Tall, Dark and Kilted

by Lizzie Lamb

  Perfect …

  Neither of them saw the fireworks shooting up into the pearlescent sky or heard the cheers that followed each extravagant effect. It was as if the clocks had stopped running and the rhythmic rise and fall of their breathing marked time instead. She moulded her body into his, prolonging the contact and enjoying the warmth radiating from him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she turned towards him and then, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, they kissed.

  The kiss at first was soft and exploratory. But as the dizzy beat of her faint receded, Fliss tightened her grip around his neck and pulled his head towards her. Boldly, she took the kiss a step further, probing the inside of his mouth with her tongue. In response, he shifted her weight in his arms, held her more tightly against his body and took command of their lovemaking.

  He murmured something faint and indistinct against her hair and the cadence in his voice - if not the exact words spoken, sounded strangely familiar. Drawing back from the kiss, Fliss dredged up the memory of the night of her arrest - the plaque on the bench, the scent of tobacco plants and the phone call - as if it was vitally important that she remembered every detail.

  ‘Klingon,’ she said after a huge effort. She felt a shudder course through him as if he’d been in a waking dream and that single word had brought him to his senses.

  ‘Fl -i -ss … Where are you?’ Mitzi called out from lower down the gardens.

  ‘Klingon - Fliss?’ His face became hard, his expression calculating as if everything suddenly made perfect sense. ‘Oh, ri-ight. I get it.’ He looked at her with distaste as Mitzi, Murdo and Angus approached from the house and Cat and Isla advanced in a pincer movement up from the beach. ‘This is a stitch-up, a sting; and I’ve fallen for it - hook, line and sinker.’

  ‘Here she is,’ Isla said crossly, clearly none too happy at being dragged away from the firework display to form a search party. But when she saw Fliss in the stranger’s arms, she started to laugh.

  When Mitzi and the others reached them, they stopped dead in their tracks, staring at Fliss with their mouths open. Why were they looking at her - at them both like that? Okay - maybe cavorting in the arms of the party planner when she should have been looking for Ruairi Urquhart reflected badly on her professionalism. But she couldn’t quite understand why their reaction should be quite so extreme.

  Unless …

  ‘Oh, my god - Klingon,’ she gasped. And the final piece of the jigsaw slotted into place.

  ‘Greater love hath no woman, than she lay down herself for her career,’ Isla intoned, regarding Fliss with ironic admiration. ‘Way to go Fliss. I might have known you’d be prepared to go to any lengths to save Mumma’s therapy centre. And, of course, your job.’ Turning a jubilant face towards the man still holding Fliss in his arms she added, ‘Hey, you guys - don’t look at Fliss like that. You’ve gotta respect a girl for her determination to let nothing stand between her and her ambitions.’

  ‘Enough, Isla,’ said the man who was no longer a stranger.

  ‘Enough? Oh, I don’t think so.’ Isla evidently had no intention of being denied her moment of triumph. ‘It’s probably a bit late for formal introductions, but the social niceties must be observed. Fliss, I’d like you to meet the Laird of Kinloch Mara. Our stepbrother… Ruairi Urquhart.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘You -your brother?’ Fliss stammered as Ruairi Urquhart placed her on her feet and then took several distancing steps away from her. Aware that it must look as if she’d deliberately set out to seduce him in order to safeguard her position at the therapy centre, Fliss knew she had to set the record straight.

  And quickly, too.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she held out her hand. ‘I’m …’

  He blanked her and focused his attention on the search party grouped on the path before him. Humiliated and burning with mortification, Fliss linked her hands under the sari length to hide their shaking.

  ‘Library, now please - all of you,’ he commanded. It was clear from the deep frown that drew his straight dark eyebrows together that he was holding his anger in check.

  ‘Yowzer. Whatever you say, Bro,’ Isla saluted, ignoring his basilisk stare.

  ‘Shall we?’ Ruairi prompted, gesturing for Fliss to join the others. Plainly, it didn’t occur to him for a second that she would do anything as reckless as defying him. Fliss hesitated, but decided that this was neither the time nor the place to make her stand.

  So much for the highland hospitality she’d read about in the guidebooks. Céad míle fáilte - kaed meela fault-yih - a hundred thousand welcomes she’d been promised. Instead, she’d got the Urquharts - quite possibly the most dysfunctional family in the highlands and islands.

