Out of Sight

by Rebecca Duval

  “Well then, good night.”

  “Goodnight Ethan.”

  Ethan waited for her to hang up, before slamming the receiver down onto the stand. What the hell was that?

  He groaned and sank back into the chair. Ethan’s brain was scrambled, a pulse bounded in his neck, and he could still hear the soft lilt of Isla’s voice in his ear. Had that really just happened or was he still asleep? If so, this was a nightmare of a whole different kind. He told himself to forget about it, after all, she probably wouldn’t even remember calling him when she woke up in the morning. But he would.

  Ethan’s mind ran over what would have happened if he’d given in to temptation and invited her over to Rosehill. In all likelihood, she’d have turned up drunk, and he’d have offered her his bed and a glass of water and taken himself off for a cold shower. Something he could use right now.

  But what if she hadn’t been drinking? What if she’d walked into the study stone, cold, sober? It didn’t take much imagination to guess how things might have gone. Sensations flooded him- the smell of her perfume, the softness of her skin, the warmth of her body pressed against his. Ethan let his mind, and his hand, wander.

  He freed his dick from where it strained against his shorts and closed his hand around it. He shouldn’t be doing this. At least, not while thinking of her.

  Ethan stroked up and down his length slowly, ripples of pleasure spreading through his groin. He told himself to think of something - anything - else, but every other image slithered from his mind like sand through his fingers, leaving nothing but Isla. The thought of her there with him, of her hands gripping him instead of his own, her bare skin sliding against his…

  Ethan quickened his pace, his breath coming in short gasps.

  It could never happen. He knew that, but still, the thought of her thighs over his, her soft voice murmuring his name...it was enough.

  “Fuck.” Ethan groaned, his body bucking against the hard back of the chair, warmth spreading over his stomach. He sat, panting in the dark. It was enough. It had to be enough. There could be no ‘or’.

  *

  It was the worst Monday morning in the history of Monday mornings. Isla was certain of it.

  She brewed tea in her travel mug and not for the first time, wished for the floor to open up and swallow her before she had to leave.

  Isla had thought that in the last twenty-four hours, the embarrassment of what she’d done on Saturday night might have faded, enough at least that the prospect of facing Ethan wouldn’t make her want to die, but no, she was still well and truly mortified.

  What the hell had she been thinking? Had she seriously called Ethan in the middle of the night to proposition him? Isla groaned and squeezed her eyes shut at the memory. Yes, apparently she had.

  She remembered her frustration when Zoe had materialised in front of her, saying she’d ordered a taxi, which had swiftly turned to relief as she’d sobered up on the way home. What would have happened if they hadn’t been interrupted? What had Ethan been about to say?

  As for Zoe, she’d been convinced that Isla had snuck away to have sex with the guy from the bar, and finding Isla looking flushed and furtive in the deserted cloakroom corridor had only backed that up. Isla had protested her innocence, to begin with, but quickly realised that Zoe thinking she’d had a one-night-stand with a stranger in a club - on her recommendation no less - was probably preferable to her knowing the truth.

  Isla winced again as she grabbed her bag from the sofa and picked up her car keys from the coffee table. How the hell was she going to handle this?

  In the car, she slotted her tea into the cup holder and started the engine, the stereo kicking in mid-way through a romantic ballad. Isla slammed a hand against the radio controls and drove in silence.

  By the time she pulled the Fiesta up outside Rosehill, she’d concluded that the only adult thing to do was to acknowledge what happened, so they could move past it, but even the thought of it filled her with dread. Isla shut off the engine, and prayed that Ethan would be braver than her, and bring it up himself.

  *

  “I cannae do this.”

  Ethan’s chest felt tight, and a flash of pain streaked behind his eyes.

  Ryder’s hand came down on his shoulder. “You have no choice. You have to. Before it’s too late.”

  Ethan took a shaky breath, willing himself not to give in to the darkness that threatened to close over him at any minute.

  “It will be over in minutes.” Ryder soothed.

