by Lizzie Lamb
‘Yes … Crossed wires. I imagine that a date would be the last thing either of us wanted.’ He waited for her to contradict him, his expression bland.
‘My feelings exactly,’ she was quick to assure him, desperate to move the conversation along and to escape his all-too-perceptive blue eyes.
‘Good. Good.’ He rubbed his finger along the side of his nose and pushed his fingers through his hair, betraying his uncertainty. He let out a deep breath, pushed his hands into the back pockets of his black jeans and focused his attention on the loch once more. Now that they had decided - by tacit agreement - not to be at each other’s throat every time they met, it appeared that they lacked the necessary vocabulary to communicate with each other.
Unsure what to say, and not wanting to be the one who took the first step toward total rapprochement, Fliss muttered a noncommittal: ‘Fine …’
‘So, I’ll send Murdo down then. About eight o’clock, tomorrow evening.’
‘Murdo?’
‘To escort you in to dinner.’
Ah, now she got it. He didn’t want to walk through the garden with her in case there was a repeat of the rose bush and sari incident. ‘I’m hardly going to get lost, am I?’ she asked with her usual asperity and they were back to square one.
‘It’s traditional. The Laird escorts whichever lady is staying at the Dower House in to dinner. But I thought - in the circumstances - you’d find Murdo a more acceptable choice?’ He looked genuinely puzzled, as if he couldn’t understand why there was ice in her grey-green eyes.
‘Dress code?’ she snapped, moving the conversation along. She didn’t want him thinking she was some chav who’d turn up for dinner wearing jeans and a sequined boob tube.
‘Formal. Mitzi’s got a new dress, apparently, and wants to show off.’ His crooked, uncertain smile hit her somewhere in the region of the solar plexus and her heart snagged for a beat or two. ‘You know Mitzi.’
Boy did she know Mitzi!
She tried to respond to his light-hearted banter but her facial muscles felt like they’d been botoxed. All she could think of was Mitzi’s cupboard of shame, how she had the key to it - and his reaction when he found out about it. She wasn’t sure how, but somehow it would all end up being her fault, just like everything else.
She didn’t think he’d be smiling then.
More secrets and lies. More trouble stored up for the future. She walked over to the rear entrance to the conservatory and - getting the message loud and clear, he followed her. She felt like she should say something innocuous, so everything would be on a neutral footing when they next met.
‘Eight o’clock then,’ she said, expecting him to nod his head and leave. To her surprise, he stopped halfway through the door, gave her one of his burning looks, followed by a quirky smile.
‘That’s a date.’
Then he strode through the gardens like he was yomping across the moors on some extreme survival challenge. And she was left wondering if she’d imagined it, or if they’d just shared their first joke.
Chapter Twenty One
That evening Fliss watched as Murdo fired up a propane gas cylinder contained inside what looked like a World War Two bomb.
‘Does that device work?’ she called over from the veranda.
‘It will certainly attract the midges,’ he said as he checked that the burner was lit. ‘This bad boy gives off a scent they can’t resist.’
‘Chanel No 5? Essence of haggis?’
‘It works by releasing carbon dioxide and water vapour from combusted propane mixed with small amounts of octenol.’ Then, realising he was being teased, he added: ‘Now you mention it, a smidgen of haggis wouldn’t go amiss. The main thing is to make the midges go towards the machine and away from the ladies in your therapy centre. There.’ He stood back to admire his handiwork and cleaned his hands on a cloth.
‘I’ve no idea what you just said - the science bit. But if it works then I’m all for it. Would you like that drink now?’ Murdo joined her on the veranda, sitting on an ancient Lloyd Loom chair. Fliss pushed a glass of Merlot across the glass topped table to him. ‘So, how come the midges don’t bite you?’
‘Well, hairy legs help for a start.’ He stuck his legs out for inspection, raising his kilt above his knees and drawing his feet to one side like a shy Victorian maiden. Fliss giggled. ‘That’s better. I was beginning to wonder if Ruairi had robbed you of your sense of humour - not to mention your spirit.’
