by Lizzie Lamb
Fun? What was she thinking?
She was here to do a job, not to be sucked into the Urquhart’s charmed world of romantic castle in the highlands, staff to do their bidding and (from her financial viewpoint) money to burn. She had to keep her identity intact and her wits about her, if she was going to hold her own with Ruairi Urquhart. She was starting to think and act like Cat and Isla - the joint queens of procrastination. And that wouldn’t do - it wouldn’t do at all.
Putting everything from her mind, she concentrated on getting ready for the party. Her cases had been placed on top of the wardrobe, and someone had set out her toiletries on the glass topped dressing table. Walking over to a mahogany tallboy she opened the drawers and found her greying underwear and shrunken tshirts neatly folded among scented drawer liners. A member of staff must have unpacked her case, hung her belongings in the wardrobe and put mineral water and a tin of biscuits by her bed while she’d slept. She cringed at the thought of some unknown hand unpacking her battered suitcase and making unfavourable comparisons between her Primark knickers and the silk and lace undies they more usually unpacked for house guests.
Drawn back to the window by the insistent thump-thump of the disco, she pushed it open. The delicious aroma of barbecued food wafted up, making her stomach rumble, reminding her she’d eaten nothing since breakfast.
Snatching a piece of shortbread out of the tin she munched it as she made her way to the bathroom to take a shower. The shower water was peaty brown from the hills and left her hair feeling soft and her skin glowing. She was just drying herself when Cat - channelling the punk fairy on crack cocaine look for the party - entered the room. She’d overdone the Goth pallor, heavily ringed eyes and face piercings; but, on closer inspection Fliss saw that her spectral paleness was entirely natural.
Her heart skipped a beat and her earlier disquiet returned.
‘The shit’s hitting the fan down there and heading in our direction.’ Cat rubbed her hands together agitatedly and then tucked them under her armpits like a nervous teenager.
‘Our?’ Fliss questioned, wondering how she could possibly be in trouble when all she’d done was arrive at Tigh na Locha and slept. But Cat appeared beyond listening, let alone responding to her question.
In an obvious attempt to chivvy her, Cat picked up a paisley patterned bikini and folded length of sari cloth laid out across a button backed nursing chair. Ornate bracelets, earrings, anklet and a pair of flat sandals fell out of the folds and landed at Cat’s feet. Scooping everything up, she tossed the improvised fairy costume onto the bed.
‘Get dressed. Quickly!’
‘Why?’ Fliss was becoming immune to Cat and Isla’s little dramas and refused to be rushed. ‘My hair’s soaking wet.’
‘Never mind that! Ruairi’s here. He’s arrived in Angus’s helicopter. That’s it down there on the beach.’ She muttered something in Gaelic, dragged Fliss back to the window and pointed at the helicopter. ‘Now do you get it?’ Like an understudy for Lady Macbeth, Cat’s hand-wringing recommenced. Evidently, the day of reckoning had arrived sooner than any of them had bargained for.
Fliss sat down at the dressing table and tried to remain calm, but Cat’s anxiety was contagious. ‘Your stepbrother, Ruairi? Here?’ she echoed, trying to gain herself some thinking time. Her mouth was dry and her tongue had glued itself to the roof of her mouth - whether as a result of nervousness or the two whiskies she’d drunk earlier on top of an empty stomach, she wasn’t sure.
‘Yes. Tonight of all nights. He’s come straight from Hong Kong, jet lagged and in a foul mood … gone ape because he didn’t know about the party … and we’re supposed to be grounded … Mitzi’s been spending money she hasn’t got, or more importantly the estate hasn’t got. And, worst of all - he knows all about the plans to revive the therapy centre. I left them having a blazing row - and with poor auld Angus playing Piggy in the Middle.’
At the mention of the therapy centre, Fliss’s brain switched into a higher gear. She’d never seen Cat look so scared, so chastened - not even when she’d been arrested and taken to the police station. And that worried her.
‘Get dressed. Mitzi wants you to come down to the beach and meet Ruairi ASAP. She’s convinced that once you talk to him and go over your plans for the centre he won’t think that it’s just another of her hare-brained schemes - to use his words.’ She rolled her eyes, leaving Fliss with the unflattering impression that she didn’t believe her capable of dissuading Ruairi Urquhart from a course of action once his mind was made up.