  Ethan nodded, but he knew it was a lie. It was never over. It was one long nightmare that went on and on, one that he would never wake up from. That was his life now.

  Twenty Two

  Isla’s hope that Ethan would summon her, and initiate the awkward-but-necessary conversation, had evaporated by lunchtime when she hadn’t so much as heard him moving around the castle.He was obviously out, stalking through Rose Wood, or hiding in his bedroom. Isla didn’t blame him, she’d felt like doing the same thing herself that morning, but sooner or later they’d have to speak to each other, and the longer it dragged on, the worse it would be.

  “Ethan has to go out.”

  Isla looked up in surprise. She’d been engrossed in the details of a carved wooden figurine and hadn’t heard Ryder come into the room, but it was his words rather than his sudden appearance that shocked her most.

  “Out?” she repeated, unable to hide her disbelief. “Where?”

  Ryder raised one eyebrow, and Isla quickly realised the inappropriateness of her question.

  Ryder answered anyway. “He has an appointment. We’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”

  “Oh.” Isla set the figurine down. “In that case, should I finish up here?”

  “No need.” Ryder stepped forward and held out his hand. “These are for you. Ethan thought it would be easier.”

  Isla gaped at the bunch of keys in Ryder’s palm. Was he serious?

  She looked back up at him. “Easier for who?”

  Ryder frowned. “For you. So you can come and go as you like, while you finish the valuation.”

  Isla read between the lines and was fairly certain she got the subtext correct. Ethan wanted the job done - and her out of there - quicker. And as little interaction with her as possible.

  Embarrassment flared within her. This was his solution then. Not a conversation, or clearing of the air, but avoidance, not just of the topic, but of her in general.

  Isla took the keys from Ryder. They lay cold and heavy in her hand. “I understand,” she said flatly.

  A flicker of a frown passed over Ryder’s brow. “The workmen left an hour ago, so you won’t be disturbed.”

  Isla ignored the flare of panic she felt in her chest at the thought of being alone in the castle. If Ethan could manage it without getting scared, so could she.

  She nodded to Ryder. “Thank you. You can tell Ethan that the valuation will be finished by the end of next week. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure to lock up when I leave.”

  *

  Gravel crunched beneath the car’s tyres, as it pulled away down the drive. Isla watched between the rain freckled window pane, until the glimmering black paintwork rounded the old stone fountain, and disappeared from view.

  It was the first time she’d known Ethan to leave the grounds of Rosehill. And it was because of her. Isla’s stomach rolled. She’d known it was a risk, calling him, even in her half-drunken state, she’d been aware she was pushing him, she’d felt his hesitation, but she’d pressed on because she’d felt something else too. His desire. The same desire that had been kindling inside her ever since she laid eyes on him that very first day at Rosehill. The restless wanting that she’d been unwilling to name, let alone admit. But now she had admitted it, to him of all people.

  And in the choice between ignore, or...Ethan had chosen to ignore, not just her feelings for him, or his for her - and she was certain he had them - but to ignore her completely. To toss her a bunch of
keys, like a housekeeper, but keep everything else, including himself, locked away.

  *

  Dusk crept over the castle as she worked, so when she finally stepped out into the corridor Isla found herself squinting in the gloom.

  The knowledge that she was alone in the castle, with the light fast fading, sent a shiver rippling down her spine, and she quickened her pace, her own footfalls chasing her to the top of the staircase. She paused, one hand on the bannister.

  The shadowy west wing stretched out ahead of her. Unoccupied. Unguarded. What other chance would she have?

  Isla felt a cool rush of air, as though a window had been thrown open, but there were no windows in the corridor, only the portraits of dead Scots lined the walls, and there was no one else in the castle but her. No one living, anyway. The thought popped unbidden into her mind, but Isla shooed it away, refusing to entertain the notion. Knowing that if she acknowledged it even for a moment, irrationality would overtake her, and see her fleeing down the staircase and out onto the drive like a mad woman.

