The Dog House (Harding's World of Romance)

by Nell Harding

  Colin looked around the garden vaguely, trying to spot his companion for the event. “She isn’t really a date,” he said firmly, unable to find her. “But you know what Bridget’s like when there’s a big social do. She has to find herself on the invitation list, and she can be awfully insistent when she wants you to be her escort. She’s quite independent once she gets in.”

  Just then the woman in question reappeared, dragging a friend along by the arm. Bridget was an attractive, vivacious brunette, a socialite from the London scene. Her companion was shorter and curvaceous and new to the men.

  “Colin, Rabbie, this is Emma,” Bridget announced happily with a grin that suggested that she had also partaken of the champagne. “Emma, these are the men I was telling you about.”

  Emma smiled at each man in turn. “So you are the tall, dark and handsome one,” she said to Aiken, earning her a slight nod of amusement. “And you are the blue-eyed charmer. What an enticing pair you make.”

  “Ah, but we’re missing the smooth-talking blonde,” Colin apologised regretfully, batting those famous blue eyes under his thick, slightly curly hair. “We’re not the trio we once were.”

  “Good thing that there are only two of us looking for dance partners then,” Emma said lightly.

  Bridget clamped firmly onto Colin’s arm and Emma blinked up at Aiken invitingly. The two men shrugged their shoulders and grinned at each other before escorting their respective partners toward the live jazz band that had started playing in front of the marquis. Weddings weren’t completely without their uses.

  Chapter Two

  Fiona and Livingstone managed to keep out of trouble for nearly a week before the next incident occurred.

  During that week they had managed to work out a sort of routine that kept both of them happy while Fiona made progress with her writing. In the mornings they would go for long hill walks, following footpaths up through wood and bracken to reach the open heather of the higher ground, broken here and there by rockier ridges and fast-flowing streams. Livingstone was free to release some of his boundless energy while Fiona thought about what she was reading in the notebook, trying to tie the poems and notes to the landscape that she wandered through.

  In the afternoons Livingstone seemed content to rummage in the large, overgrown garden while Fiona sat in front of her computer, notes and books strewn about her as she jotted down her latest impressions and ideas about Campbell’s life.

  She had discovered the notebook tucked away in an old trunk in the attic of Mackenzie House. Her thesis research had been largely historical, compiling old records and mentions of the historic building before it was renovated, but her earlier areas of study had also included literature. Now she was happy to put both of her passions together in one book, trying not to feel daunted by the pressure of being the first one to present the newfound Campbell verse.

  Mackenzie House, where Campbell had apparently spent some time after his exile from Edinburgh, was in the little town of Braeport, down the coast from Fort William. Braeport was the nearest town to the village of Glen Murray, only twelve kilometres away, and Fiona had spent months there during her work at Mackenzie House. She had chosen Glen Murray knowing that it wasn’t too far from the hills where Campbell had also walked, but now she was delighted to find reference in his notebook to Glen Murray itself, making her choice of the Dog House even more pertinent.

  Glen Murray was a small side valley running in from the sea. Steep hills on either side protected the narrow glen which was home to a tiny village of the same name, a few farms and, at the end, just before the road ran out against the rocky end of the valley, Loch Murray and the castle grounds. In her ramblings along these ridges, high above the valley floor, Fiona let herself be swept away by Campbell’s evocative descriptions as he travelled through the same unchanged scenery. Then Livingstone would bark at a bird or small rodent and Fiona would come back to earth with a thud.

  Of course she had flicked through the notebook when she first found it, but her supervisor had soon taken it away to have it carefully copied onto microfiche in case it became damaged, and to keep her focused on the task at hand. The notes had only just been returned to her and every day she woke excited to delve further into the faded pages with their spidery writing.

  She had to admit that the first part of the notebook was dark, reflecting Campbell’s mood as he found himself far from home in the desolation of the highlands in late autumn. To be sure, Braeport would have seemed like the end of the world after his social life in Edinburgh, but Fiona was also starting to suspect that he had still loved his wife when she turfed him out, and that it was this loss that he was expressing in his bleak and beautiful descriptions of the hills.

