her heart racing.
He stepped aside but she bumped against the doorframe in a clumsy attempt to get out without touching him. Shutting the door behind her, she hurried to her old room where she cast her wet clothes off and rubbed her legs dry. She tried not to think about the man showering a few paces away. The man who had come to mean so much in the space of a couple of weeks.
She rummaged through her wardrobe for another pair of flannelette pyjamas, a green woolly cardigan, and slipped a pair of thick brown socks on her cold feet. She was about to step out of the room when she caught a glimpse of herself in the wardrobe mirror, and stopped in her tracks. No, it wouldn’t do at all. No woman should ever wear these sort of nightclothes around a man, except perhaps her granddad.
She stepped closer to the mirror. Her hair was wild, her skin red and blotchy from the cold. Her gaze travelled downwards and she sighed. That she was plain was nothing new, but these past few years she had also become a lot curvier and her old pyjama and cardigan did nothing to flatter her figure.
The thought of Marc Petersen seeing her shabby flannelette pyjamas was suddenly unbearable. She pulled the wardrobe doors open again. There must be something else she could wear. Didn’t she buy a peach satin nightdress and dressing gown in the sales once?
There it was, folded in tissue paper at the back of the shelf. She stripped off again, except for the socks, and slipped the nightdress on, enjoying the feel of the silky fabric as it glided on her bare skin and swished down to her feet.
After adjusting the straps so that the tight bodice of the nightdress covered her breasts, she wrapped herself in the matching dressing gown and checked her reflection in the mirror once again. Yes, it was better, much better. She combed her hair with her fingers, and winced. Now she needed to get rid of the muddy smell of the loch. She was reaching out for an old perfume bottle when her hand froze.
What did she think she was doing? Did she really hope that Marc would take one look at her in her slinky peach nightclothes and ravish her there and then? She heaved a shaky sigh and closed her eyes. That was exactly what she was hoping for – yearning for.
How silly of her to get so smitten, so infatuated … It wasn’t only his deep grey eyes, his strong shoulders or his rare smiles that sent her whole being into disarray – it was the way he was. The way he climbed out of the cab to help people get in and out. The way today he’d crouched down to be at eye level with the toddler who’d almost strangled him to get his scarf and let him give him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. And later he had lent Flora his arm and debated on the merits of value crackers as they walked down the supermarket aisles.
She knew she shouldn’t feel that way. It was dangerous, and pointless. Let’s face it, she was not the kind of woman he would ever be interested in. He had come to sell Raventhorn’s assets, and when he was done he would leave, never to return.
She closed her fist and pressed it against her heart as if it could make the yearning go away. Why couldn’t she just be happy with Niall’s steady, loyal affection? Why did she have to be attracted to the most unsuitable man alive, and have these impossible dreams? It was pathetic, and it had to stop.
With a last look at her reflection, she snatched the green cardigan from the bed and slipped it around her shoulders before going down to the kitchen.
Marc was sliding a tray covered with frozen potato wedges into the oven when she walked in. She was relieved to see that his face was no longer grey and he seemed to be no longer shaking.
He looked up and smiled. ‘Dinner should be ready in about fifteen minutes.’
‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry.’ As she moved away from the door, the sleeve of her cardigan snagged on the handle and the cardigan fell to the floor.
Marc bent down to pick it up. His gaze travelled from her unruly hair to her feet and he smiled. ‘Nice socks. They look very … warm,’ he said as he handed her the cardigan.
She almost groaned aloud. He hadn’t even noticed her sexy nightclothes!
‘There’s some of Marion’s chocolate cake left. It’s not as good as Lorna’s but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.’ He smiled again, humour sparkling in his eyes.
So not only had he not even noticed her lovely nightclothes, but he called her a glutton too! With a strangled cry, she swirled round and flew down the corridor and back up the stairs, clutching the edges of her cardigan tightly over her chest. She might as well put her ugly flannelette pyjamas back on. She wasn’t even halfway up the stairs when he caught up with her.
‘Rosalie, wait.’
She ignored him and climbed a couple more steps. The touch of his fingers on her shoulder made her gasp.
‘What’s the matter with you?’
<
br /> She repressed a sob. ‘Nothing. Leave me alone.’
‘Was it something I said?’
