Out of Sight

by Rebecca Duval

  She wrenched the drawer open to find a neat stack of leather-bound books. Diaries? Isla’s heart leapt with hope at the infinite possibilities. She lifted one from the top of the pile and laid it on the surface of the desk, but when she flicked to the first page, disappointment surged through her. Not a diary, but a ledger.

  She lifted each one out in turn. Together they formed Rosehill’s household accounts 1894 through 1896, in a cramped but neat cursive.

  Historically interesting, but nowhere near as juicy as a personal journal. Still, she’d have to confirm with Ethan before she put them up for auction, particularly since she’d be willing to bet he had no idea the ledgers were even in his possession.

  *

  She found Ryder in the study, book in hand. She hesitated in the doorway, watching him squint into the yellowed pages. The heavy curtains had been thrown back and in the pale grey light, the gold lettering on the cover glinted.

  “How are you getting on with Jane Eyre?” she asked.

  Ryder’s head snapped up and he flushed guiltily, as though he’d been doing something far worse than attempting to read a classic. He set the book down on the table, his expression grim. “Not very well,” he admitted.

  Isla gave him a sympathetic smile. “It’s not the easiest of reads, especially if it’s the first book you’ve picked up in a while…”

  Ryder ducked his head in embarrassment. “That obvious, huh?”

  “Not at all, but I remember you saying you’re not really a reader when you gave me the tour,” Isla said. “Something change?”

  Ryder scratched the back of his neck. “Well, I remembered your suggestion, and I found this one on the shelf-” he gestured to the tome on the table before him. “And I’ve got a bit more free time you see, now you’re here…”

  Isla frowned. “How’s that?”

  “Oh, just that Ethan keeping out of the way means I’m on my own more.” He stood quickly, scooping the book from the table.

  Isla flushed at the meaning behind his words. Ethan was avoiding her. So much so that he’d entirely altered his usual routine to stay out of her way.

  Ryder pushed the book back into place on the study bookcase, and Isla felt a pang of sympathy for him. She set the ledgers down on the desk.

  “What about Dorian Gray?”

  “Huh?”

  Isla joined him in front of the wide bookcase. “My other suggestion. If Jane was here, I’d be willing to bet he is too…” she tapped her finger against her lips and ran her eyes over the dusty, faded spines. “Ah-ha.” She plucked the pale green clothbound book from the shelf and handed it to Ryder, who eyed it warily.

  “Wilde?” He brushed his hand over the gilt lettering, with a curious expression on his face.

  Isla tilted her head. “Yes, he was an Irish poet and playwright.”

  Ryder turned the book over in his hands, as though expecting to find something written on the back. He smoothed his palm over the faded cloth cover. “So, you think I’ll enjoy this one more?” He looked up, his blue eyes locking with hers, and Isla felt something pass unspoken between them.

  “I think you’ll find it less of a struggle,” she said. She tore her eyes from his. “And if not, you have plenty of others to choose from.” She gestured at the bookcase.

  “What can I do for you anyway? I’m guessing you didn’t just drop in to give me book recommendations?” Ryder raised an eyebrow.

  Isla plucked the forgotten ledgers from the desktop. “I was looking for Ethan.”

  Ryder nodded.”Well if I see him, I’ll let him know.”

  In the doorway, Isla paused and glanced back over her shoulder. Ryder had returned to his armchair, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ already open in his lap.

  *

  “Ryder said you were looking for me?”

  Isla jerked, and the ledger she was reading snapped shut. The silhouette in the doorway could have belonged to anybody, but that voice, that presence, could only belong to one person.

  Ethan stepped into the room, and Isla busied herself stacking the ledger on top of the others on the desk. Shuffling them needlessly, to avoid looking at him. How long had she been reading through them anyway? Too long, if the slicing pain behind her eyes was to be believed.

  She finally allowed herself to look up at Ethan. His dark hair was wet, but not with rain. The storm still hadn’t broken, and besides, a clean, earthy scent had followed him into the parlour. He’d showered, and recently. Not that Isla cared of course, but she couldn’t help but wonder what he’d been doing all day.