  “It’s a good thing I have you here to keep me grounded,” she told Livingstone fondly as they returned from one of their long walks, muddy and tired. “Otherwise I might just slip back one hundred and fifty years, into the romantic past. And possibly start to feel lonely, exiled and depressed.”

  Livingstone gave her leg an affectionate bump with his motley, bear-like head, enjoining her to play with him a moment more as she let him into the back garden. Fiona gave in easily, picking up an old ball and throwing it for him as she looked in satisfaction at her new surroundings. Like Campbell, she had come a long way from the vibrant student scene in Edinburgh and might also come to find this austere landscape lonely by this winter, but right now it wasn’t hard to see the romance in it all.

  This time her musings were cut short by a cheeky squirrel that dared to run down a tree and dash across the garden floor in front of Livingstone. Immediately the dog lost all interest in the game, tearing after the rodent that scampered easily up the stone wall and into the nearest tree. Livingstone’s heavy paws pushed away another section of loosely-piled stones and he managed to scramble his awkward way over the wall and back onto the forbidden castle grounds where he promptly forgot about his quarry and set off to explore.

  Fiona groaned and headed after him, following his route over the crumbling wall as she made a mental note to have it repaired more solidly. Her hopes that he might stay in the vicinity of the squirrel were quickly dashed as he once again headed straight through the woods toward the castle.

  To Fiona’s relief there had been no communication from the castle occupants. She could only hope that they had somehow failed to make the connection between the new tenant of the gatehouse and their poorly-behaved wedding guest. She herself had tried to block the event from her mind rather than deal with it, but the necessity of taking some sort of action was now being brought home to her as she found herself yet again thrashing through tightly-knit bramble and swearing as her hair caught on the prickly branches.

  Then a line from Campbell came back to her, making her smile at its appropriate nature although it could be used to describe the dog as well as the underbrush: “The untamed gorse, that no man ever praised though it follow but its nature…”

  He had probably been describing himself with his alcoholic ways, but it suited her attitude toward brambles just now. And there was something pleasing about identifying with a poet, no matter how forgotten he may be.

  Her smile died on her face as she reached the edge of the woods and gazed out toward the castle. This time at least there were no signs of occupation apart from a sleek convertible parked just past the outbuildings. Livingstone had taken a detour to the lake, splashing in the mud at the water’s edge until he was wet and muddy. Then he turned and bounded playfully up the grassy slope toward the car and, in a surprisingly athletic move for a large dog, he leapt directly onto the smooth leather of the back seat with a loud ripping sound.

  He gazed over toward Fiona, tongue lolling happily, as if waiting to be taken for a drive. Fiona stared, aghast, before leaving the cover of the trees to dash over to the open vehicle, already peeling off her sweater to try to mop up the muddy footprints. Her heart sank at the deep tears and scratches on the soft leather, very evidently the work of a large cani
ne’s claws.

  But as she approached, she became aware of voices coming from behind the nearest outbuilding and her courage froze. Having failed to do the right thing during the wedding party, it would be twice as awkward now to be caught red-handed during her second trespass. She was no doubt sliding down the infamous slippery slope of poor reasoning, which suggested that the first minor misdemeanour would inevitably lead to more heinous crimes. There was something hard to break in the cycle that seemed to have started.

  She ignored this doubtful stream of rationale as she grabbed Livingstone’s collar and pulled his reluctant and heavy form across the seat to try to hoist him over the side door. He showed no inclination to leave his prize location and she had to open the door and yank him out unceremoniously, leaving the door open rather than risk the noise of shutting it again. As she sprinted back to the safety of the woods, Livingstone evidently enjoying this new game, she had only time to note that the voices spoke with posh English accents, no hint of Scots.

  She was scandalised to find her conscience somewhat mollified by the idea that her mongrel dog was at least annoying the invasive English aristocracy. Again, this was no time to start questioning her subconscious for nationalistic tendencies or to try to make this misbehaviour seem more like Robin Hood. As it was, she barely had time to reach the cover of the forest before the sources of the voices appeared, strolling out from behind the buildings toward the castle.

