Fingers trembling, she pushed down heavily on the handle and stepped out into the grey swirl of mist. Some way ahead, a shadowy figure looked out from beside the engine and waved. After a moment’s hesitation, Ursula waved back, and the whistle blew again.
She stood on the tiny platform, watching the train pulling away, gathering speed, then disappearing. Towards Fort William. Towards Daphne and Kintochlochie.
Away from Ursula.
What had she done?
Chapter Five
On the edge of Rannoch Moor
A little later in the morning, 13th December
Only when her toes began to throb and the tip of her nose went numb did Ursula realise how cold she was. Her navy-blue coat, in finest quality wool, reached almost to her ankles, but was designed more for fashion than insulation. Her gloves and scarf were similarly inadequate. Her hat did nothing to cover her ears.
The mist wrapped around her—a curling, milky haze through which the sun struggled blearily. Where the platform ended, bracken began but she could see nothing more.
No carriage. No one to meet her.
Or rather, no one to meet Miss Abernathy.
Ursula put down the bags and pursed her lips. It was really too bad. A woman of such advanced years could hardly be expected to wait indefinitely in such a remote and exposed location. Ursula felt most indignant on her behalf—not to mention her own.
Someone was supposed to be coming to collect Miss Abernathy, but that someone was late.
Ursula felt a sudden pang at what she’d done—leaving Miss Abernathy on the train like that and taking her belongings. In running away, had she left behind her sense of integrity? Her scruples? She kicked at the rolling mist, which merely shifted about her hem before closing round again.
A still, small voice inside whispered that she’d acted badly.
Walking the length of the platform, Ursula berated herself. A full twenty steps, then she turned and walked back again. It wouldn’t matter how far she walked, it wouldn’t change anything.
However wicked it was, she had to make the best of the situation.
But I’ll do something “good” to make up for my failings. Regardless of how revolting the child is, I’ll be kind to them.
At one end, there was a rough cutting through the frosted bracken leaves. Not a road but a track of sorts. Ursula could see no other. From that direction, surely, the carriage would come.
This being the case, oughtn’t she to set off? The exercise, at least, would keep her blood on the move. She couldn’t just stand here, getting colder and colder.
It couldn’t be too far, could it?
And there were hours of daylight ahead, even though the sun was having trouble penetrating.
Where was it she was going?
Ursula knelt over Miss Abernathy’s handbag. It was a sturdy thing, though the leather was cracked at the corners and the clasp tarnished. It was a handbag that had served its owner well.
Worrying her lip, Ursula pulled the metal frame wide. Inside, the contents were an unexpected jumble, but the letter was near the top: A pale grey envelope, addressed to Miss U. Abernathy at Kilmarnock Manor.
It was a convenient coincidence: their names being so similar.
Steeling herself to do what she must, Ursula scanned through. She was expected at Castle Dunrannoch on the fourteenth of the month “to undertake lessons in etiquette and manners befitting the future earl—a young man unaccustomed to the circles in which he will be moving”.
Apparently, there had been a series of bereavements and the title would be falling to some unsuspecting grandson—a child for whom the family had employed Miss Abernathy.
Except that it wouldn’t be Miss Abernathy turning up. It would be Ursula.
And it wasn’t the fourteenth of the month; that would be tomorrow.
And, though the mist was as thick as ever, she was pretty certain that it had started to snow.
She gave a strangled gasp of laughter.
How absurd everything was.
Incomprehensibly ridiculous.
If she didn’t laugh, she’d sit down on the spot and cry.
Whichever guardian angel was supposed to be looking after her, she assumed they were having a good chuckle as well. Ursula only hoped they might give themselves a stitch from all the jolly good entertainment, because she wasn’t sure how much more of this celestial humour she could bear.
Ursula got to her feet and picked up the bags.
Logic would dictate that the track led to the castle, so she simply needed to keep walking until she happened upon civilisation—or whatever passed for it in these parts.