  He was dressed all in black, but his jeans were faded almost to grey. The mud on his boots was dry. Not that Isla knew what that meant, or why she’d noticed.

  Too late, she realised that he was standing stock-still in front of her, waiting for an explanation as to why she’d summoned him.

  “I found something,” she blurted.

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  “Ledgers, from Rosehill’s history. They were tucked away in the drawer of a desk.”

  Ethan grunted noncommittally. “What about them?”

  “Well they’re part of Rosehill’s history, so I was wondering what you want me to do with them?”

  Ethan frowned. “Why should I care?”

  Did he genuinely not understand the significance, or was he just determined to be ornery? Isla wondered. “Because you live here?” she prompted.

  “Aye. And they don’t-” he gestured in the vague direction of the ledgers. “The question is, why do you care?”

  Isla shuffled the ledgers again, needlessly. “I never said that I did.”

  “You didnae have to.”

  Isla shrugged, then winced. When would she get used to talking to someone who couldn’t see her gestures, and body language, and facial expressions? When she was speaking to Ethan MacRae, every word seemed important, which was ironic because when she was speaking to Ethan MacRae, she seemed to forget most of the English language.

  “I think the past can teach us things...if we let it.” It was a poor explanation, but it would have to do.

  “And that’s why you do it?”

  “What?”

  “Spend your days surrounded by other people’s cast-offs, and forgotten possessions, because you think it teaches you something?” He didn’t sound impressed.

  As if she cared what he thought. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from trying to explain.

  “That’s partly it, yes. Every item has a history, from its design and creation, to who bought it and when and why. It’s had an entire life before it reaches me, and it’s my job to puzzle it out, so I can predict its future. It’s the same with people. You can’t just take them at face value. Everyone has a past, a future, a story…”

  “Not always one that should be told.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Ethan shook his head. “Forget it. Look, do what you want with the ledgers. If you havenae use for them, you can throw them on the fire. They’ll keep us warm for a bit if nothing else. Same goes for the desk. You can chop it up for firewood for all I care.”

  Isla moved in front of the desk protectively, as though Ethan was brandishing an axe. “It’s almost two hundred years old!”

  “Aye, what’s your point?”

  “Here-” Isla reached for his hand, impulsively. He might not care, but she did.

  Ethan’s breath hitched as her fingers brushed over the back of his hand. Isla’s skin tingled at the contact, but she steeled herself and pressed Ethan’s hand to the desk.

  “It’s early Victorian. You can tell from the Tudor influence and ornate carvings. The desk is oak, but the drawers are mahogany and cherry wood. Each one has been hand carved. Can you feel the pattern?” Isla glanced up at him, her cheeks burning.

  Ethan’s expression was wary. He pulled his hand from beneath hers, although not forcefully. “You got all that from a piece of wood?”

  “No, I got all that from knowing m
y job. I see the value in things, even if other people don’t.”

  Ethan turned away. “Fine. So sell it.”

  Isla should have felt triumphant, but she only felt flat. The surface of the desk was cold beneath her fingers. “And the ledgers?”

  Ethan answered without turning around. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

  *

  Isla’s meeting with Ethan left her temples throbbing and her mind swirling. What had she been thinking, grabbing hold of him like that? She’d only wanted to get him to feel something - other than contempt - for the past, but it was what she felt that was bothering her. If she could name it, it might bother her less, but the feeling was new, unexpected, unwelcome. She hadn’t come here to have feelings, of any kind.

  Tim’s voice echoed in her mind. You’re there to do a job.

  It wasn’t her job to persuade Ethan MacRae of the value of history, her objective was to value his estate, and sell as much of it as she possibly could, saving the shop, and Len - and herself - in the process.

  Isla rolled her neck, and shrugged her shoulders, trying to ease the tension she could feel building in her.

  She needed some air.

  Outside, slate-coloured clouds blotted out the afternoon sun, shrouding the grounds of Rosehill in eerie silver light. Isla shivered and pulled the collar of her coat up around her neck.

