Dancing for the Devil

by Marie Laval

  McRae spun round and marched up to him, stopping only when he was a couple of steps away.

  ‘You said you grew up despising the McRaes, well, I’ll tell you how I grew up. From the day my mother told me about you when I was sixteen, the fear never left me that one day you’d finally find out who you truly were. I had nightmares about you riding up to the front door, ordering me to pack up, kicking me out while you took control of Westmore, and of everything.’ He smiled. ‘But that’s not going to happen. Ever. I won’t agree to anything with you, privately or publicly. The only proof anything ever went on between my father and your slut of a mother, and that you’re his bastard son is that letter you claim to have. My father’s portrait suffered an unfortunate accident this morning – it fell into the fire. I am most upset about it, naturally, since it was the only painting ever made of the man.’

  Bruce thought about the medallion he’d foolishly thrown into the fire and cursed himself. That would have been his best chance of proving he was Niall’s son – since there was no letter. He had to gain time and carry on bluffing.

  ‘Your mother knew, and the lawyers of course … who else?’

  ‘Your grandfather, of all people.’ Cameron shook his head. ‘The cunning old devil managed to blackmail my mother into giving him rather large sums of money on a few occasions.’

  So that was why they’d come to Westmore that time when he was ten.

  ‘The last time he came here begging for money, my mother bought you a commission in the 92nd Highlanders. I think she was hoping you’d get yourself killed. To tell the truth, I think he, too, was hoping the same thing. He really didn’t seem to like you very much …’

  A shooting pain sliced through Bruce’s chest, the blood drained from his face, and he started shaking. Any second now and he would fall to the ground. McRae’s face swam in front of his eyes. He could hardly keep them open.

  ‘Oh dear, you really don’t look so good. You should sit down.’

  McRae pushed Bruce into the armchair. His pale, long-fingered hands gripped either side and he leaned over until he was so close Bruce smelled the cigar smoke on his breath.

  ‘I have a little surprise for you. A few people you may remember from a recent trip to Inverness have now arrived at Westmore. They’ve just been to see Langford and Stewart to sign an affidavit and I believe they’ll be with us any second now.’

  Bruce could hardly hear him. His heart raced, too loud, too fast. His head pounded, the pain suddenly unbearable. His brain filled with the distorted sounds of the library door opening and boots pounding the parquet as three of McRae’s henchmen walked in. Behind them were two women clad in flamboyant gowns billowing like sails with their every step. Each wore a large, colourful ostrich feathered hat that sat atop their chignon like some gigantic bird about to take to the air. With their garish make up and the perfume that wafted around them like a noxious cloud, it wasn’t hard to guess what their profession was.

  He’d seen them before.

  McRae’s men now stood in next to the women, hands resting on their pistols.

  ‘That’s him all right!’ The oldest woman shrieked, a look of sheer horror distorting her painted face as she pointed a finger in his direction. ‘I’d recognise that big brute anywhere. He was full of drink and in such a violent mood he gave us a right scare that night. He looked like the Devil, he did. We cater for respectable gentlemen in our establishment, not thugs like him.’

  ‘Aye, and he insisted on taking both girls away, even though the poor lambs could hardly stand, let alone walk, by the time he’d finished with them,’ the other woman carried on. She shook her head, her double chin wobbling like an unappetising blancmange. ‘He had to carry them in his arms,’ she finished with a wail.

  ‘What poor lambs? Who are you talking about?’ Bruce asked.

  ‘That young girl, a bonnie blonde lass – she couldn’t have been more than fifteen. She didn’t talk much but she said she knew you the moment you staggered in, drunk as a skunk.’

  Hell. Could she be talking about Fenella McKay?

  Bruce rose to his feet and took an unsteady step forward. ‘I didn’t hurt anyone.’

  The woman jumped back with a squeal as if scared he would touch her.

  ‘I was in no fit state to do anything to any woman for that matter,’ he carried on but the words came out slow and raspy. ‘I’d just been ambushed by a gang of thugs. I don’t beat girls or women up.’

  ‘Well, we know what we heard and what we saw, and that’s what we told that old lawyer,’ one of the women decreed as she crossed her short, plump arms on her chest.