  No. The real ghost of Rosehill was Ethan MacRae. Wandering its halls, leaving no trace of himself. Lingering in shadow, always beyond her reach.

  She took a step forward, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet as she crossed an invisible threshold. Perhaps these rooms, this desolate wing of the castle, would hold proof of his existence, or more than that- his life. The one he seemed determined to keep hidden, out of sight from the world, and from her. Maybe it would reveal to her what he wouldn’t, or couldn’t.

  Isla moved silently past the two rooms she’d already been inside- his bedroom and the other, the one with the boxes of records. She pressed on, aware that she was violating his privacy with every step, and imagining what would happen if he found her there. He would fire her, certainly. But she found the idea concerned her less than it should. That there was even a flicker of relief in her reaction to it. Ignoring - and being ignored - would be infinitely easier from a distance.

  Isla pushed against the next door along. It was heavy and stiff, the hinges creaking ominously as Isla shoved against it. It clearly hadn’t been opened in some time, but it yielded, with obvious reluctance, as though it knew, somehow, that she shouldn’t be there.

  Inside the room was even darker than the corridor. Heavy velvet curtains obscured the narrow window on the opposite wall.

  Isla took her phone from her bag and held it up, angling the light around the room. There was no furniture, but instead, stacks and stacks of boxes piled around the edges of the room. In places, they were stacked high enough to meet the cobwebs draped from the ceiling.

  Isla lowered her phone to the bare floorboards, lighting herself a path towards the nearest collection of boxes. Drawing nearer, she saw that most were sealed, with a generous application of packing tape, but a couple of the boxes stood open, their contents poking out of the top, as though someone had rummaged through, searching for something in a hurry.

  She knelt beside one, the rough floorboards snagging at her tights. Lifting the cardboard flap she steeled herself for what she might find inside, but it was only photographs. Some had been slotted into plain black albums, others were strewn loose inside the box. Isla plucked out a handful.

  They were mostly group shots. Posed, but not professional. Party pictures, judging by the champagne flutes and wide smiles. Isla stopped flicking through and stared at the photograph in her hand. Three faces smiled into the camera. A beautiful girl with dark hair piled atop her head, and two dark-haired guys either side. They all had their arms around each other. The guy on the left was holding a glass towards the camera like he was toasting the photographer, but Isla’s eyes flitted over him. It was the other guy in the shot who held her attention, and not just because of the intensity of his gaze. Recognition jolted through her.

  His skin may have been unblemished, his hair shorter, his face clean-shaven, but there was no mistaking those amber eyes. Like pools of caramel with murky depths. Isla stared at the photo of Ethan MacRae, mentally merging the image before her, with the man she knew. The changes were striking. It was more than the absence of his scars. More even than the directness of his gaze. There was something significantly different, from this Ethan to the flesh and blood one, and it wasn’t just a passing of years, or a haircut, or whatever physical tragedy had caused the scars he now bore. But what it was, Isla couldn’t say.

  Bang.

  Isla jumped, the photograph fluttering from her hand, landing face-up on the floor at her feet. She stared down into Ethan’s face, waiting, listening, but hearing only the roar of blood in her ears.

  Was Ethan back, already? Isla’s pulse skittered.

  She crept towards the door and peered out into the corridor, black now, instead of grey. She blinked into the darkness, straining her ears for any sound of movement, but there was nothing.

  A window must have been left open somewhere, and a door had slammed shut in the breeze, that was all. Still, the shock had dampened her enthusiasm for exploring. Isla slipped out into the corridor. Her heart rate was returning to normal but the surge of adrenaline had left her with an urgent need for a bathroom.

  She paused outside Ethan’s bedroom, remembering the en-suite she’d glimpsed over his shoulder, and pushed lightly against the door. Inky-blue light spilled through the wide, leaded windows, providing just enough illumination for her to see the outlines of the furniture, and the door in the panelled wall opposite.