She ignored the quiver in her chest as she left the platform, following the track. A brisk pace was the answer, and her eyes on the path at all times. Never mind that the snow was settling on her eyelashes and her teeth wanted to chatter. The castle might be only a mile or two away.
It was beautiful, in an eerie way—everything white and still and quiet.
And with each step, she was closer to sitting before a fire, being offered crumpets, and fruit cake, and scalding hot tea.
As for the matter of impersonating Miss Abernathy, she was a great believer in the power of charm. She mightn’t feel terribly charming at this minute but, once she was warm again, she’d dredge some up.
Onwards she went, the cold breath of the moor on her cheek. The swish of her skirts against the stride of her legs became the rhythmic count to her pacing. She tried to ignore how the bags were making her arms ache.
All had seemed still and silent, but now she heard the invisible. Water trickling nearby. Croaking. A faint hoot.
Then something else.
A distant thud, repetitive and coming closer—though she couldn’t tell from which direction. The mist and snow conspired to deaden sound, while her own breathing seemed to grow louder.
Ursula shivered.
“Is anyone there?” Her voice sounded feeble.
She moved to the edge of the track, peering through the pale vapour.
Something was in the mist. There was a snort and a pawing of the ground.
A stag? She’d never seen one but they were huge, weren’t they?
With horns.
Ursula was unsure what to do for the best. If she stayed upright, she might be gored through on a candelabra of antlers. If she fell to the ground, she could be ridden under-hoof.
Before she had the chance to decide, the creature was upon her. She saw flaring nostrils and a wild eye, and gums drawn back on huge teeth.
Not a stag but a stallion, its hooves rearing up over her head.
Ursula screamed.
“Whoa there, Charon!”
The man pulled his mount round sharply.
“What the hell?” A deep, drawling voice barked out above her. “I damn near killed you!”
Ursula cowered back from the frisking horse and its irate rider, quite unable to find her voice.
In a single bound, the man leapt down to stand before her.
“What in the name of all that’s holy are you doin’, wanderin’ round like a wraith? You scared the bejesus out o’ me.”
Ursula found herself looking at a man taller than any she’d seen before. Tall, wide-shouldered and well-built.
Loose-limbed too.
The way he’d kicked his heels out of the stirrups and thrown his leg over the mount’s head to jump down, he moved like an acrobat.
She blinked. “How b-big you are!”
He gave a slow smile.
“I mean t-tall! Very tall!” She was chilled to the bone, her teeth chattering madly, but Ursula felt the tingle of heat rising to her cheeks.
“Six foot, five, ma’am. Corn-fed in the heart of Texas.”
He held out his hand. “Name’s Rye, and I’m mighty pleased to meet you.”
Ursula stared at his hand a moment before shaking it. Really, it was all most peculiar.
Texas? Wasn’t that where the cowboys lived? It would explai
n his attire: the most ludicrous hat, and oddly shaped boots—embroidered and heeled. His coat hung open, despite the frost in the air, revealing a checked shirt and soft trousers. There was a red kerchief, bright and patterned, at his neck, and he was unshaven and sun-darkened, like a bandit.
His hands, strong and firm, went to her shoulders, and it occurred to her that he was probably holding her up. Whether it was the cold or the shock of being near-trampled, she couldn’t feel her legs at all. They were utter jelly.
Trembling, she raised her gaze to his. His eyes were quartz grey, short-lashed and heavy-lidded, and staring right back at her.
“Miss Abernathy,” she said at last.
“Well, Miss Abernathy, it’s colder than a blue norther out here.” That drawl again, as if he were caressing her skin with every word. “If you’re lost, that makes two of us, what with this damned fog.”
Her breath caught, looking at his mouth. It was deliciously masculine.
“With this snow gettin’ thicker we’d best lit outta here. There’s a bothy roundabouts. The vapours shifted just afore I clapped eyes on you and I’m mighty sure I spied a red roof out yonder.”