  She held herself proudly as they progressed along the path, very much aware that her nemesis was right behind her - no doubt watching her bottom trying to free itself from the miniscule triangle of bikini. She stumbled once or twice and felt Mitzi’s guiding hand at her back and threw a grateful look over her shoulder. At least she had one friend in Kinloch Mara.

  As they entered the house and crossed the hall, Mitzi and the rest of the prison detail fell into step with the flip-flop of Fliss’s sandals on the stone floor. As if she was performing some strange Bollywood version of a highland reel with tinkling ankle bells in place of the bagpipes. Shaking her head at the fanciful notion, she collided with Urquhart as she stopped at the foot of the stairs, unsure of where the library was situated. His expression wasn’t encouraging as he moved to one side, peeled off from the main party and issued a command to a member of staff.

  ‘Yes, Sir Ruairi, right away.’ The young girl disappeared towards the kitchens. Fliss followed the family into the library where they took up various positions near a large partners’ desk. Mitzi and Angus on a scuffed leather sofa, Cat by the marble fireplace and Isla on the very edge of the desk.

  Fliss held back, wondering where to stand. Surely, what he had to say to his family should be said in private? Did she really need to hear him haranguing them? She pretty much guessed the outcome of this pow-wow and was mentally preparing herself for the long trip home to Pimlico.

  But not before she’d said her piece to Urquhart - in private.

  Moving towards the fireplace, she sat on the padded fender and stretched her hands towards the peat turves burning in the grate. She was disconcerted to find that she was chilled to the bone. It might be midsummer’s eve but cool evening air blew through the open window and insinuated itself round the dark corners of the room, and her ankles.

  The door opened and they all jumped, demonstrating just how jittery they were. But it was only the same member of staff bearing a tray of sandwiches, shortbread and a pot of coffee. She placed it on the fender and Cat reached out towards it.

  ‘Supper. I’m starving,’ she broke the depressing silence that had fallen on them.

  ‘The supper was ordered for the English lady. By the Laird,’ the girl announced, handing Fliss her silk kimono which she carried, draped over her arm. ‘Will I be after fetching you some supper too, Miss Catriona?’

  ‘You’ve been stuffing your face all night, Cat. Don’t be such a pig. The staff has enough to do without running around after you - or Fliss, come to that.’ Ignoring Isla’s jibe, Fliss slipped on the kimono, grateful that she could at last hide her nakedness. Ruairi entered the room and held the door open for the young girl who scuttled back to the kitchen - no doubt eager to regale the staff with the behaviour of themselves upstairs. As she brushed past Ruairi in the doorway, she almost bobbed a curtsey.

  No wonder he had such an inflated sense of his own importance Fliss thought, giving him an icy stare. But the effect was rather spoiled when her stomach gave a hungry growl.

  ‘Do sit down and eat, Fliss darling. Before you faint clean away again,’ Mitzi gestured towards the tray of food.

  Fliss considered leaving the food untouched, just to make the point that she didn’t want anything from Ruairi Urquha
rt. Neither would she be jumping every time he clicked his fingers. But common sense and good manners won the day. How would she be able to hold her own with the Laird of Kinloch Mara if she was weak from hunger? In a flash, she gained the measure of the man she had to convince the therapy centre was a good business proposition - and persuade to allow her to stay on at Tigh na Locha. Judging by the stubborn line of his mouth and the flinty look in his eyes, she doubted very much that anyone had made Ruairi Urquhart change his mind in a long, long time.

  Evidently believing that he’d discharged his obligations towards her, Ruairi took his place behind the desk and Isla launched a pre-emptive strike:

  ‘I have gathered you all together …’ she said, mimicking Miss Marple perfectly.

  Fliss had to admit that the scene did look like it’d been lifted straight out of an Agatha Christy novel. The family gathered in the panelled library, the tense atmosphere, the impending dénouement; and Murdo, the faithful retainer - with a long handled axe slotted through his belt - guarding the door in case anyone did a runner. Tense with anticipation, knowing full well that her turn would come, Fliss wondered who would be denounced as the murderer. Or, in this case, the mastermind behind the idea of resurrecting the therapy centre.