  Bruce pressed his finger and thumb against the bridge of his nose. What if the women were right? After all, he did remember some kind of brothel, and he’d definitely seen Malika, but could he really have hurt, raped and killed her? Could he have tortured her? And what about that other girl he’d forgotten all about? Damn it, why couldn’t he remember?

  McRae’s voice cut through the haze of doubts and troubled thoughts swirling in his mind.

  ‘The statements will be sent to the Procurator Fiscal in Thurso at first light tomorrow morning. I think we can expect police constables to pay us a visit soon after and take you to Inverness jail.’

  He paused and let out a low chuckle.

  ‘You never know, you may even get to spend time in Fergus McGunn’s old cell – the one he stayed in before being taken to London for his execution. Do you think history is about to repeat itself?’

  He dismissed the women with a flick of his hand and ordered one of his men to take them back to the servants’ quarter for refreshments. Two men stayed behind, guarding the door and scowling menacingly at him.

  ‘I don’t remember anything,’ Bruce muttered.

  McRae’s face twisted in a mock grimace and he put his hand to his heart.

  ‘How awful for you, but I assure you that the women are prepared to testify at your trial. For now, I’ll leave you to think about your predicament. We might be able to come to an agreement later. Take him to the tower,’ he then instructed his men. ‘We’ll keep him there until it’s time to leave.’

  Leave? Leave for where?

  By then he was too weak to fight the men off, and he could only groan when they grabbed hold of him and punched him hard in the face and the gut, before dragging him towards the fireplace. For a second he thought they were going to throw him into the roaring fire, but they pressed on a brass lever at the centre of the panel. As in a dream, the wall slid open onto a dark passageway. No doubt McRae didn’t want him to be seen. Not yet anyway.

  After that there were only visions of mayhem and hell, excruciating pain shooting through his body, and the screaming and whispering in his head …

  He must have fallen asleep again. He woke up with a start, banging the back of his head against the bench.

  Sleeping had helped. He felt a little stronger. His headache had subsided to a dull ache, and his chest wasn’t quite as tight. He pulled on the ropes binding his wrists and legs as hard as he could. The muscles on his shoulders and arms bulged and strained, sweat beaded on his forehead, and his heart raced. To no avail.

  He took hard, deep breaths. There had to be a way he could escape and get back to Rose. Thank goodness she was at the Kirkhouse Inn. He’d left the landlord enough money for her to be treated well, and if she kept to the room as he’d instructed, she would be safe.

  For a while at least.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  It took two nights and two days of gruelling riding across snow-covered moorland and rocky tracks full of potholes to reach the outskirts of Wrath. Wallace insisted it was safer to keep off the main roads to avoid Morven and his men. Cutting across moors and farmland also enabled him to stop at various hamlets or isolated farms where he found a few of his former comrades from Bruce’s regiment who had come back to the Highlands.

  All were giants, with wild hair and weather-beaten faces and the weary eyes of men who’d seen too much an
d remembered everything. All welcomed Wallace with a mighty roar and a slap between the shoulder blades hard enough to topple a pine tree, greeting Rose with a curt nod and a baring of teeth which could have passed for a smile. And all listened in silence as Wallace told them about McGunn and the dangers he faced. It only took a few minutes for them to tuck a pistol or a knife into their belts, slip ammunition, a few coins or a pipe and tobacco pouch into a sporran or the pocket of their riding coat, and climb onto a horse to follow Wallace and Rose on the track to Wrath.

  There were eight of them by the time they reached a small loch overlooked by rugged peaks late one afternoon. The loch was so blue it looked like a piece of sky fallen down to earth – a piece of sky with one single cloud, since a snow-covered island floated in the middle of its smooth waters.

  ‘You look mighty pale, Miss Rose,’ Wallace said as he helped her from her horse when they stopped for a rest.

  ‘I’m fine, don’t worry about me,’ she replied with a smile.

  She wasn’t fine at all. She was dirty and smelly. Every single muscle in her body ached from riding all day and lying down on rotting, scratchy hay in old barns or on the hard, cold ground of a bothy to snatch a couple of hours sleep at night. None of that mattered. They would soon reach Wrath Lodge, and Bruce.