  Storm or no storm, she needed to put some distance between herself and the castle...or rather, between herself and who lived there. The closer she got to Ethan, physically, the less able she was to think clearly.

  She’d been attracted to guys before, of course. She’d had brief flings, one-night-stands a fleeting romance at university, but none had ever felt more to her than the scratch of a mild itch.

  Isla held out her hand, studying it in the strange, pale light. The way Ethan’s skin had felt against hers, was something far different. This was like a terrible burn, and Ethan was both the salve and the flame.

  She stuffed her hands deep into her coat pockets, and marched down the wide, winding drive, not looking back at the castle behind her. She followed the drive, past the dried-up old fountain, cracked and covered in moss. Would Ethan repair it? Ryder said he’d bought Rosehill with the intention to renovate...but to what purpose? Surely he hadn’t intended to live here alone?

  Casting her gaze around, the estate stretched in every direction as far as Isla could see. The enormity of it was dizzying.

  Before long, the old groundskeeper’s cottage came into view. It was every bit as dilapidated as the castle itself, but the red brick walls and sloping roof with its tall, narrow chimney gave the place a gentle, homely feel in contrast to the menacing Rosehill at her back.

  A deep rumble reverberated around the empty grounds. Isla glanced warily at the heavy clouds overhead, but the air remained thick and dry. She looked back at the abandoned cottage. Tangled rose bushes, empty of their blooms crowded the faded bricks. Isla brushed one carefully aside to peer through a ground floor window. Through the dirt-covered pane, she could make out a snug kitchen, with a low beamed ceiling and an open fireplace, beside which stood a small, square table. The air crackled with thunder, and Isla startled.

  There was something on the table that she couldn’t quite make out, Isla leaned closer to the glass to get a better look, pressing her forehead to the cold, grubby glass. A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, and Isla’s stomach dropped. She recoiled with a gasp, but it was no good. Now that her eyes had made sense of the scene, she couldn’t unsee what lay before her.

  Dead rabbits. A pile of them lay across the table. A jumble of stiff legs, and flattened ears, they looked to have been tossed down without much care. Isla’s skin crawled at the sight of their slick fur, and bloodied paws. Their glassy dead eyes caught hers, accusingly and she fell back from the window, her stomach churning.

  How had they got there? Not by natural means, she was sure. Someone had put them there, but who, and why, and when? Their fur looked damp, but surely that was impossible? It would mean someone had been inside the old cottage recently. Isla’s eyes flickered up to the darkened windows on the first floor, as a second flash of lightning lit up the sky. In her mind, Isla could see a pale figure beyond the pane, looking down on her as she stood there, shivering. But was it only in her mind? Or was she being watched?

  Isla’s skin crawled, and she shoved away from the wall of the cottage, unable to fight her sudden urge to flee. Her coat snagged in the rose bush beside her, and Isla yanked it free, catching her finger on a thorn. A drop of blood swelled from her fingertip and she brought it to her mouth, feeling her pulse against her teeth.

  At the next thunderclap, the downpour began, rain streaming from the sky like a faucet, and Isla ran, her feet slipping in the wet grass. Her hood fell down, and her hair streamed out behind her as she raced back towards the castle. It wasn’t until she was in the shadow of Rosehill that she dared to look back, but in the distance, the cottage stood peacefully, showing no sign of disturbance.

  Had there really been someone in there, watching her? Or had the sight of the mangled rabbits and the storm combined to fuel her imagination?

  The hairs on the nape of her neck prickled, and she turned away swiftly- colliding with something solid, and unyielding in front of her. Isla raised her hands to steady herself, and fingers clasped her wrists. It wasn’t something she had crashed into - but someone. And that someone had her now, in his vice-like grip.

  Eight

  Isla’s scream was swallowed by the thunder that splintered the sky. A flash of lightning pierced the shadows, revealing the face of her captor. Pale skin etched with silver lines, and wide caramel coloured eyes. Ethan MacRae looked as surprised to find her in his clutches as Isla felt. Her heartbeat slowed fractionally, as she realised whose hands restrained her, before kicking up a notch.

