by Lizzie Lamb
‘You, Miss Bagshawe, are the most provoking …’
He closed the gap between them in one easy stride, laid a scorching hand on her bare arm and pulled her close. So close that her breasts touched the hard musculature of his chest and her nipples sprang to life at the contact. She sensed he was torn between throwing her over his desk and finishing what they’d started last night - and getting her off his land as quickly as possible.
She read the warring emotions in his face; felt the anger that made his heart race and thud against her breastbone. Her breath snagged and for an instant she experienced fear and exhilaration in equal measure. She didn’t know what he was capable of and didn’t want to find out. With remarkable self-possession she stared him down and snatched her arm out of his grasp.
‘That’s the third time you’ve manhandled me. It’d better be the last.’
‘My apologies.’
He pushed her away as though her skin leached acid and shook his head in apparent disbelief at what had just passed between them in this room, closeted away from the rest of the house. Fliss sensed that she’d caused him to forget his duties as laird and his obligations as host. Evidently that ran contrary to his code of civilised behaviour and disturbed him. He gave her one last measuring look, as if to confirm that his instincts had been right about her, and then put as much distance between them as was physically possible.
For her part, now that her temper had abated, Fliss wanted to apologise for her outré behaviour and the stinging things she’d said. She wanted him to know that this wasn’t who she was. That far from regarding Kinloch Mara a godforsaken corner of the universe, she’d fallen in love with it and didn’t want to leave … for reasons she could not as yet articulate.
It was suddenly important that he understood that she’d been playacting and she didn’t want him, or his damned money. She’d pay Angus back every penny of his retainer even if it emptied her bank account. She was poor, but she’d been in worse straights. All that mattered was to leave here with her reputation restored.
But she wasn’t given the chance. With a terse nod, he took the paperweights off the contract and locked it in the desk drawer along with the cheque book. Giving her the widest berth possible he walked past her and into the hall, uttering the portentous words:
‘Wait here. I haven’t finished with you by a long chalk.’
Chapter Seventeen
Fliss stood rooted to the spot as Ruairi flung open the library door and strode into the hall, past Mitzi and the girls who were gathered in a huddle.
They’d obviously heard his parting shot: I haven’t finished with you by a long chalk, because they cast anxious glances at Fliss as Ruairi left via the front door. Evidently intent on channelling his anger and sexual frustration into catching the poacher.
Fliss groaned, knowing she’d just made a complete fool of herself. Her precious contract was locked away in the desk drawer and she’d blown her chance of severance pay. What had she been thinking? If Cat and Isla - who’d known Ruairi all their lives, couldn’t steal a march over him, what chance did she have?
The Laird of Kinloch Mara was wilier than the poacher he’d set out to catch.
Hands shaking, she took lipstick and mirror out of her bag and set about repairing the ravages to her hair and makeup. Her spirits sank even lower when her reflection looked back at her in the compact’s mirror. Her face was red and blotchy, an unbecoming nettle rash had spread over her décolletage and her eyes were wild. Some blackmailing femme fatale she’d turned out to be. She affected a quick repair job, put the lipstick and mirror back in her tote bag and pulled the leather drawstring together. She made her way into the hall to retrieve her luggage, ring for a taxi and put Ruairi Urquhart and Kinloch Mara as far behind her as possible.
If things hadn’t looked so bleak, she might have been tempted to laugh at the sight that greeted her. Mitzi was ostensibly polishing the hall table with a handkerchief that looked as if it was made entirely from cobwebs. Cat was showing sudden interest in a small dog curled up near the fire and Isla was regarding her with something akin to empathy. It was clear from their sheepish expressions and the guilty way they’d sprung apart when Ruairi had flung open the library door they’d been blatantly eavesdropping.
‘You’ve been Cluedo’d, Fliss.’ Isla held out her hand, their earlier argument apparently forgotten. ‘Welcome to the club.’
‘Cluedo’d? Fliss shook her hand.
‘Yes. You know … like the board game? By the Laird. In the library. With a length of lead piping concealed in his sporran.’
‘Make that a tongue lashing and you’re not far off the mark,’ Fliss responded with a weak grin. They nodded sympathetically and she realised she’d been admitted into the exclusive ‘Cluedo’ club - whether she wanted to be a member or not. She hitched her bag more securely onto her shoulder and looked around for her suitcases.
