by Lizzie Lamb
‘Message received. Loud and clear,’ he tipped her an ironic salute. ‘And, finally …’
‘More?’ he feigned surprise.
‘I want to be answerable to Mitzi and Angus, exclusively. I don’t want you muscling in every five minutes and questioning my every move.’ There. She’d laid out her manifesto and now she steeled herself for his reaction.
‘Only four demands? I’m lucky to have escaped so lightly.’ She winced as his expression morphed from speculation to barely suppressed hostility. She needed to get away from him, so she picked up a box of supplies to carry into the conservatory - but he barred her way.
‘Excuse me,’ she breathed heavily, keeping her cool in the face of such provocation.
‘One,’ he moved aside and then followed her into the therapy centre. ‘Rest assured that last night will not be referred to again. Not by me at any rate - although, I can’t vouch for others. You must realise that everything that happens in Kinloch Mara is of interest to the people who live and work here. Especially if it involves the Laird, his family and those in his employ.’
She was just about to point out that she wasn’t one of his employees but changed her mind as her heart sank. Used to the anonymity of living in London, she’d failed to appreciate that she was now part of a living, breathing Scottish soap opera.
‘Quite,’ Ruairi replied with discernible satisfaction as he caught her woebegone expression. ‘But cheer up. Think of all the free publicity this gossip will generate. They’ll be queuing round the loch just to check you out. Shall I go on?’
‘Why not?’ She shrugged unconcernedly, but used the excuse of putting the box on the floor to conceal her expression. Damn the man - was he a mind reader or something?
‘Two. I fully appreciate that you are passionate about the therapy centre. But, like my sisters, you probably have bursts of enthusiasm about most things and don’t see any of them through.’
‘For starters,’ she interrupted, cut to the quick by his presumption and regaining her spirit. ‘I’m nothing like Isla - or Cat. I’ve had to make my own way in the world since I left school. Something you might not understand.’ She shot him a fierce look, implying that he was a grown up version of the posh boys who hung round the bars in Notting Hill and Holland Park. ‘I’m a fully qualified holistic therapist; my specialism is Alexander Technique and Reike. I was London area finalist and Salon Based Beauty Therapist of the Year. I’ve got certificates, press cuttings and a rose bowl to prove it.’
‘I don’t doubt your capabilities for a second.’ Your capability to wheedle your way into our confidence and relieve us of the family jewels, his look inferred. ‘And, you do look the part, I’ll give you that.’ It almost sounded like a compliment, but clearly wasn’t meant as one. ‘Which brings me neatly to point two (b).’
‘To be or not to be?’ Fliss gave a brittle laugh. What kind of man, she seethed, thought in subparagraphs? She suspected that, at some level, he was actually enjoying this cross-examination. Seething, she watched as he walked round the conservatory prodding boxes with his foot, picking things off the shelves and replacing them. Then he hoisted himself onto the therapy couch, stretched out his long legs and crossed his feet at the ankles – like the effigy of a crusader in a country church.
‘If you don’t mind, I have lots to do this morning.’ She walked over to the conservatory doors and pushed them open, but he linked his hands behind his head and ignored her invitation to leave.
‘Why is there a hole in one end of the couch?’ His question came from left of field and caught her by surprise.
‘Is that point Three? Or are you asking a supplementary?’ She glared at him, stretched out on her brand new therapy couch so full of himself. Her blood quickly reached simmering point and she was beset by the urge to push him off the couch and onto the floor. He might consider himself laird of all he surveyed, but he’d never be master of her. ‘Don’t you have a poacher to catch, grouse to count - or whatever it is that lairds do? If you want to continue this conversation, book a consultation with me.’
She dropped the heavy appointment book on his lap and allowed herself a satisfied smile as he gave out a little ‘oof’ in protest. ‘That’s the first time I’ve seen an appointment book used as a lethal weapon,’ he commented dryly as he flicked through the empty pages. Then he looked up at her and for an unsettling moment she thought she saw amusement in his eyes and him struggle to hide a smile.
Oh no - that wouldn’t do - that wouldn’t do at all.