  ‘What is that gloomy-looking building on the island over there?’ She pointed to a small tower on the island, where ravens perched and cawed.

  ‘The ruins of an old Norse hunting lodge. People say it’s haunted.’ Wallace turned to her and winked. ‘Aye, it’s haunted all right. It’s always been a favourite haunt for lovers, and the moans and whimpers you can hear in summer nights have nought to do with ghosts, believe me!’

  His booming laugh was contagious, and Rose couldn’t help but smile as she watched the sun sparkle on the water’s surface. It seemed an oasis of peace and a beautiful place for a clandestine assignment between lovers, and a beautiful place to dream about love.

  She would have liked to sit on one of the large boulders scattered on the banks but Wallace and the others were already walking away, leading their horses to a farmhouse nestling in a copse of pine trees.

  Rose pulled on the bridle and spoke words of gentle encouragement to urge her horse along, but the animal was exhausted by the hard riding.

  The door opened and an old woman stepped out, pulling a grey shawl tightly around her slim shoulders.

  ‘What is it ye lot want?’ she called, waving a cane around. ‘I’ve nothing to steal and no food for ye.’ As she spoke warm, mouth-watering aromas of soup and warm bread drifted from the open door, and she turned round and pulled the door shut with a sharp tug.

  ‘Well, not much food anyhow,’ she corrected. ‘I’m expecting me lads back any time now, and ye dinna want to mess with them.’

  ‘We don’t want no trouble with you or your sons, woman,’ Wallace declared. ‘We’re on our way to Wrath and we’re after a place to stay tonight. A barn will do us fine.’

  He pointed to Rose. ‘But we’d be grateful if you could offer the young lady a bed and some refreshments.’

  ‘I am perfectly capable of sleeping in a barn tonight, Wallace,’ Rose objected. ‘In fact, if I had my way, we’d carry on to Wrath and wouldn’t waste any time sleeping. I can’t wait to reach Bruce – Lord McGunn, I mean – since we don’t know what kind of danger he’s in right now.’

  The old woman turned her small, inquisitive eyes towards her. Her lips thinned and stretched into a smile.

  ‘Now that’s a brave lass,’ she said. ‘My name’s Graham – Eilidh Graham. Ye can all come in for a bite to eat. I’ll sort ye out with somewhere to sleep after.’

  Wallace and his friends gave the woman a resounding chorus of thanks, but she only shrugged and told them to stable their horses in the barn at the back of the farmhouse and hurry back for their evening meal.

  By the time they returned to the house, daylight was fading and the sky had turned a deep sapphire, making the snow-tipped peaks glow incandescent in the distance. Ravens circled over the ruined tower, their cawing a sinister echo in the cold and still evening. Inside the farmhouse, however, the air was thick with smells of food and so hot it made Rose’s cold fingers and face tingle.

  ‘Sit down, all of ye.’ Eilidh gestured towards the solid table where bowls stood empty, and wooden trenchers displayed an appetizing offering of bread and crumbly yellow cheese and, as far as Rose was concerned, a far less appetizing pile of smoked fish.

  Eilidh didn’t need to say it twice. The men slipped their coats off, slung them on the backs of their chairs and took a seat around the table in a raucous scraping of chair legs against the floor.

  She brought a steaming pan to the table. Rose took her cloak off and helped her serve the broth before sitting down herself. Dinner was a quick and mostly silent affair and soon everybody reclined on their chairs and pushed away their empty plates with contented sighs.

  ‘Now for a drop of me finest whisky,’ Eilidh declared, pulling a large earthenware bottle and some tumblers out of a dresser.

  When everybody was served, she raised her glass and toasted in a quivering voice, ‘To our dear own Lord McGunn. May God grant him a long and happy life.’

  The men shouted back in unison, so loudly they made the walls tremble. Rose’s heart tightened and tears filled her eyes. If only Bruce could see how much loyalty he inspired, how much people loved and respected him. If only he stopped believing that he wasn’t good, honourable or courageous enough. His father may be Donald Robertson, a coward and a murderer, but he was nothing like him.

  For the first time since she arrived in Scotland, Rose drank her whisky in one gulp and enjoyed the taste.

