Dancing for the Devil

by Marie Laval

  The vicar was a stocky man with bushy grey whiskers and eyebrows, who strode towards the pulpit, his black robes billowing around him. After a hostile glance in Rose’s direction, he opened his bible and started reading with a deep, solemn voice.

  It was a short service. Less than half an hour later, Rose watched her friend’s coffin being lowered into a freshly dug grave. Around her the churchyard was filled with rows of stone crosses, some worn and disappearing under a thick layer of moss, others carved with pretty and intricate designs. The churchyard overlooked the sea on one side and the moors on the other. The moors stretched as far as the eyes could see, scattered with clumps of misshapen trees, their bare, black branches twisted by the wind as if pleading for mercy. Would Malika be at peace in this harsh, wild land, so far away from home?

  ‘Rose … they’re waiting for you,’ Lord McGunn said next to her.

  She jumped. ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

  She bent down to grab a handful of earth and stepped towards Malika’s coffin. She didn’t see the shovel lying on the ground until it was too late. She tripped over it and would have fallen into Malika’s grave had Lord McGunn not grabbed hold of her arm.

  ‘Careful,’ he warned.

  She swayed against him and for a brief moment her cheek rested on the coarse fabric of his coat. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scents of winter and deep, dark forests. The same scents as his plaid, the sprigs of pine, and his skin. Heat rushed to her face and images of his sharp-edged medallion, of his strong, muscular chest and the strange blue tattoo just above his heart flashed through her mind, so clear and vivid she could picture touching him and tracing the contour of the tattoo with her fingertips – or her lips.

  Shame heated her cheeks, her whole body, in a flash. She jerked out of his arms. How could she think about Lord McGunn in this way in a churchyard, as she buried her childhood friend?

  He frowned and seemed about to speak when a woman’s scream echoed across the graveyard.

  ‘It’s Morag. Look, she’s over there.’ The vicar pointed to the woman who stood facing the bay, shaking.

  ‘Damn, what’s wrong now?’ McGunn ran across the churchyard and reached her just as she fainted to the ground.

  ‘Kilroy, come here,’ he called, lifting her on to a nearby wooden bench.

  The doctor rushed to his side, followed by Rose and the vicar.

  ‘Oh dear, poor woman. I wonder what happened to put her in that state.’ Reverend MacKay lifted his cassock above his ankles and toddled cautiously across the snow-covered churchyard.

  Doctor Kilroy produced a bottle of salts from his coat pocket, unscrewed the top and waved the small vessel under the unconscious woman’s nose. Morag sneezed, coughed and flicked her eyes open.

  ‘She was right there, I saw her walking on the beach,’ she said in a breathless whisper. ‘She looked straight at me. She knows what I’ve done, and she wants to punish me.’

  She looked around, and her eyes focussed on Rose.

  ‘It’s your fault she came back.’

  Who was Morag talking about? The beach was deserted.

  ‘She is delirious,’ Doctor Kilroy remarked as he took hold of Morag’s wrist, and pulled his pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket to check her pulse.

  ‘We need to get her inside and warm as soon as possible,’ he went on, putting his watch away. ‘Actually, it’s better if I take her to the practice straight away. I’ll be able to examine her there and she can have a rest.’

  ‘She knows what I did,’ Morag repeated as she turned anguished eyes towards Lord McGunn and gripped his hand. ‘She knows everything. I’m so sorry. I only wanted to save them, I had to do it. It was her or them. Please forgive me …’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about, but that’s enough for now, Morag,’ Lord McGunn said in a quiet voice. ‘You heard the doctor, you must rest.’

  His face sombre, he lifted her into his arms and carried her out of the churchyard and into the carriage. It was decided that he would ride to the village while the doctor and Rose went in the carriage to take care of Morag. He tied Doctor Kilroy's horse to the back of the carriage and started ahead.

  Rose took advantage of the noise and confusion surrounding their arrival at Doctor Kilroy’s practice to take her bag out of the carriage and hide it behind an armchair in the doctor’s front parlour.

  ‘Here, my dear, have some tea while we’re waiting for news.’