  ‘All the usual suspects, I see,’ Ruairi parried, looking at his sisters. ‘Only this time a new character has joined the cast. So, what have we? Two punk fairies, one Titania, and - Julius Caesar; for the love of God, why Julius Caesar, Angus?’ he asked despairingly of the large Texan.

  ‘Mitzi said we were to dress as characters from Shakespeare. I kinda got my plays all mixed up. We don’t read a whole lot of Shakespeare on the oil rigs, Ruairi.’ Red faced and perspiring in the folds of a roman toga and with a crown of laurel leaves perched rakishly over one ear, Angus grinned lamely at them. Cat snorted and then coughed to cover it up when Ruairi flashed a warning look.

  ‘I don’t suppose you do.’ Ruairi’s lips were set in a forbidding line as he moved on to Fliss. ‘I know Wester Ross has its monsoon season but I don’t quite see where a Bollywood fairy fits into your vision of a Midsummer Night’s Dream, Mitzi. Or why Murdo is dressed as a woodcutter.’

  ‘Why to slay the big bad wolf when he crashes the party, of course. Duh.’ Isla was shushed into silence by Mitzi who turned her big blue eyes on Ruairi.

  ‘Ruairi. Sweetie … this little party has been all very last minute. Fliss and the girls only arrived today; hence the makeshift costumes … we’ve had to improvise, cobble our costumes together as best we could.’ She picked at the layers of silk and gold organza that fell from her hand-embroidered bustier studded with seed pearls. It screamed couture at Fliss. ‘I know you said to keep a lid on our spending, but we’ve been very frugal. The girls are wearing old ballet tutus, Doc Martens and … and, Angus has paid for his own costume, the caterers and, well - everything. It hasn’t cost the estate - you - a bean.’ Ruairi appeared to take her words at face value and she relaxed.

  ‘Well that does rather present me with a problem, Mitzi.’ He brought a sheaf of papers out of the desk drawer. ‘Because someone called Vivienne Westwood is demanding payment for an exclusive costume designed for Lady Urquhart. The invoice runs into five figures - and is dated several months ago. Impromptu party, Mitzi? I don’t think so.’

  ‘I - I can explain,’ Mitzi began.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m hoping.’ Ruairi folded his arms and gave her a deceptively charming smile, before turning to Angus. ‘I thought we’d agreed, Angus - no more parties.’

  ‘Hell, I know, Ruairi. But it was the only way to persuade Mitzi to leave that goddam spa - forward slash - ashram she’d booked herself into, and come home. Ah was nearly melting in the heat. Another week and ah’d’ve been a dead man. For sure. And Mitzi’s face would have been frozen forever.’ Taking one look at his huge frame and high colour, and Mitzi’s smooth forehead Fliss sensed he wasn’t exaggerating.

  ‘Oh, Angus, how you do go on.’ Mitzi slapped his hand. ‘It was just a little top up,’ she explained to Fliss who was by now the only one looking at her. The others were avoiding eye contact with each other and Ruairi in case they brought his wrath down on their head.

  The tension in the room was palpable; there was an undercurrent of unfinished business and unspoken words between Ruairi, Mitzi and the girls. The whole family dynamic was out of kilter, but somehow Fliss couldn’t envisage them signing up for Family Therapy, pouring their hearts out in an attempt to sort out their unresolved issues. People like them didn’t; they bottled up their feelings and left them to fester for years. She wanted to understand the root of their unhappiness and dysfunction, spend time unravelling their collective past. Time she didn’t have.

  She was about as welcome as a plague bacillus at Tigh na Locha and the sooner she was back in London and quarantined the better. She turned away from the family scene and stared into the slow burning peat turves, letting her eyes swim out of focus.

  She felt like she’d fallen asleep half way through a complicated movie and had woken up just as the final credits rolled - leaving her with a raft of unanswered questions. Just how strapped for cash were the Urquharts? They hardly looked like they were entitled to Family Credit. She knew that wealth was relative. But, if you owned a castle in the highlands complete with loch and acres of land, a house in uber-trendy Notting Hill and other assets - surely you could hardly consider yourself on the bread line?