‘Lost something, darling?’ Mitzi asked.
‘Yes. My suitcases. They were right there.’ She pointed at the foot of the stairs.
‘Suitcases, darling? Why they’ve been moved -’
‘By Ruairi?’ Fliss asked with such vehemence that they took a step back from her. Judging from their expressions they didn’t seem to regard her outburst as anything out of the ordinary, clearly assuming that the interview with Ruairi had pushed her over the edge.
‘Well … yes,’ Mitzi picked her words carefully.
Fliss formed a letter ‘T’ with her hands. ‘Okay, time out. Would one of you please tell me where my luggage is? No - wait, let me guess. In Murdo’s Land Rover ready to be taken to the airport? But I won’t be going anywhere with Murdo, or anyone else. I have unfinished business with Himself,’ she spat out. ‘After that I’ll need my suitcases, a taxi …’
‘The Dower House,’ Mitzi managed to slip in when Fliss took a shaky breath.
‘The Dour House?’ Fliss muttered, completely misunderstanding. ‘Everything’s dour round here, from what I can make out - thanks to your stepson. Why should a house be any different?’
Mitzi took a tentative step forward and stroked Fliss’s arm as though she was one of the Gordon Terriers who’d been up against a larger, fiercer dog in a fight and lost. When Fliss didn’t push her away, she took Fliss’s hands in her own.
‘The Dower House, darling,’ she repeated. ‘Or to give it its other name: The Wee Hoose. Come on, I’ll take you there,’ she offered with the air of one who didn’t understand why the suitcases were so important, but was willing to go along with it for the sake of peace and quiet. ‘And, on the way you can explain why you want a taxi.’
‘Du-uh!’ Isla put in as she and Catriona waited in the hall for Ruairi’s return - no doubt frantically thinking up excuses to explain what had gone down in Ladbroke Grove Police Station. ‘She wants a taxi, Mumma, because she’s been in this madhouse for less than twenty four hours and wants out. That goes for me, too,’ she called after them as they left the house.
Linking her arm through Fliss’s, Mitzi led her down through the gardens, past the gazebo and towards the loch. After the confrontation with Ruairi, Mitzi’s inconsequential chatter, gentle hand stroking and the rhythmic crunch of the gravel under their feet was soothing. It had been a long time since anyone had made her feel like a much-loved daughter who needed to be indulged and made to feel better. Memories of her mother, who had died of cancer and of her father who had died soon after, crowded in on her. The gravel path to the Dower House shimmered through a haze of tears as she recalled the all-encompassing love she’d taken for granted and which had been snatched from her so cruelly …
Would she ever feel safe or cherished again?
Then - as she always did - she banished the memory of those dark days until she felt strong enough to deal with it. She dashed away the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand and took a gulp to steady herself. Mitzi obviously sensed her distress and gave her arm a little squeeze and then passed over the handkerchief she’d used to d
ust the hall table.
‘I’ll be alright. You’ll see. Ruairi’s bark is worse than his bite. Go on. Blow.’ Fliss blew her nose and gave a watery smile as, arms linked, they crossed a springy lawn starred with daisies, rounded a large clump of rhododendrons and came upon the Dower House.
‘Oh; but it’s lovely,’ Fliss exclaimed throatily, as she caught her first sight of the gabled Victorian house with its fretwork eaves, porticoed veranda and panelled front door. The paintwork was dusky blue, there were hanging baskets on either side of the wooden columns that supported the veranda and a climbing rose flanked the front door. Lloyd loom sofas and a large glass-topped table sat in the shade of the veranda, overlooking a lawn which levelled out to a shingle beach. This in turn gave way to sand the colour of gingerbread as it ran down to the loch.
The stonework was grey and the lighter stone of the mullioned windows gave the Dower House a look that said: Come and stay a while. Overwhelmed by the magical, healing quality of the place, Fliss let out a sigh and wished she could stay forever.
‘It is lovely,’ Mitzi agreed with a mournful little smile. ‘And much better than suttee, I’ll agree. But sad, all the same.’ They stopped at the front door and she rooted in her quilted Chanel shoulder bag before pulling out a large key worthy of the Tower of London.
