by Lizzie Lamb
She watched warring emotions flicker across his face, saw the struggle as desire overruled good sense. Then he let out a slow breath, as though the fight was too much for him and he was glad it was over. Then he kissed her. The kiss was brief and exploratory. Almost as if he was trying it out for size, and didn’t want to deepen and prolong it because he knew that way lay danger. Once they took that step there would be no turning back – for either of them.
Fliss felt behind her blindly for the door handle and pushed the heavy old door open with her bottom – knowing that an open invitation for him to enter the Dower House was written on her face. But evidently, he was stronger than she was. Taking a further step away from her, he raised his hand to her cheek and held it there for several long seconds. Then, with a regretful smile he bowed courteously, dropped his hand and then turned on his heel and disappeared into the inky, windswept darkness.
Chapter Twenty Five
After the storm subsided, Shona and her baby were driven back to her hotel on the far side of Kinloch Mara to be checked over by her family doctor. But not before she’d pressed a business card into Fliss’s hand with a whispered promise.
‘I owe you, Fliss. If there’s ever anything I - or my family - can do for you, you have only to ask. If things don’t work out here -’ she gave Fliss a knowing look and nodded towards Ruairi who was carrying her bags to the Land Rover. ‘Remember that you have friends on the other side of the loch … the bit where His Gorgeousness doesn’t call all the shots. Seriously, I mean it.’
‘I won’t forget,’ Fliss promised. Was she so transparent that everyone in Kinloch Mara knew her business, knew about her growing attraction for Ruairi? ‘I want full visiting rights to Madam; you know that, don’t you?’
She bent her head and kissed Iona, inhaling the intoxicating scent of vanilla, baby powder and milk that clung to her. It was also a convenient way of hiding her expression. She didn’t want Shona - or anyone else - to have even an inkling of what had passed between her and Ruairi last night. Now, standing in the bright, rain-washed morning she wondered if the kiss they’d shared in the darkness wasn’t some remnant of a fevered dream, conjured up by the storm and the stress of delivering Baby Iona.
‘Tell me to mind my own business and - oh, hell, I’ve never been able to mind my own business so why should I start now? I sense something between you and Ruairi; something …’ Shona was forestalled as Murdo opened the back passenger door and beckoned her to climb in. Handing Iona to Fliss she got in, wincing as she shuffled along the bench seat. Fliss kissed Iona’s dark head one last time before handing her back to Shona. ‘Come and visit. Both of you.’ She extended the invitation to Ruairi who had come round to check that mother and daughter were safely fastened in.
‘We’ll keep in touch,’ he promised, not giving the slightest indication there was anything untoward in Shona’s assumption that he and Fliss were an item. He closed Shona’s door, climbed into the front passenger seat and rolled down the window. The warm look he sent Fliss made her breath catch in her throat. A surge of adrenaline sent hormones scudding through her veins and hot pins and needles travelling the length of her arms, down to her fingertips. ‘Will you be in the Wee Hoose later, there’s something I need to discuss with you?’
‘Certainly. I’ll be waiting for you.’ She answered lightly, but trepidation knotted her stomach and her euphoria plummeted like mercury in a cooling thermometer. She was a fool, she castigated herself; it was only to be expected - he wanted to tell her that last night had been a mistake. He shouldn’t have kissed her. She shouldn’t get any ideas about what the kiss signified - it had happened in the heat of the moment; and now - in the cool light of day, he was furiously back-peddling.
‘Later, then,’ he gave her a brief smile before he wound up the window.
‘Laters.’
Wearing a fixed smile, she stood until the Land Rover was out of sight and then let her shoulders slump. Crestfallen, she made her way into Tigh na Locha to fetch her mail. As she entered the hall, Isla sauntered downstairs in her dressing gown and tartan pyjamas although it was almost noon. Fliss wasn’t in the mood for another close encounter of the barbed kind and was about to leave when Isla called her back.
‘Fliss; wait - I have a favour to ask.’
‘A favour. Really?’ Fliss regarded her suspiciously; Isla was at her most dangerous when she was being charming. If Isla noticed her less than enthusiastic response, she gave no indication.