‘I’m okay. I’m a brilliant therapist - if I say so myself, and want to be left to get on with what I do best and make the centre a success.’
‘Isn’t that what we all want?’
‘I’d have thought so. But with Ruairi, I’m never sure.’
‘Och, don’t mind Ruairi …’
‘But that’s the thing, Murdo. I do. I want to prove him wrong about me.’
‘Well, now you can. My machine will deter the midges and your expertise will attract the ladies.’ He grinned, took another sip of Merlot and clinked glasses with her. ‘To the Kinloch Mara Therapy Centre and the best therapist in the Western Isles.’
‘If not the entire world. Slainte.’
‘See. You’ve been here less than three weeks and already you’re speaking Gaelic like a native. And, do you mind my asking, what did Ruairi mean about your being able to speak Klingon?’
‘Just his idea of a joke. A very bad joke designed to remind me exactly who is boss around here. As if I could forget.’ She smiled to take the sting out of her words, Murdo was trying to put her at her ease and make her feel at home. There was no need to snap his head off. There was only one head she wanted to see roll.
Murdo’s profile was cast into relief by the citronella candle, lit to keep the midges at bay until the machine was fully functioning. With his fine features, strawberry blonde hair and sympathetic blue eyes he was a catch for any woman. She felt drawn to him, not only because of his physical attributes but also because of the many kindnesses he’d shown since he’d picked her up at Inverness airport.
It would be so very easy to …
But no, she wouldn’t go down that road. She was in enough trouble as it was and knew - however much she might deny it - that Isla had prior claim to this proud Highlander. However, she sensed something between them tonight - a potential for friendship if nothing more, and didn’t want to ruin it with flirtatious behaviour or a throwaway remark. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes watching the setting sun sending bolts of red and orange fire across the waters of the loch towards them.
‘Kinloch Mara is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. If I was Ruairi I wouldn’t be able to leave it, not even for a second.’ She let the tension of the last few weeks slip from her shoulders as she sipped her wine.
‘You could almost imagine yourself sailing towards Tir na nOg,’ Murdo mused and then gave a self-deprecating laugh as though he was being too fanciful.
‘Tir na what?’
‘A mythical land in the west. A story for tomorrow night, perhaps?’
‘There is one story I’d like to hear,’ she began, sensing that the opportunity might not present itself again.
‘Which story is that?’
‘The one about Ruairi. The family. Mitzi. Angus,’ she began, feeling her way forward. ‘Where you fit in. You’re all Scottish - no matter how the girls pretend they belong in Albert Square and not Elgin Crescent. Yet you all sound more English than I do.’ They exchanged a humorous look and then Fliss sobered. ‘I’ve been invited to dine with the family tomorrow night. I’ve been putting it off ever since I arrived here and I feel I can’t hold out any long. Trouble is, I don’t want to say anything out of turn.’
Murdo nodded in understanding. ‘Where do you want me to start?’
‘The bench in the Elgin Crescent Gardens?’
‘Okay, the bench. Ruairi’s father dedicated it in Mairi’s memory the summer after she died. She’d travelled down to the Royal Marsden for chemo se
ssions and, sadly, the end came rather sooner than anticipated. She died in the house in Elgin Crescent but was brought home for burial in the family church overlooking the loch.’
Now, Ruairi’s possessiveness over the house in Notting Hill made perfect sense. It had hardly been touched in over twenty years because it was his last link with his mother. Small wonder he didn’t want Cat and Isla holding a party there, trashing the furniture and breaking things.
Fliss was drawn back to her own history and the council house she had to vacate when her parents died because it was needed for a family with children. She’d been offered a one bedroom flat on the other side of London, miles away from everything and everyone that she knew, and had turned it down. If it hadn’t have been for Becky’s parents taking her in, she didn’t know what she would have done.
‘Go on,’ she urged.
‘Ruairi was eight and had just started his first term at boarding school in Berkshire, and it was thought best for him to remain there. Hamish couldn’t cope with his own bereavement, let alone Ruairi’s. Ruairi was dreadfully homesick and so it was decided that I should attend the same prep school - with Hamish paying the fees, to provide companionship for Ruairi. Hence my ‘English’ accent,’ he gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘During the long holidays Ruairi and I returned to Kinloch Mara and he stayed at our house.’