She didn’t want to think there might be a nice side to him. It suited her to believe him one hundred and ten per cent bastard - arrogant and overbearing. Only by reminding herself how impossible he was and his low opinion of her, would she be able to maintain her defences against him. Banish for all time the unguarded moment when he’d kissed her like he’d meant it and her response. And how one glance at his fit arse in the hall had sent her body clock on an alarming countdown.
‘For the record, I don’t answer supplementary questions,’ she said snarkily to cover her wild thoughts.
‘Oh, I’m sure you only divulge what you want people to know about you, Miss Bagshawe.’ His dart struck home and she was back to hating him - that she could deal with. ‘But please - enlighten me, anyway.’ He drew the conversation back to the therapy couch but she knew he was capable of double-speak and knew more about her than he was willing to admit.
‘It’s where you’d put your face - if I was giving you a back massage. Otherwise you’d suffocate. The vehemence with which she expressed the word suggested that suffocation was too good for him.
He gave a sudden, unexpected bark of laughter.
‘You must school your features, Miss Bagshawe. Your face betrays you.’ Again, she caught a flash of humour in his eyes as he pushed himself off the couch. ‘I hope you’re more circumspect with your clients … Point three.’
‘You really are pushing it, your Lairdship.’ She knew of course, there was no such title in Debrette’s Peerage but it pleased her to have something to goad him with; a counterpoint to his mocking Miss Bagshawe.
‘I won’t come calling unless invited. However, you’re on my land, in my house. If I don’t like what I see, I’ll throw you into the back of the Land Rover and take you back to Inverness, myself. Handcuffed and protesting all the way, if necessary.’
Handcuffs? Ropes? She was about to make a reference to kidnap and bondage when she stalled, overwhelmed by the thought of being tied up by him, held hostage - and at his mercy. She stole a quick look at him to see if he’d caught the moment and the tell-tale heat flaming her cheeks. His eyes had darkened to deep blue and his pupils were dilated. On any other man she might have considered it a look of sexual arousal - but she knew he considered her as alluring as a rattlesnake, and dismissed the thought. He was probably just thinking up another sarcastic phrase to lob over the net at her.
‘Thanks for the warning. Same goes for me. Only, I won’t give notice - I’ll just up and go. My first task when you leave,’ she nodded towards the conservatory door, ‘will be to memorise the number of the local cab firm. The second will be to find out exactly where I am: post code, GPS, ley lines, drovers’ track, ordinance survey coordinates - whatever it takes to find my way back to civilisation. Should the need arise.’
‘I see.’
She could tell he didn’t like her insinuating that his highland kingdom lay somewhere beyond the pale and close to the end of the earth. She remembered what Cat had told her about Fiona - the runaway bride. How she’d bolted when his back was turned, and how it was Kinloch Mara and its remoteness that had driven her away. And possibly the remoteness of its laird, she speculated?
‘And another thing - would you please stop calling me Miss Bagshawe. My name is Felicity. Felicity Amelia if you want to be precise. But I answer to Fliss.’
‘Felicity Amelia - how very Austenesque. You can call me Ruairi - or the Laird. You may also refer to me as Himself - but never to my face.
’
‘Is that like a respect thing?’ she gave him a get-over-yourself look.
‘It is.’
‘And what about Big Bad Wolf?’
‘Big Bad Wolf?’
‘Cat and Isla’s nickname for you. As in, who’s afraid of … ?’
‘… the Big Bad Wolf. Oh, yes - I get it.’ He started to laugh, apparently amused rather than angered by the reference. ‘It’s a game we used to play when they were children. Like - what’s the time Mr Wolf? I used to chase them round the garden and into the tree house and they’d scream for …’ Then he clammed up, making it clear that he considered revealing more about his family than was strictly necessary a bad move.
‘I see.’ Unaccountably, it stung that he didn’t trust her.
‘Knowing that; how do you feel about me, now?’ he asked, with one of his sudden mood changes as he levered himself off the therapy couch.
‘In what way?’ She frowned, had he seen the flush of colour that had washed over her earlier?
‘Are you afraid of the Big Bad Wolf, Ms Bag - Fliss?’ He stood inches away from her, waiting for her answer.