‘Why didn’t you wake me earlier?’ Fliss scowled and busied herself with moisturiser and toner.
But, Cat wasn’t listening. She evidently had her own problems to think about; expelled from boarding school, poorly predicted A level grades, being taken to Ladbroke Grove Police station. It would all take some explaining - and with Ruairi patently in no mood to listen. Growing noticeably more distracted by the minute, Cat was drawn back to the window, the helicopter and the circle of people surrounding it. She kept muttering: ‘Ohshit, ohshit, ohshit,’ under her breath, and biting the skin round the top of her thumb.
She glanced at her watch. ‘Dealing with Isla will probably give him a coronary within minutes, so - hopefully - when we get down there he’ll have run out of steam.’
‘Really?’
‘No – oh.’ Her scathing look suggested that Fliss just didn’t get it. ‘He’ll warm up on Mitzi, but he’ll reserve the worst of his fury for Isla - and then me.’ Her voice went up an octave and ended in a mouse-like squeak. Suddenly, Fliss felt sorry for her. She might be young and foolish, prone to aping her wilder, older sister - but she shouldn’t be this terrified of her stepbrother.
‘Give me five minutes,’ she said with more composure than she felt. If she was going to meet the big bad wolf on his home turf she’d make damned sure that she was looking her best. The best she could, given the dressing-up-box collection of rags and tatters she’d have to pass off as a costume. Maybe she ought to wear something more …
‘Five minutes! We don’t have five minutes. When Ruairi says now, he actually means, like - yesterday?’
‘Five minutes.’ She had no intention of being harried by Ruairi Urquhart. She began towelling her hair dry and Cat left the room.
Minutes later Fliss stood in front of the mirror. Everyone might regard Ruairi Urquhart with shock and awe, but she’d show him that girls from Pimlico were made of sterner stuff. Besides, if she took a little longer to get ready he might have calmed down, got used to the idea of Mitzi’s business and be more concerned with whipping his two stepsisters into shape than quizzing her.
Despite her brave assertions, her hands were shaking so badly she had difficulty ringing her eyes with kohl and making a bindi mark on her forehead with lipstick. She pinned up her long auburn hair, teased out some loose tendrils to frame her face and fastened on heavy silver drop earrings hung with little bells. Tucking yards of sari material into the top of her ridiculously small bikini, she knotted the rest over her hip.
Ever practical, she sprayed herself with insect repellent instead of perfume. She’d been warned about the vicious Highland midges and had no intention of being bitten alive and having to spend the rest of the week covered in tea tree oil. Looking more like a fairy from Bollywood than a highland glen, she descended the stairs with bracelets and anklets jangling and yards of embroidered cloth looped over her arm.
Leaving the house by the front door she made her way down to the beach, her heart beating like a crazy metronome at the thought of meeting the Laird of Kinloch Mara. She wondered if his entry in Burke’s Peerage included “bully” and “thorough bastard” alongside his ancient lineage. There was only one way to deal with bullies and that was to stand up to them. She used that thought to shore up her confidence and prepare her for going head-to-head with this latter-day monarch of the glen.
Chapter Eleven
Five minutes later, Fliss hurried along the path, psyching herself for the meeting wi
th her nemesis. Ready to do battle on behalf of Mitzi and the therapy centre. She simply had to convince Ruairi Urquhart she was the kind of woman he’d be a fool to let slip through his fingers. Running the therapy centre represented a once in a lifetime opportunity and she wasn’t about to give it up without a fight.
She couldn’t face returning to London and unravelling everything she’d spent the last weeks putting in place … subletting her flat, the therapy equipment she’d put into storage. Not to mention the offer of a white van she’d turned down when she’d put her plans for a mobile therapy business on the back burner. She envisaged herself sleeping on the fold down bed in Becky’s room, lying awake in the darkness, mulling over everything she’d lost - while Becky snored and ground her teeth for England. And Sir Ruairi Urquhart, Bart, congratulated himself on repelling another English invader.