She turned to face him. He stood on the step below hers, so their eyes were almost level, for once. His were filled with shadows.
The words were out before she could think. ‘No, of course it wasn’t. I mean, why should I be upset if you only ever notice what I’m wearing to compare me to a giant marshmallow, complain that pink gives you headaches or comment on my ugly old socks? Why should I be upset if you think all I’m interested in is stuffing myself with chocolate cake …’ And she should stop before she made a complete fool of herself. Shame rose inside her like nausea. She pressed her hands to her burning cheeks and closed her eyes.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ His voice was deep and unusually soft, like the night when he’d fixed her shoulder in the holiday cottage. ‘I’m glad you like cake,’ he carried on. ‘In fact, I love watching you eat cake. I find it incredibly attractive.’
This was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. She opened her eyes, expecting to see him smile. He was serious.
‘If that’s your idea of a compliment, I can’t say I’m impressed,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘I thought French men were the kings of romance.’
‘I’m only half-French, remember? I doubt my Viking ancestors used poetry to woo their women. As for your clothing …’ His voice deepened. ‘Socks or no socks, I would have to be blind not to notice what you’re wearing tonight.’
He lifted a finger to her cheek and very slowly followed the wet trail a tear had made to the side of her mouth. It was only the lightest touch, but her lips parted, her breath hitched in her throat and her body sizzled, tightened and ached all at once.
His hand fell to his side. The heat in his eyes was as potent as a caress as they skimmed down her body, and she responded as surely as if he was touching her. A liquid, molten ache spread inside her. Goosebumps pricked her skin all over. This time, surely, he was going to take her in his arms, kiss her …
He pulled away, took a step down the stairs. ‘Let’s get back to the kitchen. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’
Chapter Seventeen
He ached to touch her but he clenched his fists by his sides instead, as he turned round and went back to the kitchen. He had to step away before it was too late, before he gave in to the urge to pull her into his arms, pin her against the wall and kiss her until he was lost.
He had no idea if she followed him or not. What he did know, however, is if he wanted to catch his breath and give his body a chance to cool down, he had to keep busy. He opened the oven and grabbed a tea towel to take the tray of wedges out. They were nowhere near ready yet, so he shoved the tray back in. He had lost his appetite anyway.
Rosalie walked into the kitchen, lifted her coat from the back of the chair without saying a word, and bent down to grab her wet boots.
‘Where are you going? I told you we needed to talk,’ he said as he opened the fridge, grabbed some ham and cheese and put them on the table. They would do while they waited for the potatoes to be ready.
She cast a thunderous look in his direction. ‘I can’t think what we have to talk about.’
‘I’ll explain in a minute. For now, sit down and have something to eat.’
‘I told you. I’m not hungry.’
The atmosphere in the kitchen was decidedly frosty as she sat down.
She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms on her chest. He tried not to stare at the delightful décolleté barely concealed under her ugly green cardigan.
‘So what did you want to talk to me about?’ she asked, tilting her chin.
‘Love Taxis.’
The phone ringing interrupted him.
A look of alarm on her face, Rosalie jumped to her feet.
‘Who could it be at this time? I hope it’s not bad news from the hospital.’ She rushed up the stairs, the hem of her peach satin dressing gown flying after her.
Sighing, he turned the oven off and went after her.
‘Yes, of course, I’ll call him. Please hold on.’
Rosalie put the phone down on the console table and turned when she heard his footsteps behind her.
‘Is it the hospital?’ he asked.
She shook her head. She had been so scared of getting bad news about Geoff that it had been a relief to hear the impatient woman’s voice demanding to speak to Marc.
‘No, it’s for you,’ she replied, handing the telephone to him. ‘A Miss Kirsty Marsh.’
His face hardened and he said as he grabbed hold of the phone, ‘This won’t take long. Please wait for me in the drawing room. We still need to talk.’
Even though all she wanted was to be alone, she did as he asked. The moment of truth had arrived. He was about to deliver his verdict about Love Taxis, tell her he was closing her down, and ask her to speak to Fergus, Fiona and Duncan about redundancies.
She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. If only she could find new arguments to convince him, but she’d said everything already. What’s more, she could hardly look him in the eye after tonight’s mortifying incident – yet another instance when she’d misread his intentions. Shame heated her face. She believed he wanted to kiss her, thought she’d seen heat and desire in his eyes. How could she have been so mistaken?