She could smell the outdoors on his clothes and in his hair, count every freckle on his skin; feel his breath on her cheek. His use of her Christian name sent a frisson sliding along her nerve endings, leaving her skittish and unsettled. It was time to re-draw the battle lines.
‘Should I be?’ she asked, adopting the pose of a hard-edged nothing can faze me, city girl.
‘Oh, I think so. Don’t you?’
He handed her the appointment book, sauntered back into the hall, collected his boots and was out of the house before she had time to frame her answer.
Chapter Nineteen
Early the next morning Fliss was standing by the front door of the Wee Hoose waiting for Murdo. Much as she loved living in the Dower House and getting the therapy centre ready, she was beginning to feel a little stir crazy. Since arriving in Kinloch Mara, she hadn’t been off the estate other than to walk along the loch shore or up to Tigh na Locha to collect deliveries for the therapy centre. She’d begun to treasure her nightly phone conversation with Becky that kept her abreast with what was happening at Pimlico Pamperers and with their friends.
She’d read somewhere that the houses in Port Urquhart were painted different pastel colours like those in Tobermory and Portree. She was looking forward to seeing them and indulging in some much needed retail therapy. Although Isla had declared that Port Urquhart was the world’s repository for American tan tights and crocheted crinoline-lady toilet roll covers.
She knew she’d better make the most of the trip because she had a business meeting scheduled with Angus, Mitzi and Ruairi later that afternoon. However, as the Land Rover drew up and parked on the beach, she was surprised to see Angus Gordon climb out of the vehicle instead of Murdo. He walked up the short incline from the shore to meet her and waved his hand.
‘Don’t bother coming up, Angus. I’ll come down.’ She locked the door behind her and put the key in her tote bag.
Angus looked like he’d been kitted out by the costume department of a Sunday night period drama. Notes: Angus Gordon, Billionaire Texan oilman, searching for his Scottish roots; desperate to be accepted by laird and family. Puce-faced and sweating in shooting breeks, belted tweed jacket with suede inserts on the gun shoulder, checked shirt and brogues, he looked miles away from the air-conditioned comfort of his Texan homestead.
‘Good morning, Angus, you look very -’ she struggled for the right word.
‘Hot?’ He climbed into the driver’s seat, switched on the engine and fired up the air conditioning. ‘I am. But I feel I’ve gotta take my responsibilities seriously and dress the part.’ His accent was a strange fusion of Texan drawl and ‘Scoddish’ brogue.
‘I was expecting, Murdo,’ she replied, wondering which responsibilities he was referring to.
‘Ruairi had somethin’ real important for Murdo to do, so I said I’d drive you into Port Urquhart.’
‘Thank you, Angus. Although I do have a current driving licence and am quite capable of driving myself.’ Reading between the lines, she guessed that Ruairi didn’t think his right-hand man should act as her chauffeur.
‘I’m sure you are, honey, and probably Ruairi’ll be happy for you to do just that,’ Angus soothed, obviously detecting the irritation in her voice. ‘Once I’ve driven you there and pointed out the hazards.’
Fliss couldn’t imagine what hazards he was referring to unless fire-breathing dragons still roamed Wester Ross. It was typical of Ruairi to make arbitrary decisions about how and when she could leave his land without consulting her. It took several calming breaths before she regained her equilibrium.
‘Angus …’ None of this was his fault and it was unfair to inflict her frustration on him. So she smiled at the large Texan fondly.
‘Yes, honey?’
‘I just wanted to say … thank you for giving me this chance. I won’t let you - or Mitzi - down.’
‘I know you won’t, sugar.’ He patted her hand as they passed over the wooden bridge and under the gatehouse that marked the eastern boundary of the Kinloch Mara estate. ‘I can tell you’re a hard workin’ girl and my investment is in safe hands.’
‘Thanks. Would you mind telling Ruairi that?’
‘Sure will. Mind you,’ he added as they reached the main road and the Land Rover began to pick up speed, ‘this whole therapy centre thang ain’t just about making money.’
‘It isn’t?’ Fliss wondered if that was the difference between millionaires and other mortals. Money only became an issue when you didn’t have enough of the stuff. ‘What’s the point of my being here and turning the centre around, then?’
