by Lucy Gillen
‘It’s from an old Nordic word meaning a ravine or narrow valley with a stream running through it—there are many such names about here.’ His matter-of-fact presentation of the information surprised her rather, and she looked at him curiously.
‘That’s interesting,’ she said. ‘Are you an expert on such matters, Mr McDowell?’
‘Not an expert, no.’ The grey eyes watched the glinting fall of water down the hillside rather than her, and once more she felt a desire to know more about him, to break through that enigmatic barrier and find the man behind it. ‘I know a little about Ben Ross because it interests me.’
‘You love it.’
She had not meant it to sound anything other than a statement of an obvious fact, and yet she saw a swift flick of surprise show on his face for a moment before he spoke. ‘Aye,’ he said in a voice that was low and soft, ‘I love it, and I’ve no doubt you’ll be fully aware of the fact that it’s going to be mine before long.’
Melodie nodded, more touched by his confession to loving the place than she would have believed possible. ‘I know,’ she agreed, ‘and I’m sure it couldn’t be in better hands.’
The grey eyes held hers for a second and she felt compelled to look away, disturbed by something she could not quite understand. ‘I agree, Miss Carne,’ he said, ‘but then, of course, I’m biased ! ‘
It occurred to her suddenly to wonder how soon he was to become the legal owner of Ben Ross, and if his
taking over was likely to affect her own position. ‘How soon will it be?’ she asked, and added hastily, ‘before you take over, I mean.’
‘Does it matter?’
It was a polite way of telling her to mind her own business, she realised, and felt the colour that warmed her cheeks suddenly. ‘I—I suppose not,’ she allowed. ‘Unless you’re likely to evict me from the cottage the moment you take possession.’
He regarded her again with that hint of smile on his mouth, but said nothing. Climbing once more into the saddle, he held the restless stallion with a firm hand while he looked down at her from his superior position. ‘I’ll not do that,’ he said, and Melodie heaved a sigh of relief, more pleased than she would have believed to know that he was not anxious to be rid of her. ‘You’re a guest, Miss Carne, I cannot turn around and send you packing the very minute I take possession—even if I’d a mind to.’
He gave her no time to reply to the somewhat discomfiting assurance, but put his heels to the black stallion and sent him galloping off across the springy turf with Melodie watching him, trying to decide whether or not she had been snubbed. It was going to take a great deal of patience and perseverance to understand and know a man like Neil McDowell, but it never for a moment entered her mind to wonder whether it would be worthwhile.
Melodie would not have dreamed of intruding into the privacy of Ben Ross itself, but by walking in the gardens that were furthest from the house, she felt, she could not be accused of intruding, and the view from the front of the house was breathtaking. There were hedges of
tall sturdy evergreens that shielded the terraced walks on the upper level from the searing winds of winter, and steps between the two levels.
It was on the intermediate steps that she stood at the moment, her eyes on the vast expanse of the landscape visible to her from that vantage point. The gravel drive beside which her own cottage stood, was to her left, sloping steeply down towards the narrow stony road. It wound like a ribbon across the foreground of her vision, leading in turn to the tiny station of Glen Ross, and beyond that to the village itself.
Mountains, road, river and streams, and acres of rolling open country seemed dominated by the towering situation of Ben Ross, and as she looked out from her lofty viewpoint she found herself well able to appreciate Neil McDowell’s arrogant pride in the place.
Even on such a warm sunny day there was a breeze to temper the warmth of the sun. A light, soft wind that was just strong enough to stir the strands of black hair around her face, and mould the thin dress she wore to the soft contours of her shape. The sun was bright enough for her to need a shading hand over her eyes, and she was unaware of anyone else near until someone spoke from the lower level of the terraced lawns.