She heard him talking on the phone as she walked to the drawing room.
‘No, Rosalie isn’t the maid. She lives here. Yes, with me. I told you, it’s complicated. Is there a problem? My mobile? Sorry, you’re right, I haven’t checked it for the past couple of hours or so. To tell you the truth, I can’t even remember where I left the damned thing.’
There was a pause. ‘What? When did that happen? Four days ago? Why didn’t you phone me or email me earlier? Poor Maguire. He must be devastated. I’ll be there to represent the firm. Of course, I have to. More to the point, I want to. You can do what you want, it’s your choice … I’ll come back to Scotland after the funeral. I haven’t made much progress with the inventory here. I’ve been busy … Doing what? Driving a taxi, if you must know, and no, this isn’t a joke.’
Feeling suddenly guilty for eavesdropping on his conversation, Rosalie pushed the door open and walked into the drawing room. Fire smouldered in the fireplace, Geoff’s papers and books were scattered all over the floor, and a bottle of beer stood on the coffee table. She lifted it up. It was empty. Angus would be proud. It looked like his homebrewed ale had made a new convert.
She poked at the embers and placed a couple of logs on the grate to start the fire again, then sat on the sofa and flicked through one of the manuscripts. A few minutes later the door creaked and Marc strode in. He stood facing the fire for a moment, hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets, before turning to face her. He looked so sombre she did not dare speak.
‘I have to go back to London,’ he said. ‘Will you take me to the airport tomorrow morning?’
A fist squeezed her heart but she forced a smile. ‘Of course. Shouldn’t you check the times of the flights first?’
‘There’s no need. I arranged for the company jet to come for me. They’ll be there at noon. Is that all right with you?’
‘Should be. You know our bookings schedule as well as I do by now, since you’ve been doing all the driving.’ She almost added that she was surprised he trusted her to drive, but the quiet sadness in his eyes stopped her.
‘That phone call … Was it bad news?’
He nodded. ‘One of my employees, Maguire … His wife died a few days ago.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘The thing was, it was their anniversary a couple of weeks ago. He’d arranged a surprise for her. It was partly the reason I’m here. It should have been him who came to Raventhorn.’
He turned to stare into the flames again and added in a quiet voice, ‘The funeral is the day after tomorrow.’
‘What was her name?’
His lips stretched into a thin, bitter smile. ‘You kn
ow what? I can’t even remember. The man has worked for me for the past five years and I can’t recall the name of his wife. What does that say about me?’
She rose to her feet, and went to him. ‘It’s because you’re in shock. What really matters is that you’ll be there for him, and you’ll support him.’
He took a deep breath and smiled. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as nice as you, Rosalie Heart. You are truly one of a kind.’
She forced a laugh. ‘You said that the night I bashed you on the head with Lorna’s copper pan, but I don’t think you meant it in a good way then.’
He didn’t reply, but there was something unfathomable in his eyes – something soft and tender that made her soul fly. But no! It was impossible. She was reading too much into it, once again.
‘You said you wanted to talk to me. Is it about Love Taxis?’
He nodded.
‘You’re closing me down, aren’t you?’
‘I am, but—’
‘I knew it.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I was hoping you would see beyond the poor accounting and the bank overdraft. Obviously, I was asking too much. Your priorities are to yourself and your company, not to the people around here.’
‘Rosalie, let me speak.’
‘There’s no point. I have no intention of listening as you dissect my inability to manage my business and give me perfectly sensible reasons to shut me down.’
‘Will you hear me out?’ He sounded impatient now – impatient to list her inadequacies, her failings, no doubt.
‘What for? So you can treat me the way you treat that poor man on the phone, the one you threaten with ruin because he didn’t follow your instructions?’
He frowned. ‘It’s you I want to talk about, not Fitzpatrick.’
She crossed her arms and tilted her chin up. ‘Go on then, I’m listening. I know what you think already. All I’m good for is eating chocolate cake, wearing silly pink clothes, and boring people stiff with my chatting and my bad singing! And now …’ she stammered and this time she didn’t even try to stop the tears from falling, ‘now you’re taking away the only thing I have ever managed to achieve. Love Taxis was my idea. I knew I had no talent for business but I tried.’