Without waiting for her response, he picked up the bags and tied one to either side of the rear of the saddle.
“You’ll be safe up front, with me behind. I won’t let you slip.”
Ursula looked at his outstretched hand.
He wanted her to climb on the horse with him?
Was he mad?
She didn’t know him.
And he wanted to take her to a bothy—whatever that was—where they would be alone.
He must have seen her hesitation. “You’ve nothin’ to fear, ma’am. Charon’s a devil when he’s scared but he’ll hold steady now. As for me, I was raised to be respectful. I’ll have ma arm about your waist but I won’t take no liberties, however temptin’ that may be.” His mouth quirked up in a half-smile.
No sooner had her fingers touched his than she was launched upwards, her toes guided to the stirrup and her bottom plonked in the saddle.
As he settled behind, she was aware of his straddling thighs tucked around hers. With one hand taking the reins, he brought the other around her middle, pulling her into his chest, and gave Charon a gentle kick.
She’d only just met him, but he was just what she needed.
A source of heat!
Chapter Six
Rannoch Moor
Later that morning, 13th December
He slithered off the horse and, without a by-your-leave, encompassed her waist, lifting her down. She stood in the snow, shivering, watching him untie her bags before leading the horse into a lean-to at one end of the cottage.
Resting his forehead briefly to the stallion’s nose, he murmured a last endearment before shutting the half-doors.
The bothy itself was damp and earthy, the floor being no more than compacted soil. The single room contained a truckle bed, a table and chair, a cast iron woodburner, and some shelves—mostly empty. It was hardly warmer inside than it had been out, but there was a stack of fuel at any rate—not coal but peat, sliced in thick, dark bricks and stacked dry in the corner. Someone had left a tinderbox and a few sticks of kindling.
Rye bent to the task, placing the wood in a pyramid and coaxing a flame before resting a block of peat on either side.
“Come on, closer.” While she unpinned her hat, he drew up the chair for her, right by the fire, then stripped the blanket off the bed. “This’ll be better than your damp coat.”
Nodding, Ursula fumbled with the buttons, laying it over the table.
She stood in her travelling skirt, shirtwaist and long cardigan, letting him place the blanket round her shoulders, all the while trying not to think about who might last have used it.
Did the cold kill fleas?
She hoped so.
With the flames rising, he pushed-to the iron door, then made an examination of the room. There were no more blankets and nothing at all to eat or drink, though there was a pan to cook with, and two earthenware cups.
“I’ll collect some snow.” He indicated the old pan. “Don’t s’pose you’ve a few coffee beans in those bags o’ yours?” The side of his mouth curled upwards.
She managed a small smile in return. “There’s some Rowland’s powder.”
“Hot water and tooth powder—sounds delicious.” He pulled a face.
While he was gone, she drew the chair closer to the burner and unlaced her boots. Her feet were soaked through. Dare she take off her stockings? She’d more chance of getting them dry if she lay them over something.
She was about to wriggle her second foot free of its worsted when Rye returned.
“Whoa there. I turn my back for a few seconds and you’re gettin’ bare! Least let me be here while all the excitement’s happenin’.” He gave her a wink.
“I was just—I really wasn’t—” She looked down at her feet: one pale and the other damp in its soggy casing. “I’m being sensible,” she said at last, yanking off the other foot of her stockings and tugging down her hem to cover her toes.
“Sure thing.” Rye set the pan on the stovetop then scooped up the cast off underthings. “Like a rattler shedding its skin, huh?” He grinned, draping them over either side of the stove.
Best not to encourage him, Ursula decided. He’s really becoming altogether too familiar.
In proof of point, having removed his coat and boots, he rolled down his own socks and lay them alongside her things. He gave her a sideways glance and another quirk of his mouth, clearly aware of her watching.
Untying the kerchief at his neck, he used it to wipe his face, but kept on his hat, merely tipping it back a few inches.
