The Dream Catcher (14 page)

He took a long, deep, ragged breath. This morning was no exception, except that he had a beautiful, unconscious woman in his arms. It was really too bad he had to wake her. With a stab of regret he straightened up in the chair and gave her shoulder a light shake.

‘Wake up, sweetheart.'

She whimpered and nestled closer.

He called to her again, but she still didn't wake.

Bruce frowned. What had happened last night? The last thing he remembered was finishing the accounts for the fisheries and writing a series of instructions for MacBoyd to run the estate in his absence. He had then drunk some of Kilroy's tonic, followed by a mug of tea to wash off the taste. After that, nothing.

No, it wasn't quite true.

There had been something else. The Northern Lights had visited them and he'd gone out to look at the night sky, awash with beautiful colours as if a wizard had sprinkled magic dust around the universe.

Where had that silly thought sprung from? Images flashed into his mind. Rose standing on the cliff top with him, then up here in front of the fire. What happened after that?

She shifted on his lap, her fingers moved in an unconscious caress on his chest. He gritted his teeth as his body tightened in a raw, primitive response. Damn. He could feel every single one of the woman's curves. He had to take her back to her room before anybody saw her, and before he was tempted to do something he would regret.

‘Come on
gràidheag,
time to move.'

She sighed, her lips slid so tantalising close to his bare skin his blood surged and roared, and his stomach muscles contracted and hardened.

‘Wake up, damn it,' he growled.

A gentle smile appeared on her lips but she still didn't open her eyes. Why wasn't she waking up? She was one hell of a deep sleeper. There was only one thing to do, and it was to carry her to her room. He only hoped he wouldn't meet anybody on the way.

He slipped his arms around her and started to rise to his feet.

Too late.

Footsteps echoed in the stairwell. His door creaked open and a young lad came in, carrying a tray laden with a pot of tea and a cup, slices of bread and a dish of butter. The boy's eyes widened and he almost dropped the tray onto the floor when he saw Bruce holding Rose in his arms.

Hell, what now? Bruce coughed to clear his throat whilst trying to get his drowsy brain to conjure up a plausible explanation. The last thing he wanted was for his servants to gossip about him entertaining Lady McRae in his room.

‘I… I found Lady McRae wandering outside last night and took her back here, she wasn't well, she fell asleep. I fell asleep too and…'

He fell silent. Damn. He was making a complete mess of this.

The boy's face flushed a deep red. ‘Yes, sir. Very well, sir.'

He stood still, his face beetroot red, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

‘What are you waiting for, lad? Put that tray on the desk and scoot before I get annoyed.'

The boy nodded and walked across the room. His boots crushed pieces of glass and put the tray on the desk. Bruce glanced down and sighed. Why was there broken glass on the floor?

The boy put the tray down.

‘I think you should know there's a bit of a hullabaloo at the Lodge this morning, sir,' he said without looking up.

Bruce instinctively held Rose more tightly.

‘A hullabaloo?' he repeated although the word grated on him. He'd never used that word before. It was a very silly word, and an even sillier situation.

The boy pointed his chin towards Rose.

‘Agnes brought the lady some breakfast about half an hour ago. When she didn't find her in her room, she alerted Morag and now they have more or less everybody searching the house, the stables, even the cliff top for her.'

‘Damn. Hell. Damn.' Bruce gritted his teeth.

‘I'll go now, sir, shall I?' The lad said quickly, his hand on the door handle, as if he couldn't wait to escape.

‘Wait!' Bruce narrowed his eyes to slits.

‘You're not to breathe a word about Lady McRae sleeping here or I'll have your skin. Understood?'

The boy's face paled. He nodded and was in such a rush to get out he almost tripped over his feet, and Bruce reclined on the back of the armchair and let out a deep sigh. It wasn't like him to bully a young lad but the last thing he wanted right now was for everybody to know Rose had spent part of the night in his room.

Now he had to find a way to smuggle Rose back into her room while the whole household was in uproar. Things really couldn't get any worse.