  The doctor’s housekeeper, a stocky, grey-haired woman with a kind smile who had introduced herself as Mrs Fraser, pushed a hot cup into her hands. Rose smiled and drank the delicately scented tea, thankful that her headache was subsiding and her stomach had settled at last.

  ‘How is Morag?’ She put the empty cup down onto a pristine white crocheted mat.

  ‘Not well, I’m afraid.’ The woman fussed around the room, straightening cushions, rearranging ornaments on the mantelpiece and wiping invisible specks of dust from the furniture.

  ‘It’s not like her to faint or be ill,’ she added. ‘It’s no wonder Lord Bruce looks so worried. She brought him up, you know.’

  Rose looked up. ‘Did she?’

  ‘He was only a babe when his mother died,’ the housekeeper sighed.

  ‘Poor Bonnie. She was the kindest, the prettiest girl in the county. Her father, Lord Dougal, he was a harsh man – harsh, bitter and mean – he never forgave her for … you know, having a child out of wedlock. After Lord Bruce was born, the poor flower just wilted away. She took to walking on the moors and the cliffs alone, until one night she fell onto the rocks. It was all so very sad. There was a scandal, people talked, and Lord Dougal became even nastier.’

  ‘How old was Lord McGunn when his mother died?’ Rose put her cup on the side table.

  Mrs Fraser looked up, as if trying to remember.

  ‘Only a few months, poor soul. He was born in April and Bonnie passed away in November.’

  She put a hand against her ample bosom.

  ‘That’ll be thirty-two years ago at the end of the month. Shortly after, Morag’s husband and son died too, so it seemed only natural that she should take care of Lord Bruce. Good job for him she did, if you ask me. She was the next best thing to a mother he could ever have. Like I said, his grandfather was a harsh man. He made the boy’s life a misery for years, then he sent him to the army.’

  She walked to the window and smoothed the thick green curtains. Rose threw an anxious glance towards the chair where she had hidden her bag. If the housekeeper kept on inspecting every corner of the drawing room, she would spot it and ask questions …

  Fortunately, the woman didn’t see it.

  ‘I’ll see if the doctor needs me now, my lady. Are you sure you’re comfortable?’

  ‘Oh yes, thank you.’ Rose hesitated. ‘There was just one thing I wanted to ask you, Mrs Fraser. I have a letter to post. I was told the mail coach would stop in the village at midday today.’

  She glanced at the mantel clock. It was a quarter to noon.

  ‘That’s right,’ Mrs Fraser replied. ‘The coach leaves at twelve, after the driver and the post guards have had their dinner at the Old Norse’s Inn. If you give me your letter, I’ll send a lad to the inn right now.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but I’d rather take it to the coach myself.’ Rose forced a smile. ‘To tell you the truth, I could do with a walk and some fresh air.’

  ‘Of course … just make sure you slam the door shut behind you. It sticks a little.’

  As soon as the woman had left, Rose slipped her gloves on, adjusted her bonnet and cloak and retrieved her bag. Clutching the handles tightly, she tiptoed out of the drawing room into the empty hallway and opened the front door. She gave a silent prayer of thanks when it neither creaked nor rattled, and walked out into the pale winter sunshine and freedom.

  It was hard to walk at a leisurely pace along the narrow village street when all she wanted was to run, climb into the mail coach and put as muc
h distance as she could between her and Wrath. People stared, sniggered and called out in Gaelic as she walked by but she held her head high and looked straight ahead.

  At last she reached the square where the mail coach, red and black and pulled by four horses, was stationed in front of the alehouse. The driver, dressed in a thick black cloak, was already perched on his seat. She caught a glimpse of a man sitting inside – the only passenger.

  Calling up to the driver, she asked if there was any room for a passenger to Westmore. The ruddy-faced man looked down and grinned, uncovering large, yellowed front teeth.

  ‘There’s always room for a pretty woman.’

  He tapped the seat next to him with his gloved hand. ‘Climb up here next to me, my lovely. I’ll keep you warm.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she replied primly. ‘I’d rather travel inside.’

  He snorted. ‘Oh well, you can’t blame a man for trying,’ he said. ‘It’ll be four shillings, then.’

  Rose let out a gasp of dismay. The idea she might have to pay hadn’t even crossed her mind. She had no English money. Her gold Napoleons were still in her cabin on the Sea Eagle but there was no time to go to the ship now.