‘Beautiful ! ‘ John Stirling’s pleasant voice declared softly. ‘Just beautiful
Melodie looked down at him, momentarily blinded by the sun in her eyes, and smiled. ‘That’s why I’m admiring it,’ she told him, deliberately misunderstanding. ‘Good morning, John ‘
He shook his head, taking the brick-edged steps in a couple of strides to stand beside her. ‘You know I wasn’t talking about the view,’ he chided, and his brown eyes glowed earnestly in his nice friendly face. ‘You’re easily
the loveliest girl I know,’ he assured her, ‘and I’m not just saying that, Melodie.’
She found his unexpected earnestness a little disconcerting, and sought to hide her reaction to it, by looking at the view once more. ‘Did you come to find me especially to say nice things?’ she asked, treating it with studied lightness. ‘You’re very good for my ego, John.’
‘I was hoping you’d do something for my ego by promising to come with me into Corrie,’ he confessed. A firm but tentative hand was placed on her shoulder, and persuaded rather than obliged her to turn and face him. ‘I know you said not to ask you until the week-end, but can’t you change your mind and come anyway?’
He was much harder to resist than he probably realised, but Melodie had in mind to try and paint the whole exciting scene laid out down there before her, and at the moment it filled her head to the exclusion of almost everything else. She pointed to her easel and the rest of her equipment leaned against the hedge that sheltered the upper terrace.
‘I came up here to work, John, I’m sorry.’
The hand on her shoulder remained, though its pressure was more caressing than firm now, and infinitely persuasive. `Ah, come on, Melodie, who’s going to complain if you take a few days before you start working, hmm? Nobody’s pressuring you, are they?’
‘No, of course no one’s pressuring me, but I can’t wait to start!’ She laughed and half turned to indicate the scene behind her. ‘You said yourself that if Scotland didn’t inspire me, nothing could, and I have to agree with you.’
‘Oh, Melodie!’
He put his other hand on her right shoulder and held
her for a second facing him, his fingers tightly pressed into her flesh under the thin dress she wore. His face was closer suddenly, and his mouth only a warm breath away, and she would probably have allowed herself to be kissed without protest. Except that when he was about to kiss her some sound behind them on the gravelled walk brought both their heads round swiftly, and John muttered something under his breath, his hands dropping quickly to his side.
‘Good morning, Miss Carne.’
‘Mr McDowell.’
She sounded breathless, but she could do nothing about it, she was startled, perhaps even more so than John, and it probably showed on her face. Neil McDowell had been riding, or was about to go, for he was dressed the only way Melodie had seen him dressed so far—in breeches and boots, with a cream shirt in stunning contrast to the golden tanned colour of his skin.
It must have been evident what he had interrupted, but he showed no sign of reaction beyond the faintest tightening of his mouth just before he spoke, although Melodie felt more embarrassed than she would have believed possible. She had been brought up in a fairly free and easy atmosphere and she had gone with a number of boy-friends during her twenty-two years, so there should be no reason why she felt the way she did.
The teasing affection of two older brothers had also done a lot to overcome any tendency towards shyness, so that she was for the most part quite at ease in men’s company. It was only when she came into contact with the curiously stern detachment of Neil McDowell that she experienced these qualms of uneasiness, and because
the sensation was new to her, she not only found it discomfiting, but sh
e resented it too.
‘I’m sor—’ She stopped herself hastily from apologising, but it seemed as if her attempt went unnoticed anyway, for he was addressing himself to John.
‘Good morning, John, aren’t you riding this morning?’
The informality of the christian name surprised her, but then she recalled that John had sounded as if he not only knew him fairly well, but liked him too. His brown eyes showed the same suggestion of uneasiness she was experiencing herself, and he ran a hand through his thick hair as he answered.
‘Not this morning—although I guess I might as well have done since I had a fruitless walk up here.’
Neil McDowell said nothing, but neither did he make any move to leave them. He was quite within his rights, of course, Melodie was forced to recognise, for after all, he was on the verge of becoming the new owner of Ben Ross, and both she and John were standing in his grounds.
He looked at her in that steady and very disconcerting way he had, and a slight tilt to his mouth suggested a smile. ‘You’ll be ready to start painting, Miss Carne?’