Still holding Rose tightly, he rose to his feet and made it half way across the room when a thundering clatter of boots and clogs resounded and men and women voices echoed in the tower's stairwell. The door flew open and half of the Lodge's house staff piled up into his study – stable boys, housemaids, scullery maids and kitchen boys, all led by MacBoyd and Agnes.

They all stopped talking at once. Their jaw dropped, their mouth and eyes opened wide, and they all stared at him.

MacBoyd grinned then burst out laughing. Agnes stabbed her elbows into his ribs but she too started giggling. Soon everybody was laughing aloud.

‘Sorry McGunn,' a red-faced MacBoyd spluttered when he finally caught his breath.

He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, shook his head.

‘We were just coming to tell you that your guest had disappeared and that we'd been running all over the place like headless chickens looking for her. What a relief it is to find that the fair maiden was up here, safely tucked away in your arms. So tell us. What did you do to make her pass out? Give her a kiss?'

He burst out laughing again. And more giggles and sniggers from the house staff.

Bruce tightened his hold on Rose. He glared at every single one of the people assembled the room until they fell silent and shifted uncomfortably on their feet.

‘Lady McRae is ill,' he declared, his voice so sharp it could have cut a block of ice. ‘I was taking her back to her room when you all barged in and started giggling like a bunch of silly geese.'

He stared at Agnes, who blushed crimson.

‘Take that plaid over there and cover Lady McRae with it, then sweep the broken glass off the floor.'

He scowled at the stable boys, who paled and took a step back.

‘You two, get the carriage ready. We must be at Balnakeil church for nine,' he barked.

The lads nodded and made a quick exit.

Still bare-chested and with Rose in his arms, Bruce stormed out, followed by the rest of his now silent staff. He didn't care if venting his anger on them was unfair. The extent of the trouble Rose was in was only just dawning on him.

People would talk. Gossip would spread like heather fire in the summertime. McRae would be livid with rage, and for once Bruce could sympathise with him. The man might even challenge him to a duel – not that it worried him for one second – but he might also hurt Rose, and for some reason, that bothered him a great deal more.

He looked down at the woman asleep in his arms. Sleeping soundly for so long wasn't normal. There must be something wrong with her. Maybe she had caught a chill when riding back with him from the village the night before, barefoot and in her flimsy dress.

‘MacBoyd, go and fetch Kilroy. Tell him Lady McRae needs him. Now.'

Chapter Ten

‘Bedbugs and stinky cam…' Rose bit back a curse as the carriage bounced over yet another pothole and her bottom hit the hard bench once again.

Lord Hunter's coach must be the most antiquated, the most uncomfortable in the Highlands – no, make that the whole of Scotland. As if that wasn't enough, she had woken up with such a vicious migraine every bump on the road made her stomach lurch. Agnes had coaxed her to eat a cup of strong tea and a small piece of bannock with bilberry preserve for her breakfast and now it was all she could do to keep her breakfast down.

‘Is the church much further?' she asked Morag, who sat on the bench opposite.

‘It's only a mile from the village,' the woman answered without looking at her. ‘We'll be there soon enough.'

‘A mile?'

Rose winced and pushed her tapestry bag under the seat with a sharp heel kick. Hopefully she would feel strong enough to sneak out of the church and walk to the village after the service. She had to board the mail coach to escape Wrath. She wouldn't get another chance for four more weeks.

Morag shrugged but remained silent. Her face was pale, her cheeks hollow, her lips thin and grey. It was obvious that even after thirty years she still felt keenly the anniversary of her son's and husband's death. Her heart swelling with compassion, Rose leaned forward and squeezed the housekeeper's gloved hand.

‘Lord McGunn told me about your husband and your son. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am.'

Morag pulled her hand back and held it against her heart.

‘You have no right talking about my family. You, of all people,' she hissed, her face contorted with hatred.

Rose reclined, taken aback by the woman's ferocious tone.

‘I am sorry,' she stammered. ‘The last thing I wanted was to upset you.'

Morag narrowed her eyes.

‘I know what you're doing with Lord Bruce – trying to confuse him, creeping into his room two nights in a row and ensnaring him so that he can't fight McRae. Have you no shame?'