  ‘Now for the second toast.’ The old woman walked from one man to another to refill their glasses.

  ‘This one is for Lord McRae.’

  A chorus of boos and protests interrupted her.

  ‘I ain’t drinking to that bastard’s health!’ Wallace growled.

  ‘Who said I was drinking to his health?’ The woman raised her glass again. ‘This one is for you, Lord McRae. Go-n-ithe an cat thu, is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat!’

  The men burst out laughing as she said the last word and repeated her toast in unison.

  ‘What did she say?’ Rose asked Wallace, curious.

  ‘May the cat eat you, and may the cat be eaten by the Devil.’ He winked. ‘And that’s nothing less than he deserves.’

  ‘Come on now, ye lot, time to go to bed now.’ Eilidh handed the men a pile of blankets and two jugs of ale and told them to make themselves comfortable in the barn, then she turned to Rose.

  ‘Ye’re staying in here, lass, to help me tidy this mess. I’ll give ye some bedding later.’

  When the men had left and the farmhouse was empty and quiet, except for the hissing of the flames in the fireplace, the two women washed, dried and tidied the crockery away.

  ‘Come and sit near the fire,’ Eilidh said when they had finished, ‘and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’

  As Rose’s hands curled around a hot mug of black tea, her eyelids started drooping, her body felt hot and mellow from the heat of the fire, and she let out a yawn.

  ‘Don’t ye fall asleep on me now, lass,’ the woman said, ‘I want ye to tell me what’s wrong with our laird and what kind of bother he’s in. That man’s worked so hard for us all these past few months, I’m glad to see he’s got good, strong friends to look out for him and a pretty wee lass to love him.’

  Rose’s cheeks became even hotter. ‘Lord McRae and his men have taken him. We think they’ve gone to Wrath Lodge, but we don’t know why. All we know is that Lord McGunn isn’t well.’

  The old woman frowned, shook her head, and let out a deep sigh.

  ‘I guess it must be something to do with his ma – Bonnie. I’ve been dreaming about her a lot these past few weeks. She used to come here and sneak onto the island with her sweetheart, ye know.’

  She chuckled. ‘They thoug
ht nobody knew they were there, but me husband and I sent old Dougal on a false trail more than once when he came sniffing and looking for her.’

  ‘She came here with Donald Robertson?’ Rose asked in a weak voice.

  Eilidh frowned. ‘Donald who? No, lass … young Bonnie’s sweetheart was Niall McRae – now that one was a charmer. He had such a beautiful, deep voice. How many times that summer I heard him sing to her on the island – there’s one song I’ll never forget as long as I live …’

  Rose felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Was it My Fair Love’s Lament by any chance?

  The woman arched her eyebrows and nodded.

  Feeling dizzy, Rose leaned forward and put her hand on the woman’s forearm.

  ‘Are you saying that Bonnie and Lord McRae were lovers and wanted to wed?’

  ‘Aye, only Niall wasn’t Lord McRae then. His father was the laird and, like Dougal McGunn, was a tough, miserable and cruel old fool. When they found out Niall and Bonnie were courting, they did everything they could to stop them. Bonnie became a virtual prisoner in Wrath Lodge until her confinement. Niall was made to marry that harpy Patricia. Rumours were that they’d never let him see his baby if he didn’t do as told.’ Eilidh drank her tea and shook her head.

  ‘If only he’d resisted his father a wee while longer … one week after the wedding, old Marcus collapsed and passed away. I remember folk saying it was his new daughter-in-law’s poisonous tongue that killed him.’

  She snorted and gathered her tatty woollen shawl around her shoulders.

  ‘After poor Niall was killed in battle, young Bonnie used to wander around the cliffs or come here and spend hours on the island alone, weeping. She didn’t want to live any longer, it was plain for all to see. Even her bairn wasn’t enough to hold her back.’

  Rose’s heart tightened. ‘So Bruce is really Niall McRae’s son?’

  Of course, it all made sense now. Bruce was the firstborn. Even if he was born out of wedlock he might have some right to the vast McRae estate, but for that he had to prove that he was indeed McRae’s son and now Cameron had her father’s diary, it would be impossible to do so.