‘Yes—at least, I’m hoping to.’
‘You’ll need peace and solitude for that, I’m thinking?’
His meaning was obvious, and John Stirling’s brown eyes looked at her reproachfully when she replied, ‘Ideally, yes.’
She felt sure he was waiting for Neil McDowell to leave, and when it began to look as if he did not mean to, he shrugged his shoulders and thrust his hands into the pockets of his slacks. ‘I guess I may as well take that
ride after all,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you, Melodie, huh?’ ‘Yes, of course.’
Neil McDowell registered a barely perceptible flicker of surprise at the use of her name, but he made no move to follow suit when John turned and walked back across the lawn to the drive. He was still standing there beside her when John turned, hopefully she guessed, to wave a hand to her.
‘I hope it’s all right for me to sit here and paint,’ Melodie ventured after a second or two. ‘It’s such a wonderful view, I can’t resist it.’
‘Of course.’ The softly accented voice gave no indication of his personal feelings in the matter. ‘You’re to have the free run of the estate, Miss Carne, those are my instructions.’
The irritation she felt at his having stressed the fact that he was merely following instructions in allowing her to sit there, was perhaps unreasonable, but she could do nothing about it. She did frown, however, and tilted her chin slightly when she replied.
‘Good—then I’ll set up here at the top of the steps.’
He seemed not to have noticed her reply, but was looking across the lawn at the now distant figure of John Stirling as he walked away along the gravel drive rather quickly, his shoulders hunched in a way that suggested he was still smarting from her refusal to be persuaded.
‘You do prefer to be alone while you’re working, do you not?’ he asked, and Melodie shrugged.
‘On the whole,’ she agreed, ‘but I hardly think you encouraged John to stay, Mr McDowell.’
He said nothing more for several seconds, and Melodie wished she felt less small and at a loss. He really was the most disconcerting man. ‘I’m sorry, I’d no
idea you were so—close.’ The quiet voice with its gentle accent was not even slightly raised, and yet she felt sure he was at least annoyed by her remark. ‘I thought you were virtually strangers, until a few days ago.’
We are—virtually strangers, as you say, but we’re friendly.’
She looked at the stern, uncompromising features and wondered if he had any idea of the kind of relationship she had with John Stirling. A kind of easy, natural friendship that could, or need not, turn into something more serious in time.
Neil McDowell, she felt sure, was a man of more deep and enduring feelings, capable of a depth of emotion she was neither used to nor could yet understand, and for that reason he disturbed her, if for no other. To reach her painting gear she had to get past him, and she did not have the immediate nerve to do so, so she stood beside him for the moment, on the top step, with that breathtaking vista all around, and tried to keep her firm hold on her patience.
‘I interrupted—something, did I not?’ He gave her no time to either confirm or deny it, but went on in the same quiet, matter-of-fact voice. ‘I’m sorry if I appeared at an inconvenient moment, but I wasn’t to know what the situation was, of course.’
Melodie looked up at him swiftly, her eyes bright with some reaction she was not quite sure of, bright as jewels, and faintly challenging. ‘There is no—situation, as you call it, Mr McDowell! ‘
The grey eyes scanned slowly over her flushed face, and came to rest on the softness of her mouth, reminding her of how close John had been to kissing her when he appeared; then he shook his head. ‘But you’re angry,’ he dedared with certainty.
‘Angry?’ She laughed, a short unsteady sound that betrayed her uneasiness. ‘Why on earth should I be angry ?’
Once more he took his time answering, and as before his eyes made a slow searching survey of her face, noting how her thick lashes hid her gaze from him. ‘Maybe because you were about to be kissed,’ he suggested, soft-voiced, ‘and you’re disappointed.’ For a heart-stopping moment she was sure he meant to soothe her disappointment by kissing her himself and she held her breath. Instead he simply stood for a moment with that steady gaze fixed on her mouth, then he shook his head and half-turned away. ‘I’ll leave you to your painting,’ he said. ‘If you’ve a need of anything, Miss Carne, don’t be afraid to ask—we’re not lacking in hospitality, I hope.’