That thought alone was enough to spur her on! Fixing on a confident smile, she ran towards the beach, past scantily dressed fairies, vampish Titanias and camp Oberons. A rocket shot into the sky and exploded above her in a technicolour shower. Startled, she stumbled on the uneven path and cannoned into one of the rose-covered iron arbours lining the path. The pain was excruciating and made her lose her grip on the sari cloth tethered to her bikini bottoms. It slithered free and snaked around her ankles, impeding her progress. Anxious not to keep Himself waiting, she gathered up the slack and hurried on. There was a horrendous tearing sound as the silk snagged on an ancient thorn and yanked her backwards.
She let out a groan of impatience and an expletive; this really was the last straw.
‘Perhaps I can be of assistance?’
Her head span round towards a Victorian gazebo where she could just make out the dark shadow of a man. Annoyed at how unprofessional she must appear - she was, after all, the new manageress of Lady Urquhart’s therapy centre - Fliss was keen to make an exit, stage left. But as she hoiked up her costume and gave the cloth one last desperate tug, she only succeeded in entangling herself further. The sudden movement sent rose petals falling around her like eco-friendly confetti at an upmarket wedding and her bikini bottom slipped past the point of no return.
‘Oh, flippin’ Ada,’ she exclaimed, snatching up the free end of the sari and wrapping it around her like a sarong. Then she glanced towards the gazebo and saw that the stranger had got to his feet. Cat had warned her about Mitzi’s louche male friends and their propensity for groping nubile young women in Tigh na Locha’s dark passageways. She really had no time for fending off the unwelcome attentions of a Rod Stewart/Iggy Pop look alike. If he made one false move towards her in her present mood, he’d live to regret it.
‘I’m fine. Really.’ Her tone made it clear that his attentions were unwelcome.
‘You don’t look … fine. Not from where I’m standing at any rate.’ There was a pause as she realised she was bent over the sari cloth with her bottom stuck up in the air like - like a duck diving for pond weed.
‘Well, take it from me - I am.’ She quickly unfastened the end of the sari that was threaded through her bikini bottom. But the other end had coiled itself round her calf and snagged on a silver anklet.
‘I beg to differ.’ In contrast to her dampening words, he showed a chivalrous regard for her dilemma. But she wasn’t taken in by the whole knight in shining armour routine, not even when he asked for a second time, ‘Are you quite sure you won’t let me help?’
‘I’m on my way to meet someone, actually. They’ll be wondering where I am,’ she added, just in case he was some kind of voyeur who got his kicks from spying on scantily dressed women. She looked over her shoulder to see if Cat or Murdo were within shouting distance.
‘Who are you meeting? Perhaps I can reach them on my -’
‘Don’t bother trying to use your mobile. The Laird,’ she couldn’t help but spit the word out, ‘has decreed - no phone masts on his land, so it’d be pointless.’ Turning away from him, Fliss realised that she’d have to unfasten the anklet and sandal and abandon them on the path with the sari cloth. Then she’d be forced to run semi-naked down to the beach to find Ruairi Urquhart. ‘Buggerbuggerbugger,’ she repeated under her breath.
‘I was going to say: on my two-way radio. Look - I insist on helping.’
She detected amusement in his voice and raised her head to glower at him. But she stopped in mid glare as a strikingly good looking man in his early thirties stepped out of the summer house carrying a two way radio. She was too preoccupied to wonder why a guest would need such a device or why he was wearing a business suit, white shirt and thin tie when everyone else was dressed for the revels.
Then she began to notice other telling details. The suit was obviously tailored and emphasised his broad shoulders, slim hips and long legs. His shirt looked like the finest Sea Island cotton and his tie was this season’s Paul Smith. His hair - just two shades short of jet-black was well cut but dishevelled - as though he’d been running his fingers through it whilst mulling over some intractable problem in the gazebo. Though what would make a man with his air of self-possession leave the party when it was at its height, she couldn’t imagine.
‘May I?’ He slipped the walkie-talkie into his pocket, crouched at her feet and curled his fingers round her ankle. ‘Don’t struggle - you’ll only make things worse.’