He threw another brick of peat into the burner then sat, at last, on the floor, since Ursula was occupying the only chair. One leg he stretched towards the warmth while the other he crooked at the knee, resting his elbow on top.
He was in his shirt sleeves, the fabric tight across his shoulders and arms. His trousers, too, fitted close through the hip and thigh. Where he’d removed the kerchief, the upper two buttons of his shirt were open, revealing tufts of dark hair.
Don’t look. He’ll only get the wrong idea.
But Ursula couldn’t help herself.
She’d seen Eustace’s chest only once since he’d come of the age where men grew hair. His, she was sure, couldn’t have such a covering. Besides which, Eustace was blond and didn’t even have a proper moustache yet.
Rye’s stubble looked like it would turn into a beard if he ignored it for a few days.
“A strange place to be, isn’t it, on the moor?” She bit her lip. As an opening gambit, it wasn’t the friendliest conversation starter. “I mean, are you visiting someone? For the festive season?”
That was better.
“Yup.” Rye gave a slow nod. “S’pose you could say that.”
“Won’t they be worried about you?”
“Maybe, but they told me about this place when I was saddling up. Said I was to shelter here if the weather came in.”
He fixed her with his flinted grey eyes. “And what about you, Miss Abernathy? What ya doin’ in this neck of the woods?”
She’d been waiting for him to ask. Of course, she had to tell him. Once the visibility improved, she’d need him to show her the way. He must know of the castle, even having been on the moor a short time, and there was nowhere else. She could hardly stay in this bothy.
For a fleeting moment, she wondered if whichever relatives he was staying with would mind having her as a house guest for a few weeks, but she pushed the idea away immediately. Foisting herself on his family would be ridiculous. At least those at the castle were expecting her—or Miss Abernathy, rather. She’d muddle through.
“I’m headed to Castle Dunrannoch,” she announced.
“Well now. Ain’t that somethin’.” Rye’s face split in the widest grin.
“I’ve a post—that is, a position.” She supposed there
was no harm in telling him. “To teach a little boy at the castle. Table manners—that sort of thing.”
“Is that right?” Rye leaned forward. “Don’cha know how old he is?”
“He’s just some horror who doesn’t know how to behave. It’s bound to be awful, but there we are. I’ll sort him out.”
“I’ve no doubt you shall, but he mightn’t be as bad as you’re thinkin’. You might even like the lil fella.” His eyes flashed in amusement again.
Really, it was becoming most annoying—as if everything she said was a joke. “Unlikely!” Ursula was reluctant to dwell on what awaited her in her role as Urania Abernathy.
The stove was heating up nicely, the water simmering, making Ursula’s mouth water for a cup of tea.
Urania had seemed the sort of woman who might carry a tin of her preferred blend. And there had been the chocolate; Ursula wondered if there were any left.
It seemed rather awful, now, that she’d taken Miss Abernathy’s handbag—although she doubted Urania would have minded. Fetching it over, she vowed to send thanks heavenwards if it contained anything edible.
“Y’ might have some chicory even?” Rye eyed the bag speculatively. “Water’s near boiling.”
Ursula popped open the metal clasp and peered in. On top was a ball of wool and a half-knitted bed sock, still attached to the needle. Those, Ursula lifted out and placed to one side. Underneath, everything was a jumble.
There was the flask Urania had produced in the dining car. Screwing off the top, Ursula took a tentative sip. Hot and gingery, it burnt her throat, making her splutter.
“Easy there.” Rye was behind her in a flash, rubbing through the blanket as she coughed.
When she’d calmed sufficiently, he dipped one of their cups in the hot water and made her drink.
“What is it?” Ursula wiped at her mouth. Her lips still tingled.
He sniffed, then tipped it back.
“Not as good as the bourbon back home, but pretty damn fine.” He made a clucking of approval. “Brandy. And not the cheap sort.” He looked at her incredulously. “You forgot this was in there?”
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