CHAPTER THREE
AFTER two weeks of near-perfect weather, the sky was overcast and threatened a storm. Heavy black banks of cloud loomed in over the hills and there was a warm smell of rain in the air. From her kitchen window in the little cottage Melodie watched the storm gathering and debated whether or not to yield to the threat and stay at home, or whether to take a chance and walk down to the river as she had promised herself she would.
It was a very long walk and there was virtually no shelter if the storm should break while she was out on the open moor, and yet the temptation to go was almost irresistible. The idea of borrowing a horse from the Ben
Ross stables, as Neil McDowell had invited her to, had crossed her mind more than once, but so far she had never taken up the invitation, yet that would seem to be the solution at the moment.
She would still get very wet if the storm broke, but at least she would have a faster means of gaining shelter than if she was on foot. Another few minutes spent hovering uncertainly by the window, and she finally made up her mind—she would ride.
A pair of fawn trousers and a white blouse served, for it was all she had in the way of riding clothes, and she set off along the drive to the house with a curious little flutter of excitement in her breast. It was some time since she rode last, and she hoped there would be a mount available to her who was less temperamental than the glossy black stallion that Neil McDowell always rode.
When she neared the old house it occurred to her how it always seemed so still and silent, as if it was completely deserted; it had seemed so when she arrived and it still did, so that she sometimes wondered just how lonely its solitary occupant must be with no other company than the housekeeper, Jessie McKay.
The company of an elderly servant, no matter how devoted she might be, was surely no substitute for a wife and family, and yet so far as she knew Neil McDowell had lived that way for the past eight years. Ever since the Hollands left him in charge of Ben Ross and went to live in Australia.
He was an attractive man for all his dourness, and when he smiled it made such a difference that the pity was he did not do it more often. John liked him, though with reservations, she thought, and she wondered if it was that apparently impenetrable barrier of reserve that
kept Neil alone in the vastness of Ben Ross.
As always there was no sign of life when she walked past the front of the house on her
way to the stables at the back, except that she thought she detected a brief flutter of movement at one of the ground-floor windows as she passed. Once at the rear of the house she stood for a moment, undecided, for she was on completely strange ground and very unsure of herself.
It was all very well to receive an invitation to ride-any time she felt like it, but it had not occurred to her until now that the invitation might possibly have been made simply out of politeness and with no thought of its being taken up. There was no sense in turning back now, she supposed, for the invitation had been issued, whether or not it had been intended to be taken seriously, so she took a swift glance round then walked on boldly, a hint of defiance in the angle of her chin.
A wide cobbled yard spanned the distance between the back of Ben Ross and a small stone cottage with green shutters, and stable buildings took up two whole sides of the yard. They were spacious, she noted with some surprise, and were probably capable of stabling ten or twelve horses, though it was doubtful if Ben Ross supported that number at the present time.
The first two stalls were unoccupied and suggested from the state of them that they always were, but in the third one along she found a stocky, rough-coated chestnut gelding who looked up inquiringly at her, which was all the encouragement she needed. From the stall next door the restless sound of hooves on the straw-covered floor and an impatient snorting suggested that it housed a more lively animal, and to be on the safe side she decided on the seemingly quiet and docile gelding.
There was bound to be a tack-room somewhere, but she found a saddle and everything else she needed either hanging on hooks on the wall or slung over the wooden screen between the stalls. Hesitating before she took it down, she puzzled over her right to use it, but then decided that, since it was in the chestnut’s stall, it would seem to imply that it was what the animal usually wore.
Lack of practice made her clumsy, but the chestnut co-operated well and although it took a lot of effort and concentration, she eventually had him ready and she stood for a moment getting her breath back, stroking the gelding’s nose and brushing back a wisp of hair from her own forehead.