‘Suttee?’ Fliss tried to follow Mitzi’s train of thought. ‘You mean when Hindu widows committed suicide by throwing themselves on their husband’s funeral pyre?’
‘Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just being melodramatic, darling,’ Mitzi said, opening the well-oiled door and leading Fliss into a square hall flagged with Minton tiles. ‘You see, traditionally, when the Laird dies, his widow moves out of Tigh na Locha - which is known as the Big Hoose, and comes to live here in the Wee Hoose until her own death. That means she isn’t in the way of the new Laird’s wife and the running of his household.’
They walked into the shuttered sitting room with its bright kelim rugs and comfortable, if slightly faded, soft furnishings. Mitzi opened the shutters and the light poured in from the loch, showing well-cared-for rosewood furniture and family photographs in silver frames.
‘Why don’t you live here?’ Fliss couldn’t resist prompting Mitzi to tell more of the story. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘You see - the children were very small when Hamish died.’ She picked up a photograph of a handsome man in full Highland dress with a young boy on his knee. Recognising the fierce expression, Fliss guessed this was Ruairi and his father. ‘Ruairi was only twenty four years old and studying for a Masters in Land Management and Conservation at St Andrew’s when his father died. As the twenty-ninth Laird, he was needed to run the estate and sort out affairs - including a massive inheritance tax bill. He came home from university and never went back to complete his degree. He gave it all up for us, for Kinloch Mara and the people who depend upon him. And we’ve been a thorn in his side ever since.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true, Mitzi,’ Fliss demurred, feeling it was beholden upon her to say something uplifting. Mind you, she’d only known Ruairi Urquhart for twenty four hours - if she didn’t count the phone call weeks ago - and already he’d made her feel like an endangered species. About to be hunted to the point of extinction or driven off his land.
Anyway,’ Mitzi continued, kissing then polishing the frame with the edge of her cashmere cardigan before replacing it on the side table. ‘Ruairi wouldn’t hear of us leaving Tigh na Locha because the girls were so young, so we’ve continued living there. However, I think the time has come for us to move out,’ she added sadly, no doubt thinking of the uncomfortable atmosphere in the house this morning. ‘Put a bit of space between ourselves and Ruairi. And the wife he will, one day, bring home.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Yes - we should have moved out years ago and left the way clear for Ruairi to find a bride and bring her home. I think the idea of moving into the Big Hoose with us still in residence was one of the things that put Fiona off. Drove her away.’
Fiona - that name again.
Fliss experienced a pang, which she was quick to identify as a twinge of sympathy for the unknown woman who was to have been his bride. Urquhart might be a catch, the sex would probably be great, but she’d bet the last of her savings that he’d be the very devil to live with.
She restrained herself from asking if there were any future Lady Urquharts waiting in the wings. That was way too personal. Instead, she imagined girls of impeccable Scottish lineage circling above Ruairi’s head in holding pattern … like planes at Heathrow, waiting for Mitzi and the girls to vacate the premises and be given permission to land. The thought made her smile as Mitzi led the way back into the hall, off which she saw a dining room, very modern kitchen and a study. Mitzi gestured for her to enter a second sitting room, opening plantation shutters to reveal comfortable chairs and sofas and - looking slightly out of place - a flat screen TV that was probably visible from space.
‘Ta Da!’ Mitzi announced, walking through a set of French doors and into a large conservatory. ‘The therapy room.’ She picked up a remote control and pressed it. There was an electrical whirring as a brass and rattan fan stirred the air and the blinds rolled back to reveal a view of the loch on one side and the steeply tiered gardens on the other side. A second set of double doors gave onto a patio with steamer chairs, low rattan tables and a furled, calico umbrella.