‘Your house? Why?’
‘My father was Hamish’s factor and Hamish thought that my dad could prepare Ruairi for the day when he became Laird. When I, in turn, would become his factor. It helped of course that our house was full with children: my brothers, sisters and cousins, so Ruairi had a ready-made family and was never lonely.’
Fliss wondered where Mitzi fitted into the story. She liked her and didn’t want to imagine her jumping straight into a dead woman’s shoes, let alone her bed and marrying Hamish while he was still raw with grief. As if anticipating her question, Murdo carried on.
‘Mitzi was an old friend of the family - in fact, I believe that all three of them were related through some distant cousin - as many highland families are. Just as Angus and me are cousins several times removed. Anyway, Mitzi and Mairi had been at school in Edinburgh together, but lost touch after their Highers - A levels,’ he explained, seeing her puzzled expression.
‘So they knew each other pretty well then?’
‘Yes - including Ruairi, when he wasn’t at boarding school or staying over at our house. You know how it is, children playing in the background while their parents’ friends drift in and out of their lives during the summer. Tennis parties, highland gatherings, balls, shoots - that sort of thing.’
‘I see.’ Fliss thought of her own summer holidays which had consisted of two weeks in Hastings with her mum and dad and the Castertons, their next-door neighbours and best friends.
She looked towards the beach and pictured the boys following Murdo’s dad around and learning about land management from him. She remembered the photograph of Ruairi in the sitting room, eight years old and at his father’s side; doubtless trying to make sense of his mother’s death and his father’s swift remarriage. Now she understood that his fierce expression hid grief and bewilderment. Her heart contracted unexpectedly and she cursed herself for a fool. Better she should save her sympathy for herself and not waste it on a man who’d shown her no quarter since she’d set foot on his land.
Small wonder then, that Murdo was more like a brother to Ruairi. But she wanted to know more, much more, so she continued her gentle probing. ‘What had become of Mitzi in the intervening years?’
‘She’d been in Val d’Isere running a training school for Chalet Girls. Until she …’
‘Got bored with it? Let me guess, there was an entanglement with a minor German aristocrat, some Eurotrash royals and compromising photos in the Sunday red tops?’ Fliss giggled again, relaxing in Murdo’s easy company.
‘You guess correctly.’ He laughed and turned towards her. Their gazes locked over the citronella flame, and as the seconds stretched out, Fliss knew she had to break the intimate mood.
‘So far, so predictable. Then what?’ She pushed a bowl of olives across to Murdo.
‘Brought home in disgrace. Confined to her father’s estate to help with the picnics for the guns … enrolled in another ‘safe’ Sloaney Cookery/Secretarial course to keep her out of scandal’s way. Until they found some man crazy enough to marry her.’
‘Are we quite sure it’s Mitzi we’re talking about here?’
‘I agree. For Mitzi … read Isla.’
He took on a sombre look, as if wondering if the same fate would befall her. Sensing that Murdo felt he was being disloyal to the Urquharts by revealing the skeletons lurking at the back of the family armoire - and suspecting that this opportunity might not present itself again, Fliss pressed him further.
‘And did they?’
‘Did they what?’
‘Find some Deb’s delight to marry Mitzi?’
‘No. Just as she was going to start her course in Edinburgh - London was thought too distracting for her, Mairi had a late miscarriage. She got back in touch with Mitzi who came home to look after her. Soon after that, Mairi was diagnosed with cancer.’ The facts were stated without embellishment. Perhaps he felt a little embarrassed at discussing such intimate matters with someone who was, after all, a comparative stranger.
‘And Ruairi?’
It always came back to Ruairi - didn’t it?
‘Boarding school, summers here with my family, winters abroad with cousins in Canada. Or in Texas with Angus and me. When Hamish remarried, things changed. Not just for Ruairi, but for everyone who lived on the estate. Don’t get me wrong, Mitzi’s great and I love her. But she wanted things done differently.’