‘I’ve got a stinker of a hangover and I’d love an Indian Head Massage - but I can’t be arsed to get dressed and schlep all the way down to the Wee Hoose. Would you mind carrying out the treatment in my bedroom?’ It was on the tip of Fliss’s tongue to refuse but she changed her mind. There was bad blood between them. This might be a chance to consign the incident in the rose garden, telling her to shutthefuckup - and Isla’s unfounded suspicions about herself and Murdo to the recycle bin.
‘Sure. No problem - I’ll go and fetch my equipment. I’ll even throw in an eyebrow shape and upper lip wax - if you like.’
‘I like,’ Isla grinned and then shut her eyes as though the effort was too much. She stumbled her way towards the dining room while Fliss, trying to put Ruairi from her mind, left for the Wee Hoose.
Fifteen minutes later, Fliss was heating up a pot of wax and sorting through bottles of essential oils in Isla’s bedroom. What had once been a large bedroom had been converted into a studio-cum-sitting room, with a futon in the corner doubling as a bed. The futon was almost buried under its own weight of discarded clothes, shoes, magazines, paperbacks and make-up. The only space Fliss could find to set out her stall was on a table which held a laptop, several notepads and a pile of sketchbooks.
Over by the window, a large easel had been placed to catch the morning light. Next to it was an X-shaped frame which held prints and sketches. In another corner, there was a kitchen unit complete with sink and draining board; and above it were shelves stacked with paints, inks and brushes. A wash line was strung diagonally across the room and drying prints and lithographs hung from it in lieu of laundry. The room smelled of paint, linseed oil and a heady, musky perfume - and something slightly earthy and mouldy smelling. Most likely traces of Isla’s secret cannabis smoking sessions that went on up here.
Although distracted by Ruairi’s parting shot, Fliss nevertheless found a free corner of her mind to decode the scene before her.
Here was an Isla she didn’t know - one who was artistic and talented, too, by the look of things. She moved over to the cluttered dressing table where Isla had blue-tacked rough sketches for the therapy centre flyers around the mirror: a pen and ink drawing of Tigh na Locha overlaid with the centre’s opening hours, contact details and an introductory offer of ten per cent off a range of therapies. Just as she was grudgingly conceding that Isla had done a good job, the artist -in-residence wandered in from the en suite bathroom and sat on the futon blow-drying her hair.
‘I wouldn’t go to a lot of trouble,’ Fliss advised above the noise. ‘You’ll have to wash your hair after the Indian Head massage - because of the oils.’
‘No problemo, my hair felt so skanky I couldn’t let you touch it.’
‘I’ve had to deal with a lot worse.’ Fliss gestured for her to sit on a straight-backed wooden chair, feeling very much that they were circling round each other like dualists wondering who was going to score the first hit. Draping a towel over Isla’s shoulders, she poured oil into the palm of her left hand, rubbed her hands together and applied a firm but light pressure on Isla’s cranium.
‘You did brilliantly last night.’ Isla closed her eyes and let Fliss’s fingers work their magic. ‘The family is massively impressed. I must say - I didn’t think you had it in you …’
‘Thanks for the testimonial,’ Fliss remarked sardonically, uncertain where Isla was going with the whole you’re my new best friend act.
‘That came out wrong. It was meant as a compliment.’ Now Fliss was doubl
y suspicious. Isla only schmoozed you when she wanted something. Like when she’d invited her to the party in Elgin Crescent because Mitzi needed someone to run the therapy centre. And look where that had got her! ‘By the end of today the story will be right round the loch. That - coupled with the flyers I’ve designed, will bring in the punters. The advance publicity will ensure that the Open Day is a great success, too. I think Mumma and Angus are hoping to invite the local press to cover it.’
‘Good.’ Fliss’s fingers worked through Isla’s hair and the scent from the oils intensified as her hands warmed to their task.
‘Mumma said that Ruairi - ouch!’
‘Sorry. Was the pressure too hard?’
‘A bit.’ Isla settled herself more comfortably in the chair, relaxed and closed her eyes. ‘Mumma said that Ruairi,’ she tensed at the mention of his name, clearly expecting Fliss’s fingers to dig into her scalp for a second time. ‘Mumma said that he was singing your praises to old Nurse McLeish shortly before Angus drove her home. Looks like you’re flavour of the month …’ Fliss stopped the massage and let the words hang in the air for a few seconds before continuing with her rhythmic kneading.