‘It’s about Mitzi - making her happy. You’re a bright kid; kinda thought you’d’ve had it figured out by now.’
‘Happy?’ Fliss tore her gaze away from the distractingly beautiful scenery of mountains and loch and concentrated on what Angus was saying.
‘She’s never quite come to terms with being a widow. Don’t suit her. She’s the kind of woman who needs a man to take care of her.’ A man like him, Fliss guessed as he squared his shoulders. She sensed he was keen to apply for the vacancy and to kick Mitzi’s other boyfriends into touch. ‘She’s been running away from the Highlands ever since I’ve known her; ashrams, shrinks, Prozac, every quack therapy you can name.’ He drew breath as he slowed down to avoid a ewe and her lambs on the road. ‘Reckless business ideas; spending time abroad because she can’t live without sun in the winter.’
‘I know that feeling,’ Fliss put in, feeling that she ought to add something to the conversation.
‘She’s damned near driven Ruairi crazy - leaving him to deal with those girls when it’s her responsibility as their mother. Taking their side against him often as not. Like they can’t be whupped into shape because their daddy died when they were young.’
Fliss stared ahead at the road winding downhill and caught a glimpse of the sea shimmering in the distance. She heard the frustration in Angus’s voice and guessed that it stemmed from trying to make Mitzi own up to her responsibilities and help her daughters to face up to theirs. Did Angus relish the task of taking them on, as well as their mother? She rather suspected they came as a package.
‘So how does a Texan oil man end up in Wester Ross and Kinloch Mara in particular?’ She moved the conversation along and tried to lighten the atmosphere in the Land Rover.
‘I was acting as a consultant to the oil industry in Aberdeen.’ He caught her look and grinned: ‘Yeah. That’s why the girls call me Aberdeen Angus. My ancestors came from hereabouts, but during the nineteenth century were evicted from their land during the Fuadaich nan Gàidheal - the Highland Clearances - to make way for the laird’s sheep. Like many other Scots they emigrated to Canada, and then moved to the West when it began to open up, utilising their skills as cattle wranglers. Then, when oil was discovered in Texas they moved there.’
‘
And here you are…’
‘Two hundred years later…’
‘Back where it all started?’
‘Kinda. I met Murdo when I was givin’ a talk to students at Aberdeen University where he was studyin’. Stayed with him for a while - turns out he’s some kinda cousin o’ mine; a hundred of times removed. Through him I met Ruairi and the family and, well I kinda grew to like it here; the scenery, the hardworkin’ people. So, I bought myself an estate no one thought profitable and turned it round with some help from Ruairi and Murdo. Hell, it even came with a lairdship - now, ain’t that funny?’
‘And?’
‘Well,’ he glanced at her as they drove along a deserted stretch of road. ‘I plan to marry Mitzi, if she’ll have me; take care of her and the girls - so they don’t need to draw money from the estate. Help Ruairi, too, as an investment.’
‘Investment?’ Perhaps Angus could help her understand who Ruairi Urquhart was; and where he was coming from.
‘Guess you know the estate’s running on empty? Hamish’s will settled such a generous trust fund on Mitzi and the girls that - after death duties were settled - Ruairi was left with little more than the title, the houses here and in Nottin’ Hill, and some property in Port Urquhart. And of course the land, which makes up most of his inheritance.’
‘So what’s with the wolves?’
Angus laughed. ‘That’s Ruairi’s scheme to turn part of the estate back to how it was hundreds of years ago and combine tourism with land conservation. It’s called Wilding. He leaves Murdo to run the estate while he goes abroad to encourage ex-pat members of Clan Urquhart - which is scattered all over the globe - to support his scheme financially. Sometimes I go with him.’
So that’s why he was in Hong Kong on the night of the party. And why, when Mitzi and the girls squander money which should by rights be ploughed back into the estate, he goes ballistic. Angus slipped down a gear as the Land Rover crawled along a steep downhill section of road that led to the sea. The stunning scenery became of secondary importance as Fliss concentrated on learning more about Ruairi. She sensed that Angus wanted her to understand what drove the Laird of Kinloch Mara and to prepare her for the business meeting scheduled for after lunch.