  She couldn’t resist the urge to see what happened next, confident that Livingstone was heading for home without her. From her hiding spot she watched as two handsome men made their way languidly across the gravel, conversing in an off-hand way. One looked dark and mysterious, while the other she recognised as the best man at the wedding, with his slightly-curling brown hair, handsome face and a pair of expressive blue eyes which she had been too far away to see last time.

  Their relaxed demeanour changed abruptly when the dark-haired man caught sight of the convertible. His angry and upset words were muffled but their meaning was clear as he broke into a run toward the car. The best man hurried after him, looking mystified and then disbelieving and finally irate. His gaze followed the muddy footprints and the imprints in the gravel toward the lawn and straight on into the woods. Fiona froze on the spot, her heart hammering, convinced that he would spot her. But his companion grabbed his arm to point to something on the seat, probably scratch marks, and she took the opportunity to slip deeper into the trees and back to the Dog House.

  The end of the day found Fiona perched on a barstool in the Glen Murray Inn, which had been her favourite pub even when her work had kept her in Braeport. She used to seek refuge in the Braeport Arms, but when the barmaid, Sarah, switched to Glen Murray, so did Fiona. It was a happy coincidence that the Inn was now only a few kilometres down the road from her new home.

  It was a cosy pub, with a long wooden bar, well-stocked with ales and whiskeys, with a row of comfortable stools pulled up against it. There were also wooden tables and booths near the windows, and a hearth for colder weather. Paintings of the highlands decorated the walls and a tartan-style carpet softened the lounge around the fireplace. Fiona eyed the comfortable corner to imagine doing her writing there, but knew that it was a bad idea. She and Sarah had become good friends over the course of her work at Mackenzie House and her work would suffer from their long conversations.

  “I thought you were going to boycott the pub and focus on your work,” Sarah said reproachfully, although she looked pleased to see her friend. “You haven’t lasted a week.”

  “Extraordinary circumstances,” Fiona said darkly, reaching for her pint. “My writer’s retreat isn’t quite as distraction-free as I’d hoped.”

  “Love interest?” Sarah asked eagerly, her interest perking up immediately.

  “Only of the four-legged variety,” Fiona assured her. “But I’m starting to think that dogs are more trouble than men.”

  “Getting tired of walking him already?” the barmaid asked sympathetically. “I thought you loved to walk.”

  “Walking him is fine,” Fiona said with a grim smile. “It’s chasing after him on forbidden ground that I’m getting tired of.”

  Sarah’s eyes opened wide. “He’s not straying onto the castle grounds, is he?” she asked, sounding worried.

  Fiona eyed her friend warily. “Would that really be so bad?” she asked, wincing.

  She watched as Sarah struggled to sound less dire about the situation. “Not if he doesn’t get caught,” she tried with a dry laugh.

  Fiona took another sip of her ale and sighed. Apart from her plan to save money and time, it had also been her hope to lose a few pounds by drinking less beer this year. But her plan wasn’t off to the best start. She wriggled her toes against Livingstone’s drowsy body which flopped contentedly at her feet.

  Sarah was regarding her with empathy. “He hasn’t been caught yet but you think he will,” she supplied helpfully. “Is he chasing rabbits?”

  “Squirrels,” Fiona said vehemently. “Right over the back garden wall. But then he seems drawn to the castle like a magnet, even though it’s across a thick stretch of wood that must be full of dozens of squirrels that should divert him.”

  “Then you’re lucky he hasn’t been seen,” the barmaid said firmly. “The Parkers are famous for not wanting their privacy disturbed. They live in a sort of a bubble, cut off from the real world.”

  “Livingstone barged in on their wedding,” Fiona announced glumly. “Knocked over the table with the champagne and nearly took out the wedding cake.”