Fliss tried to think of some stinging rejoinder that would let him know - should he be in any doubt - that she didn’t need to be rescued. At least, not by him. She hoped that her body language - hands on hips, chin titled at a belligerent angle, other foot tapping on the gravel path, made it clear that his attentions were unwelcome.
‘If you could just get a move on?’ she commanded as he fiddled with the cloth. Then curiosity prompted her to ask, ‘So, who - what are you - the event organiser?’ She gestured towards the radio in his pocket and his lack of costume. Her words appeared to amuse him because he gave a short bark of laughter.
‘I’m certainly not on the guest list, so, I guess that probably makes me staff,’ his mouth quirked in a smile. Fliss suspected that at some level he was enjoying playing the rescuer, kneeling at her feet like a knight-errant while she was pinned to the rose tree like a gaudy butterfly. He shifted position, transferring his weight from one knee to the other and an explosive combination of his aftershave and musky pheromones wafted towards her.
‘I - I …’
She took in a sharp breath, ready to deliver another crushing remark. But his intoxicating, manly scent overwhelmed her and she felt beset by the urge to draw his dark head into her naked body and cradle it there. She took a self-preserving half step away from him as her hormones kicked in and reminded her how long it had been since she’d slept with a man.
‘A ram caught in a thicket,’ he laughed, seemingly unaware of the effect of his touch on her bare skin. Pulling the sari free of the rose bush, he raised his head and sent her an appraising look from amazingly sexy blue eyes. Caught off guard, she let out a small “oh,” as her womb tightened and then relaxed and a feather of desire unfurled deep within her.
‘Would you please just … let me go?’
‘Rambling Rector if I’m not mistaken,’ he said, as though she hadn’t spoken. For a wild moment, it felt like she was in an X-rated episode of Gardener’s World - although this dangerously attractive man was light years away from Alan Titchmarsh. ‘There all done.’
‘Who are you?’ She knew she was a fool to linger here, but there was something about the way he held himself, his Celtic colouring: dark hair, wide-spaced blue eyes and high cheek bones, which was familiar to her. One more question and then she’d keep her rendezvous with Ruairi Urquhart. ‘Why aren’t you in costume?’
‘Let’s just say I didn’t know about the party until it was too late.’ Apparently sensing her change of mood, he opened his hands and released her from bondage. Then he stood up, folded the sari into a neat rectangle and handed it over with a courteous dip of his head.
‘Ditto,’ she said indicating her own outfit.
Another assessing look passed between them and she knew that - although he appeared to have himself under control, it probably wasn’t a good idea to draw attention to her lack of clothing. ‘I do know Cat and Isla, quite well, however,’ she babbled, using the moment to cover the fact that her whole body throbbed for his touch. ‘They’re very …’
‘They’re certainly very something.’ Now there was a different note in his voice, one she couldn’t quite get a handle on. She guessed that in the past the sisters had done something to annoy him. So far, so predictable.
‘Quite.’ She gave him an oblique look - he didn’t strike her as the kind of man they could behave towards with impunity. Neither could she imagine Mitzi leaving him off the guest list. Her ‘hundred close friends’ on the beach seemed to be drawn from Who’s Who of the Western Isles.
‘How do you know them?’ he asked at last, his cobalt blue eyes suddenly suspicious, wary.
‘From when I lived and worked in London.’ Something was out of kilter, something she couldn’t quite nail. She had the unsettling feeling that what she said next would be filed and later used against her. Time she left. ‘Excuse me - I have to …’
Her words were drowned out by a salvo of loud bangs from the beach and she dropped the sari cloth onto the path. Simultaneously, they bent down to pick it up - and as she straightened, the top of her head came into contact with his chin. She absorbed the full force of the impact and bright stars of concussion flashed across her field of vision, merging with the fireworks going off all around them.
Temporarily stunned, she was dimly aware that her name was being called further along the path. Then her brain gave a warning pulse, the ringing in her ears amplified and darkness closed in on her. She felt herself falling - down, down - and reached out towards the stranger, as though some part of her knew that she could trust him. With one swift movement, he drew her towards him and gathered her into his arms - as though she weighed no more than a handful of the petals settling around them. She felt the soft touch of wool against her cheek, strong arms around her and she felt safe; the safest she had in years - even though she was in the arms of a perfect stranger.