  ‘So what’s it to be, then?’ The driver asked, impatiently. ‘You’d better make up your mind and sharpish, are you coming or not?’

  Rose hesitated. What could she do?

  ‘Is her Highness leaving us?’ a coarse woman’s voice shouted nearby. ‘Good riddance, I’d say!’

  Rose breathed in a sigh of relief and smiled. Of course. She should have thought of it before. She may not have any money, but she was the wife of one of Scotland’s richest men.

  ‘I am Lady McRae,’ she told the driver. ‘If you let me ride inside the carriage, I promise that you’ll be paid in full when we get to Westmore and my husband will also add a very generous tip.’

  ‘Sure! You’re Lady McRae and I drive the gold state coach for Her Majesty the Queen!’ The man threw his head back and laughed.

  ‘But it’s true,’ Rose stammered. ‘You must believe me.’

  ‘Don’t pay attention to that old fool,’ a man in a smart gold and black livery said.

  He took his black hat off and smiled. ‘Can I help you, my dear?’ he asked.

  Rose forced a smile, even though she didn’t like the look in his small, beady eyes and his breath smelled of beer and fried onions.

  ‘I would like to travel to Westmore but I have no money – yet,’ she said. ‘My husband, Lord McRae, will pay you in full. I give you my word.’

  ‘Lord McRae, hey?’ He looked at her from top to toe and smiled, but it was clear he didn’t believe her. ‘I did hear some rumour about his lordship’s impending wedding, but I thought the lady was from London.’

  He leaned closer and she repressed a shiver of disgust. ‘And you, my lovely, don’t sound like you’re from London at all …’

  He pushed his hat back on his head and scratched his scalp, a look of regret in his eyes.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t let you ride on the mail coach without proper payment.’

  ‘But I just told you I could pay you later!’ She swallowed hard.

  ‘Are you coming or what? Better make a start or we’ll be late,’ the coach driver shouted from his seat as he slashed the air with his whip.

  ‘Please, you can’t leave me here.’ She grabbed hold of the guard’s arm. ‘Please …’

  The man hesitated ‘If you had something to give us in return, some jewellery, perhaps.’

  Why hadn’t she thought about it before?

  ‘I do. Just wait a minute.’

  Bending down, she opened her bag and searched for the jewellery pouch where she kept her trinkets, the Ouled Nail bangles and necklaces Malika had given her over the years.

  Triumphant she held out a necklace: a long chain decorated with silver and gold baubles and charms.

  ‘You can have it if you take me to Westmore.’

  The man’s beady eyes shone with greed. His hand reached out to snatch the necklace from her, he stroked the baubles, slid one between his teeth and bit down.

  ‘It looks like the genuine article,’ he said, slipping the necklace into his coat pocket.

  ‘My lady.’ He swung open the carriage door, held out his hand to help Rose climb up the steps and winked. ‘Or whoever you are … your carriage awaits.’

  Rose nodded to the gentleman seated inside and took a place next to him, since the bench opposite was covered in boxes and bags. The man was so large he took up almost all the seat, but she didn’t mind. She didn’t mind either that his cloak was covered with dog hair, that a pungent smell of horse manure rose from his scuffed boots, or that it was so cold inside the carriage that her breath steamed in front of her.

  What mattered was that she was about to be reunited with Cameron. Pulling her bonnet down on her forehead, she darted anxious looks out of the window, half expecting Lord McGunn to come running and demand that she step down from the coach.

  Shouting and the blowing of a horn announced the coach’s departure. Rose leaned against the backrest and heaved a sigh of relief.

  She was on her way to Westmore, and Cameron at last.

  Part Two:

  Blue Bonnets

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘You think I was doing what?’ Bruce shot Kilroy a disbelieving glance.

  The doctor shuffled his papers and piled them up in a precarious pyramid on his desk.

  ‘Sleepwalking,’ he answered without looking up. ‘How else can you explain what happened last night? You said yourself you couldn’t remember much.’

  Bruce shook his head.

  ‘Maybe I wasn’t the one sleepwalking.’

  He took a deep breath and raked his fingers in his hair. ‘The thing is, it’s happened before, with Rose McRae I mean.’