  Inside the bathroom, a narrow sash window, almost overgrown with ivy gave a glimpse of the terrace below, where fallen leaves harried by the wind scraped across the moss-covered flags. The room itself was a sea of white: white subway tile on the walls, a porcelain clawfoot bath in the centre of the room, and matching twin sinks beside the traditional Edwardian toilet, which Isla used quickly, keen not to be caught with her tights around her ankles if Ethan did return suddenly.

  Isla’s hand was already on the gold taps above the sink when she saw it. The only colour in the entire room, all concentrated in one very small area. Her heart pounded in earnest, and her body tensed, ready to flee.

  Inside the sink lay a towel, wadded up into a ball and stained crimson.

  Blood.

  Isla steadied herself against the porcelain sink, closing her eyes briefly. She opened them again and pressed a shaking finger to the bloodied towel. It came away tacky and smudged red. Fresh. What had happened here? Isla slid a hand unconsciously to her throat and swallowed.

  She began backing away from the sink, glancing up at the mirror in alarm, half expecting to find the reflection of someone standing behind her. But only her own eyes stared back, wide, blue and filled with fear.

  She was no expert in blood loss, but enough to soak a towel seemed a lot. Too much. Whoever it belonged to would surely be feeling faint at the very least? Much like she was now.

  Isla turned from her panicked reflection and crept out into the corridor, her heart hammering, and questions crowding her mind.

  She reached the staircase and was ready to fly down it and out into the night when a low creak stopped her. The bottom step. How many times had she heard that same creak under her own foot, or Ryder’s, or Ethan’s? But it wasn’t Ryder or Ethan. She was certain of it. The tread was light, quick, and unfamiliar. In a few seconds, whoever was climbing the stairs towards her would reach the bend in the staircase and see her frozen there at the top.

  Isla turned and ran.

  Twenty Three

  Isla ran like she was being chased, which for all she knew, she was. She pounded up the staircase to the second floor, no longer even trying to be quiet. Her blood roared in her ears, and all she could think about was putting some distance between her and whoever was creeping about Rosehill in the dark.

  The heavy scent of blood still lingered in Isla’s nostrils, and her stomach lurched, as she careered to a stop on the second-floor landing. Ahead stood the old nursery, but she would sooner be discovered than hide out in there. Her eyes skittered
over the grill of the tower door. Where better to hide, than somewhere no one would dare look?

  But did she dare? Below her, she heard slow footsteps, getting louder as they moved closer.

  Isla darted for the tower door. She fumbled with the latch, her stomach dropping when she thought it was locked, but no- it gave way, and she scrambled through the door before she could reconsider.

  Beyond the heavy, grilled door lay the thick, black air of an undisturbed place. With no natural light, Isla could barely make out her own feet, as she shuffled her back against the cold, stone wall. Even if someone opened the door, she would be obscured behind it. All she had to do was stay perfectly quiet.

  The footsteps were muted by the thick stair runner but in the silence, Isla could hear whoever was out there reach the top of the staircase and pause. Please not this way, she prayed.

  Clearly, her prayers weren’t a priority today because not a moment later she heard the careful tread of soft-soled shoes against wood, thumping gently towards the tower door.

  Isla felt something in her gut that she couldn’t name. A sense of wrongness. The same sensation she’d had in Rose Wood that had told her to keep quiet when she’d heard someone nearby. It might not be the same person but it was the same feeling. Isla pressed herself flat to the wall, scarcely breathing. The footsteps paused outside the tower door. Oh god, no. Don’t come in. Don’t-

  The door handle rattled, and Isla thought she might pass out from the surge of adrenaline that shot through her body. Then the handle went still. There was a soft click, and a scraping noise Isla couldn’t place before the footsteps continued along the corridor.

  Isla gently slid to the floor, speckles dancing on the edge of her vision. She had never been so scared in her life. Her lips tingled as she began to breathe again. She wanted to suck great lungfuls of air in, but she didn’t dare make a sound. Whoever it was that was roaming the castle, they were still out there. Doing what?