‘What kind of things?’
Murdo’s brow puckered as he remembered. ‘The usual female things. Curtains changed, rooms painted, furniture removed. Oh and parties. Lots of parties … you know Mitzi. But no one minded all that, she made Hamish laugh again and was more like a big sister than a stepmother to Ruairi.’
‘Then along comes two baby stepsisters; spoiled, adored?’ Fliss could picture it now, the scowling adolescent, the new wife and the pretty little sisters, no doubt the apple of their father’s eye. She had a sudden understanding of what Ruairi had faced, virtually alone.
‘He felt pushed out, I guess - excluded,’ Murdo became quieter as he relived those days.
Difficult days …
Fliss drew a parallel between what Ruairi had endured and what she had gone through when her own parents had died. It had been a defining moment in her life and made her the person she was today. She’d been eighteen when these cataclysmic events had overtaken her. Ruairi had been eight. Now she better understood him. She had come to terms with her loss but a slick of ice remained around her heart, the last vestiges of bereavement. Perhaps Ruairi felt the same? Now, six years on, she wondered if she’d ever be able to remember happier times without being swamped by feelings of desolation. Feelings that she kept at bay by working hard and being positive in her outlook.
‘Go on,’ she prompted Murdo, but it became clear from his expression that she’d learn no more tonight. She’d save her questions about his difficult relationship with Isla - and Fiona the Bolting Bride for another time.
On cue, two Border Terriers rounded the corner of the house. They barked delightedly when they saw Murdo, their scratchy little paws scrabbling at his bare knees as they tried to jump up at him.
‘Down dogs,’ he commanded and they did as they were told, sitting obediently at his feet, tongues lolling out of their mouths as they caught their breaths. Their otter-like heads and dark eyes gave them a comical, dour expression at variance with their wagging tails and ecstatic whimpers as they waited for permission to roam free in the undergrowth.
‘Meet Buffy and Angel,’ Murdo introduced the dogs.
‘Buffy and Angel?’ Fliss shook paws with the two most unlikely vampire slayers in Wester Ross.
/> ‘Cat’s choice I believe.’ Murdo pulled a face and joined in with her amused laughter. Suddenly, the dogs lost interest, pricked up their ears and looked past them. ‘Their pedigree names are …’
‘Coquetdale Cullen and Reedwater Rover of the Glen, if you want the shortened version.’ Isla joined them on the veranda. ‘I bred them myself,’ she added with just enough emphasis to let Fliss know that behind her bad girl façade there lurked a true countrywoman and the Laird’s sister. ‘You’re wanted up at the Big Hoose,’ she snapped at Murdo, clearly put out to find them enjoying themselves on what she evidently considered the firm’s time.
‘I’ve got things to finish here,’ Murdo replied, nodding towards the anti-midge machine. ‘Ruairi knows where I am. If he wants me, he can get me on the walkie-talkie. You needn’t have come all the way down here just to tell me this, Isla.’ His tone implied that he was impressed by her altruism, but his frowning look suggested the opposite.
Isla’s all seeing, all knowing gaze swept over the veranda - taking in the candle, wine glasses and dish of olives on the table.
‘Quite comfortable in the Dower House are we?’ She gave Fliss the impression that she was still in a massive sulk with her, Murdo, Ruairi, - the whole world in fact.
‘Quite; thank you.’ Fliss folded her arms to make the point that Isla was trespassing on her patch. She was answerable to Angus and Mitzi - not to the Laird of Kinloch Mara and certainly not his uppity sister. Isla might be the daughter of the house but as far as Fliss was concerned, she could butt out. Clearly, Murdo was of the same mind because he made no effort to leave. Getting the message, Isla gave them one of her death stares, clicked her fingers and brought the dogs to heel.
Fliss got the impression she’d like to do the same to them! Murdo waited until Isla was out of sight before draining his glass and gathering his tools together. Although he kept his own council, Fliss felt downhearted for him because it was plain from the stoop of his shoulders that the bruising encounter with Isla had demoralised him. ‘If there’s anything else …’