‘Your point being?’
‘My point is this,’ Isla swung round to face her - straddling the chair cowboy fashion, with her arms across the back. ‘Cat told me you’re going to persuade Ruairi not to send her back to the crammer at the end of the summer. That you’re going to help her get a work placement at the vet’s in Port Urquhart.’
‘I think Cat’s being a little bit too optimistic -I merely suggested that -’
But Isla wasn’t listening.
‘So, what I wondered … what I hoped was - maybe you could do the same for me? Persuade Ruairi to let me concentrate on my art instead of going to university.’
‘I really don’t think …’
‘Ask him to give me a year to gather together enough samples of my work to hold an exhibition in Port Urquhart next summer when the tourists return. Maybe even make it an annual event - THE PORT URQUHART ARTS FESTIVAL.’ She sketched the letters in the air like it was already a done deal. ‘After that, maybe a foundation course at a Scottish University with a view to transferring somewhere more - urban, to specialise for the last three years before graduating with honours.’
Clearly, Isla had great belief in her own abilities - but no surprises there.
‘More urban?’ Fliss knew exactly where this was leading.
‘Yeah, like Chelsea Art School.’ Isla gave a casual shrug, making it seem like she hadn’t given the idea much thought. But Fliss knew that Isla did nothing without thorough planning and ensuring that all the odds were stacked in her favour.
‘Chelsea?’
‘That’d be my first choice. But I’d be quite happy to attend the Slade. I could live in the Elgin Crescent house in term time - thus saving Ruairi oodles of money on accommodation and just come home in the hols. I wouldn’t need him to fund my degree course; my trust fund will take care of that. I’d even attend Edinburgh School of Art, if I had to - as a last resort, naturally. Much too close to Ruairi for comfort,’ she laughed. ‘You have his ear, Fliss; so - whatd’ya think?’
‘Think?’ Fliss gave her a severe look. ‘I think you’ve overestimated my powers of persuasion and my standing with Ruairi. I merely suggested to Cat that she should work harder to improve her relationship with Ruairi and - maybe - after a month or two, have a frank discussion with him and tell him what she really wants to do with her life. Why don’t you do the same?’
‘What? Are you mad? You don’t talk things over with Ruairi. You present him with fait accompli and leave him no room for manoeuvre.’
‘Hasn’t worked up until now - has it?’ Fliss pointed out candidly, and then gestured for Isla to turn round so she could continue with the massage. ‘Besides, up until last night Ruairi and I couldn’t spend more than five minutes in each other’s company without going for the jugular. Flavour of the month? I don’t think so.’
‘No, you’re wrong. It may have been like that in the beginning, but Ruairi’s mellowing. He’s seen how hard you’ve worked; the way the therapy centre is taking shape and how - by some miracle - you’ve drawn Mumma away from London and back to Kinloch Mara, like she can’t get enough of the place. That’s never happened before.’
‘He’s said nothing to me.’ Fliss gave a casual shrug although her heart sang as Isla’s words sank in. Had she really - finally - won Ruairi over?
‘No he wouldn’t. Ruairi doesn’t work like that. You have to work hard to earn his respect; his approval. But he gave me another lecture this morning about how little I contribute to the estate - compared to Cat and you. Especially you.’
Fliss thought of his whispered words last night. I’ve been wrong about you, Fliss. And I’m sorry.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘So why does he constantly scowl at me and look like he’d like to send me packing?’
‘Unresolved Sexual Tension, sweetie. Plus - he’s never been any good at admitting when he’s wrong.’ But Fliss only heard the first three words.
‘What do you mean by - by … ‘
‘Unresolved Sexual Tension? Oh, come on, Fliss; don’t deny it. You two should get a room. Ouch - that hurt -’ Isla said as Fliss’s nails inadvertently grazed along her scalp, ‘and proves I’m right. I’ve seen the way you look at him when you think no one’s looking. Like you can’t get enough of him. Like you’d like to eat him up in one greedy gulp.’ Hot colour swept over Fliss and she was glad that Isla was facing away from her.