  ‘We’ll talk about the party later, Mitzi,’ Ruairi promised, as though suddenly remembering the reason he’d flown home earlier than expected. He turned the full laser beam of his blue eyes on Isla and Cat. ‘I’m more interested in why you two think you can stay in the London house, without permission.’

  ‘I didn’t realise that we needed permission to stay in our family house.’ Emphasising the word, Isla slid off the edge of the desk and sashayed over to Mitzi. She perched on the arm of the sofa and swung her black stockinged legs backwards and forwards.

  ‘Well, for the record, you do. I only hope,’ he added coldly, ‘that nothing has been broken. And that you stayed well away from my mother’s things in the attic.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, we know we’re not allowed to touch them. You said.’ Isla patted her mother consolingly on the shoulder. The reference to the late Lady Urquhart had clearly upset Mitzi and she was pulling a corner of her designer costume through her fingers. ‘I’m nearly twenty. I think I can take care of myself and a knocked about old house.’

  Ruairi chose to ignore her last derogatory comment.

  ‘One would have thought so; but as it stands - I wouldn’t leave either of you in charge of an empty shoe box, let alone a house full of antiques.’ Fliss thought of the hammering some of those family heirlooms had taken on the night of the party and hoped that he wasn’t planning on flying down to Notting Hill to take an inventory any time soon.

  ‘We managed pretty okay. If you don’t believe me, ask Fliss.’ By now, Fliss was familiar with Isla’s ploy of deflecting flak away from herself by sending it in someone else’s direction. She’d used it to good effect when the neighbours had been baying for blood on the steps of the house in Elgin Crescent - and again in Ladbroke Grove Police Station. But she wasn’t about to fall for it a third time.

  Unhurriedly, she drained her cup and made a great play of rearranging the folds of her kimono. She didn’t want him to think she was intimidated by him. Or that the epithets he’d levelled at his sisters: feckless, irresponsible, untrustworthy, could also be applied to her.

  ‘I think you’ll find the house exactly as you’d expect,’ was her ambiguous reply.

  ‘Which is?’ Ruairi asked, clearly suspicious of her answer.

  Then he yawned. For a split second he looked bone-tired, and if he hadn’t behaved so appallingly towards her since they’d been discovered in the garden, Fliss might have had some degree of sympathy for him … Flying in on the red eye, helicoptering up from Heathrow to find a fancy dress party in full swing, and the content
ious therapy centre resurrected. Instead, she hardened her heart and reserved her sympathy for herself - brought here on a fool’s errand, and dispatched home less than twenty four hours later like an unwanted parcel.

  ‘Nothing to add, Isla? Cat?’ His interrogation continued despite his obvious exhaustion.

  ‘D - don’t think so,’ Cat mumbled and moved closer to Fliss on the fender, evidently believing there was strength in numbers. In the ensuing silence the grandfather clock in the hall chimed the hour.

  Midnight.

  Ruairi glanced at his watch and Fliss calculated that his jet lagged brain was running seven hours ahead of theirs - the time difference between Hong Kong and Wester Ross. No wonder he looked shattered. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, got to his feet and then pushed his chair back from the desk.

  ‘We’ll resume this discussion in the morning. I want to know all about your arrest and the episode in the police station,’ he addressed his sisters, now fully alert. ‘Why Cat’s seen fit to absent herself from boarding school before the end of term. And why Isla hasn’t secured a university place for next term, and regards gainful employment beneath her.’ Both sisters looked suitably crushed. ‘Mitzi, we have your overdraft to discuss. I see you’ve maxed out on your credit cards, again. And, Miss Bagshawe -’

  ‘Yes?’ she started when he said her name.

  ‘We’ll discuss this foolishness about the therapy centre tomorrow, straight after breakfast.’

  ‘Foolishness?’ Fliss rose to her feet, ready to defend herself, but once more he acted as if she hadn’t spoken. She was left with the unflattering impression that once she was back in London she’d be forgotten, and normal service would be resumed.

  ‘I’ll say goodnight, then. Pleasant dreams, everyone’ His grim half-smile made it plain he knew they’d spend the night tossing and turning and honing their alibis. ‘Breakfast will be at eight o’clock - sharp. Don’t make me have to send a member of staff to fetch you out of bed.’