  Sarah’s eyes grew as large as saucers before she let out an awed giggle. “Wow,” she said in genuine admiration. “That’s a bit of a reminder for them that there is a world beyond their walls. But you must be talking about the Harrington-Smythe wedding last week. Colin’s a confirmed bachelor.”

  “He’s one of the Parkers, then, is he?” Fiona asked, trying to rethink her picture of her neighbours.

  “He’s the son,” Fiona confirmed. “The elder Parkers spend most of their time in the south. Colin spends a lot of his time here, hosting half of upper-class England to weeks in the Highlands. And the occasional well-heeled Scot, for good measure.”

  “Is he sort of good-looking with blue eyes?” Fiona asked cautiously.

  “Sort of?” Sarah repeated incredulously. “He’s one of the hottest catches north of the border. Well, not a catch unless you’ve got blue blood yourself, but dreams are free, aren’t they?”

  “Sounds like a bit of a snob,” Fiona said dismissively.

  “Oh, but he’s a real charmer,” Sarah defended him. “Loads of fun to be with, friendly as can be, if you’re in his circle, and always positive. I guess it isn’t that hard when you’re that comfortable.”

  “And how do you know all this if he doesn’t mix and mingle with the likes of us?” Fiona demanded. “Is this all coming from Hello magazine?”

  Sarah laughed. “You can keep from mixing with the commoners, but they’re the ones who clean your sheets, deliver your food and take care of your horses,” she pointed out with a grin. “My auntie used to take care of Colin in the summers when he was a boy, and one of my mates caters for a lot of the Parker parties. Basically I know everybody who works in the golf clubs and posh restaurants where these people go. It isn’t so different from the Middle Ages, you know; half of the region is employed indirectly by a handful of rich families.”

  Fiona was unconvinced. “Still sounds like a bit of a pompous jerk,” she said irritably. “Keeping himself away from the commoners.”

  “That’s because you haven’t had those famous blue eyes sparkle just for you,” Sarah said with a deep sigh.

  “Nor have you, I take it,” Fiona said with a roll of her eyes.

  “Of course not,” Sarah replied, returning to her usual business-like manner as she polished the long wooden bar. “Although it has occurred, on a few rare occasions, that he stops in with a group of visitors for a final drink in the pub
on his way back from some outing or another. So at least I can confirm about his looks.”

  “Looks are all well and good,” Fiona said crossly, “but what really shows what kind of a man you are is how you deal with your neighbours. Say a neighbour with a dog who scratched your guest’s car.”

  This time Sarah’s jaw dropped open. “He’ll shoot you,” she offered shortly. “Or worse. He runs perfect parties and can’t have them getting spoilt by the likes of you or me. Did Livingstone really do that?”

  Fiona nodded glumly. “This afternoon. And they saw him. I’m guessing it won’t take too long to trace him back to me. They have to drive close to the cottage each time they come and go. I’m sort of surprised they haven’t tracked me down already.”

  Sarah seemed to be considering her as she poured another pint. “This one’s on the house,” she offered. “Consider it therapy. But it’s a good sign if they haven’t contacted you. I think Colin just wants to avoid dealing with any of us. Sort of a live and let-live approach.”

  “I sure hope so,” Fiona breathed. “I think the leather in that car cost more than my year’s research grant.” She bent down to pat Livingstone’s head absently.

  “I could always use a hand here behind the bar,” Sarah said with a flash of a smile, still seeming slightly awed by her friend’s contact with the aloof Parker’s, no matter how accidental. “Keep that in mind if the dog gets up to any more shenanigans.”

  Fiona looked at her dolefully. “If the dog gets into any more trouble, I may have to leave the country.”

  Her friend didn’t disagree, but she tactfully tried to change the subject. “So, are you nervous about speaking at the Mackenzie House opening? They’re billing you as some sort of eminent historian.”

  Fiona laughed out loud. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll remember to stay vague about details.”

  “Aren’t you scared? All sorts of members of the Historical and Cultural Society will be there, not to mention anybody who’s any sort of patron of the arts around here. It’s quite an event for the Braeport area.”