  The rain had soaked his hair from dark brown to black, and droplets streamed from the ends of it onto his face, like tears. Isla had to fight a ridiculous urge to wipe them away. Not that she could have done, anyway, with her hands locked in place by his. She tugged them lightly away, and Ethan’s eyes widened. He released her suddenly and Isla stumbled backwards.

  “Isla?”

  It was the first time he’d used her name, and the way it sounded coming from his lips, sent a shiver snaking through Isla’s spine.

  “What are you doing out here? Why were you running?”

  Isla rubbed her wrists, where he’d grabbed her. It wasn’t painful, but she could still feel the pressure of his fingertips against her skin, like a brand.

  How could she possibly explain that she’d been trying to put some distance between them when she’d ended up falling into his arms?

  Ethan had thrown a coat over his clothes but hadn’t bothered to button it, and his dark t-shirt was soaked through and clung to his body. Isla shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

  “The c-cottage,” she stammered. “I saw - at least I thought I saw -”

  “What?” Concern flashed across Ethan’s features, and he took a step towards her, his hand outstretched. Isla looked down at his pale fingers, with nails bitten down to the quick.

  As if from nowhere, Ryder appeared behind Ethan, only the crunch of gravel beneath his trainers giving him away. His arms were bare beneath the short sleeves of his t-shirt, the fine hairs plastered to his skin. His cheeks were pink, and when he spoke he sounded slightly breathless.

  “Is everything okay? I heard a scream.”

  Ethan’s hand dropped back to his side.

  Ryder looked between the two of them. His pale blue eyes caught Isla’s and he held her gaze. Behind him, a fork of lightning slashed the sky over Rose Wood.

  “I believe I may have scared Miss Belmont. Again.” Ethan’s voice was flat.

  “No. It wasn’t- you didn’t-” But he was right. He had scared her. Or rather, she’d scared herself.

  Ethan continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “And I believe I need a drink.”<
br />
  *

  Isla’s hands shook as she took the mug from Ryder. “What is it?”

  “It’ll help.” He winked.

  Isla peered over the rim at the steaming gold liquid, garnished with lemon, and cinnamon, and cloves. She caught the faint tang of alcohol beneath the honey-sweet steam. “A hot toddy?”

  He nodded. “Is there anything else you need?” But the question was directed at Ethan, not her.

  Ethan stood beside the fire, his hands gripping the mantlepiece, his scars glowing in the firelight. He looked to be staring into the flames, but of course, he wasn’t. Isla’s chest felt tight.

  “No, thank you, Ryder.”

  Ryder slipped from the room, and Isla tentatively sipped her drink. It was sweet and smooth with a fiery kick. She felt warmer already.

  Rain lashed against the study window, and Isla glanced across at it. Glassy black eyes flashed through her mind, and she jerked, sloshing her drink into her lap. She swore softly and placed the cup down on the table in front of her.

  “Everything alright?” Ethan turned from the fire, whatever trance he’d been in, broken.

  “Do you lay traps in the grounds?” Isla blurted.

  Ethan frowned, his scars shifting. “What do you mean?”

  “In the old cottage- by the gate- there were rabbits on the table. Dead rabbits.”

  “You went inside?” He sounded incredulous.

  “No! I saw them, through the window.” Isla shuddered at the memory.

  “Are you sure that’s what you saw?”

  “I’m certain.”

  “Is that why you were running?”

  “No. Well...yes. Partly. It was raining, and well...” Isla trailed off, aware of how pathetic she sounded, being frightened by a heap of dead bunnies and a thunderstorm. But it hadn’t been just that, had it?

  She looked over at Ethan, wondering whether to tell him about the feeling she’d had standing outside the cottage. The chilling sensation of being watched. Ethan had moved to the chair now and was nursing his own steaming mug. Would he understand her fear? Or would he brush it off...like he’d brushed her off earlier about the ledgers, and the desk…