‘No, that's not true. I didn't creep into his room. I was chasing after the woman in the dark…' Rose stopped, and frowned.

Did Morag just say that she'd been into Lord McGunn's room twice?

‘Actually, I've only been once into the tower room.'

‘Save your explanations for your husband, my lady.' Morag turned to the window again. ‘I'm sure he'll want to hear them.'

The carriage rolled and bumped through the village's winding cobbled streets, passing rows of grey stone cottages and the square where the Old Norse's Inn stood. It slowed down to drive along the harbour where the
Sea Eagle
was docked. Rose blew on the window pane, wiped the dirt off with her fingers and pressed her face to the glass, but neither Captain Kennedy nor his men were to be seen and she could only hope they were safe.

They started along the coastal path, and at once the sky seemed to open, vast and bright blue. Although the winter sun gave out no heat, it made the frozen landscape sparkle like a carpet of diamonds. The horses' hooves crunched layers of ice on the road and echoed in the silent morning. Stone walls snaked through frosty fields as far as the eye could see, and down in the bay, the sands were silver and the smooth sea reflected the blue of the sky. Overhead dozens of sea birds circled, their high-pitched and mournful cries a constant reminder of where the carriage was heading, and why.

‘We're here,' Morag remarked. She smoothed her black gloves over her bony fingers, adjusted her shawl on her shoulders.

Rose swallowed hard and tucked a loose strand of hair under her bonnet. It was her favourite – the one her father had bought during a trip to France because he said it matched the blue of her eyes, and never mind if Cameron had winced every time she had worn it in Algiers and called it ‘that horrid old thing'. It was true that he was very particular with his clothing and her bonnet had faded because of the strong sunlight.

The carriage halted with a lurch. Tied to a post next to the wooden church porch, Lord McGunn's huge black horse nuzzled the snow from a patch of brown grass. Next to it stood a smaller horse which she knew belonged to Dr Kilroy.

Rose kicked her bag further back under the seat. So much for her hopes that both men would be too busy to be at the service this morning. With both Lord McGunn and the doctor in attendance, it was going to be tricky to sneak out of the church and walk to the village unnoticed.

Morag climbed out of the carriage and started up a narrow path which wound its way around the graveyard while Rose made her way to the church entrance. As soon as she pushed open the door, the smell of damp stone and polished wood, of musty books and wax candles assailed her. She'd only been in a church once before, that's if the small chapel near the British Embassy in Algiers qualified as a church. A little intimidated, she paused in the doorway. The pews stood dark and empty. The walls were whitewashed and a plain wooden cross hung near the altar. Rose tiptoed in as a ray of sunlight pierced a stained glass window, and ruby and sapphire lights danced on the flagstones in the central aisle. Two identical coffins stood in front of the altar with white candles like sentinels on either side, their flames shivering in the cool air.

An angry male voice broke the silence. It came from behind a door to the right of the altar.

‘You never said anything about the woman being a heathen and a whore before. As vicar of this parish I regret but I cannot allow her to be buried in my churchyard. You'll have to find a patch of land somewhere for her. I should think anywhere would do for such a woman – a cliff top, a field or the moors.'

Rose let out a strangled cry. How dare the vicar suggest Malika be buried like an animal in a field? Well, she would tell him exactly what she thought of him right now! She marched towards to the door.

‘I didn't say anything about her being a whore and a heathen, Reverend,' Lord McGunn's deep voice answered as she reached out for the door handle, ‘she was only a dancing girl, and I am asking that you reconsider your position.'

She held her breath.

‘I told you it was impossible, my lord,' the vicar protested again, before adding something about sacrileges, canon law and the reputation of the parish.

‘I take full responsibility for the reputation of the parish,' McGunn said then.

‘Still, my lord, I regret that it is impossible…'

‘In that case,' McGunn interrupted, ‘it may be time for you to find another parish. I believe Handa finds itself without a priest once again, their new vicar having had some kind of nervous breakdown. I could put your name forward with the bishop for the position. I think you would be just right for the place.'