‘I do not,’ she protested weakly. But Isla was having none of it.
‘Of course you do. And as for my sainted brother … brooding Mr Rochester is his default mode. But the way he looks at you? As if he can’t quite figure you out? Why, he could give Darcy, Heathcliff and Rochester a run for their money,’ she laughed. ‘It’s as if he can’t make up his mind whether to shag you witless or have you thrown off the estate and out of temptation’s way.’
‘No. No, you’ve got it all wrong.’
Or maybe, just maybe, Isla had it all right!
‘Can’t remember the last time he had a girlfriend,’ Isla carried on blithely. ‘Let alone got laid. Unless, of course he’s been visiting the massage parlours and lap dancing clubs in Hong Kong.’
‘Isla! That’s a vile thing to say. Besides, I thought … well, Mitzi told me that he’s one of the most eligible bachelors in the western isles. That there are aristocratic girls desperate to be the next Lady Urquhart.’
‘And they are! However, he hasn’t shown interest in any of them, not since Princess Fiona did a runner and left him nursing a broken heart and a bruised ego. And, I will admit that in the past Cat and I may have gone out of our way to scare a few off. Not that it took much doing - they’re such lightweights. But you’re different, made of sterner stuff. You’ve stayed the course, weathered Ruairi’s bad moods and made him eat his words. Not quite what Cat and I had in mind.’
‘Had in mind? Is there something I’m missing here?’ Fliss took hold of Isla’s skinny shoulders and spun her round.
‘I thought - well, Cat and I thought - that with Mumma’s plans for the therapy centre resurrected, Ruairi would be too occupied trying to stop it happening. Too busy getting rid of you, that he’d have no time left to devote to us. Bringing us to heel; grounding us; stopping our allowances - that sort of thing …’
‘I don’t get it. Don’t you want Mitzi’s business to flourish?’
‘Well it doesn’t really matter one way or the other, does it? She’s going to marry Angus and have so much money that she’ll be able to bathe in champagne. The therapy centre will come a very poor second to that.’
‘Don’t you think that Mitzi needs the therapy centre? To prove to Angus that there’s more to her than half-brained business ideas, a secret stash of unsalable goods under the stairs and a predisposition to run away from her responsibilities to you and Cat
. She should be the one disciplining you, not Ruairi,’ Fliss pointed out, not quite believing that she was fighting Ruairi’s corner.
‘Urquharts don’t have to prove anything to anybody,’ Isla rounded on her, plainly not considering it Fliss’s place to tell it like it is. ‘Not that I’d expect you to understand that.’
‘Don’t come over all daughter-of-the-house with me, Isla Urquhart. It might have worked once when I was actually in awe of you; but not any more. As for running away from responsibility - like mother, like daughter? You have a God given talent - why do you have to go all the way to London to attend art school? What are you running away from?’
Tellingly, Isla’s gaze slid towards a silver-framed photograph on her dressing table - a family group of Ruairi, Murdo, Mitzi, Cat and herself enjoying a barbeque on the beach. She looked about fourteen or fifteen, so it must have been taken a good five or six years earlier. Murdo had his arm round her shoulder and she was leaning into him as though he was her hero and it was the most natural thing in the world. He looked like he’d won the lottery and was the happiest man alive.
Fliss remembered the atmosphere in the Land Rover when Murdo had picked them up from the airport. The way he’d taken Isla by the shoulders as though he wanted to shake all the silliness and posturing out of her. The burning look they’d exchanged in the layby and how he’d quieted her with a glance. Now she got it:
Mitzi was running away from her widowhood.
Isla was running away from her feelings for Murdo.
‘Unresolved sexual tension? Well, you’d know all about that - wouldn’t you?’ Fliss looked at the photograph and then slowly back at Isla. ‘Do you have some inflated idea of your own importance and think that Murdo’s not your equal? If you can’t see Murdo’s worth then you’re a fool.’
Isla got up, pushed the chair back, removed the towel from her shoulders and threw it down on the chair seat like a gauntlet. ‘Not such a fool that I haven’t noticed you and Murdo huddled together. Laughing. Sharing drinks on the veranda of the Wee Hoose. Him visiting you every day.’