‘My equipment!’ Fliss rushed towards the boxes stacked along one wall next to white rattan cupboards waiting to be filled. In pride of place in the middle of the conservatory was the brand new therapy couch she’d ordered. ‘How - I mean, where …’
Mitzi laughed. ‘Has everything come from? Let’s just say Angus pulled a few strings once you’d sent us your rough business plan and list of ‘basics’ to get the centre up and running. Mention his name in commercial circles and people tend to spring to attention.’ She couldn’t resist a proud waggle of her head. ‘Also, to my shame, when I first came up with the idea of the Therapy Centre last year I got no further than having the conservatory converted and ordering lots of lovely things from catalogues. Sadly, ordering a beauty therapist proved to be rather more difficult. So everything’s been here since last November. Waiting for you to arrive,’ she added blithely, ‘just as Mrs MacLeish foretold.’
‘Foretold?’
‘She is a taibhsear - and has second sight. I told you when you first arrived. She also said that you and …’ Mitzi’s cut glass accent slipped, took on a softer cadence and she gave Fliss a straight, searching look that made the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise of their own volition. But she didn’t finish the sentence. ‘You’ve been so excited you’ve probably forgotten. Well, it won’t have to wait any more.’ Mitzi was back in the here and now and spoke in more businesslike tones as Fliss went over to examine the creams and products
She was dismayed to find that many of them were out of date and would have to be reordered. But that was do-able. Overcome with delight at finding that the therapy centre did exist and was in such a fantastic position, she forgot that she’d vowed to put as much distance between herself, Ruairi Urquhart and Kinloch Mara as possible - only fifteen minutes earlier.
‘Angus has flown over to his own estate. He’ll be back soon, but don’t worry; he’s written a cheque for everything you’ve spent so far - and a little extra to cover expenses.’
‘Mitzi, I -’ Fliss thought of all the things she’d said to Ruairi about the therapy centre. How she’d thought it only existed in Mitzi’s fevered imagination. Now she felt humbled and very, very stupid.
‘When Ruairi, Angus and I discussed it last night, before you met for the first time,’ there was an imperceptible pause, indicating that she hadn’t forgotten the embarrassing episode in the gardens. ‘Ruairi was impressed by your business plan, in spite of himself,’ she added encouragingly. It was as if she sensed there was bad feeling between them and wanted to make it all right - in true Mitzi fashion. ‘Angus might be a
‘gazillion-aire’ as the girls put it, but he’s no fool. He told Ruairi that if it all went pear-shaped it was my dream and his money, “doon the stank” as they say - not the estate’s.’
‘But, Mitzi, you don’t understand - I’ve been fired by Ruairi. And I think at one point,’ Fliss cast her mind back to the heated interview in the library, ‘I might even have resigned …’
‘Darling girl,’ Mitzi took her by the hands and laughed delightedly. ‘Ruairi will have forgotten all that by now. He’ll be happily playing cops and robbers on the hills with Murdo and the other gillies trying to find a poacher. It’s probably only Jaimsie’s cousin, Jaimsie MacMor; he’s been helping himself to salmon from our rivers for as long as anyone can remember. Ruairi won’t be a problem, you’ll see.’
Fliss gave her a far from convinced look. ‘But you don’t understand. I think I may have upset Ruairi in the library. Said things I didn’t mean …’
‘Darling girl, Ruairi makes everyone feel like their head is about to explode and goads them into saying rash and ill-considered things. He can’t have thought seriously about sacking you. It was his idea to move you to the Dower House …’
And further away from him Fliss thought darkly.
‘… so you can get the therapy centre up and running ASAP,’ Mitzi warbled. She gave Fliss another warm hug, openly delighted she was showing signs of wavering and clearly convinced that her therapy centre would soon be open for business. Fliss managed a weak smile as she walked round the conservatory touching cardboard boxes, looking at the fluffy towelling robes in their polythene wrappings. She drew in deep breaths and kept her back towards Mitzi but when she turned round, she had a foolish grin on her face.
‘OK. I’m game if you are.’
‘Thank you Fliss, this means so much to me. And Angus, too. He’s dying to meet you under … slightly different circumstances.’ Fliss thought back to her skimpy costume and Angus red and perspiring in his toga. ‘And to discuss the business plan in more detail and make any amendments and changes you both think necessary. Oh, and look at this.’ She pulled open a plastic bag on a pile of clothing to reveal a black tunic and matching three-quarter-length trousers. The legend: Fliss Bagshawe, Manageress was emblazoned on the left-hand side. She raised an eyebrow and waited for Fliss’s reaction.