  This time, Kilroy looked up.

  ‘You mean she’s already been in your room in the middle of the night?’

  Bruce smiled. ‘Actually, she was in my bed the night she arrived.’

  Kilroy sat down heavily on his padded leather chair, folded his hands on his stomach, and narrowed his eyes.

  ‘You got her into bed the very first night? You work fast, my friend. I’m glad to see the old “Claymore Devil” hasn’t lost any of his sharp edges.’

  Bruce shook his head. ‘It wasn’t like that. I mean, I didn’t … we didn’t … she kind of stumbled into it.’

  Kilroy chuckled. ‘How can she stumble into your bed when your room is up a tower at the other end of the Lodge?’

  Bruce didn’t answer but turned and pressed his forehead against the cool window pane. He had spent the whole afternoon at Morag’s bedside and hadn’t even noticed how late it was. It was evening now, and people would be rushing home or pushing the door to the Old Norse’s Inn for a quiet pint of ale or a game of dominoes near the peat fire.

  ‘She was chasing after a ghost,’ Bruce said in a low voice.

  ‘What ghost? You talk in riddles, McGunn.’

  Bruce sighed and turned to face his friend. ‘It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I don’t sleepwalk. I would know if I did it, after years bivouacking and sleeping in army barracks.’

  ‘You may have only just started doing it. The unusual symptoms you’ve experienced lately, the memory loss, nightmares and vivid dreams you mentioned, all go hand in hand with sleepwalking.’

  ‘But don’t worry,’ Kilroy added quickly, ‘somnambulism isn’t that serious. The trick is to prevent you from getting injured. From now on, you must lock your door or put some piece of furniture to block your stairs at night to make sure you don’t wander on, or off, the cliff.’

  ‘I’ll soon have more pressing things to worry me than the need to drag cupboards across my staircase,’ Bruce retorted grimly. ‘I have bankers and their bailiffs to ward off, a killer to catch, and I may have a duel on my hands before long – if McRae is brave enough to face me.’

  Kilroy cocked his eyebrow. ‘A duel?’

  Br
uce drew in a deep, long breath.

  ‘Half my household saw Rose McRae asleep in my arms this morning.’

  ‘Ah. That’s unfortunate.’

  ‘Unfortunate? It’s a bloody disaster!’ Bruce thundered. ‘The woman doesn’t remember a thing. She has no idea her reputation is – or will soon be – in tatters and her husband may cast her off for adultery. How the hell do I tell her?’

  Kilroy toyed with a bronze letter opener.

  ‘Maybe you won’t have to. Maybe your people won’t talk. With the bad weather coming our way again, there won’t be much travelling between here and Thurso or Westmore in the next few days.’

  ‘You know as well as I do that the weather won’t stop tongues from wagging. Gossip always finds a way, especially that kind of gossip.’

  Kilroy stabbed a pile of letters with the letter opener. ‘You may be right. I wonder …’

  He paused and reclined on the back of his seat.

  ‘It does strike me as odd that neither of you remember much about last night. It’s as if you were both struck by some kind of amnesia.’

  ‘Perhaps it was the curse of the Northern Lights,’ Bruce replied with a shrug. ‘It’s late. I’d better go,’ he went on. ‘Are you sure Morag is going to be all right tonight? She seems very weak.’

  The woman had clutched at his hand, refusing to let him leave her side and asking for forgiveness again and again. Every time he asked what he should forgive, she’d turned her head to the wall without answering.

  Kilroy stood up. ‘Her heart is in bad shape and she is frail, but for now she’ll be comfortable enough in my spare room. Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on her throughout the night.’

  ‘Thanks, Kilroy.’

  Bruce slipped his riding coat on and walked to the front door.

  ‘How long before you travel to Westmore?’ Kilroy asked.

  ‘Two or three days, at most.’

  Kilroy swayed back and forth on the balls of his feet, and coughed to clear his throat.

  ‘I hope that what MacBoyd was telling me last night in the public house isn’t true.’

  ‘What was that?’

  The doctor leant closer and lowered his voice. ‘That you intend to keep Rose McRae here as some kind of guarantee against her husband and his business associates.’