The Dream Catcher (3 page)

‘And I don't care a fig if you approve or not. It is for your master to decide your punishment, and from what I've heard of Lord McGunn, he is neither a patient nor compassionate man.'

He arched his eyebrows. ‘I didn't know I had such a bad reputation.'

Rose's heart stopped. He wasn't… he couldn't be…

‘I realise I failed to introduce myself. I am Bruce McGunn.' He bowed his head in a military salute.

‘You are?' The words came out as a squeak.

His lips stretched into a tight smile that didn't warm his eyes.

‘At your service, my lady. Now the introductions are over, shall we make our way to the Lodge?'

Rose took a step back. Captain Kennedy had it all wrong. She wasn't safe at Wrath harbour, far from it. Everything here was hostile, from the dark skies and stormy sea to the people. And the scariest of all was the very man who was supposed to offer her protection.

‘I've changed my mind. I'm going back to the ship.' She took another step back.

McGunn shook his head and smiled again.

‘I'm afraid you won't be going anywhere for a while.'

Chapter Two

‘What do you mean, I'm not going anywhere?'

Her eyes glittered in anger. He'd noticed their unusual colour straight away, of course. It would have been hard not to, since they were the exact shade of the wild irises growing in June near Loch Meadie.

A gust of wind blew her hood off and her hair tumbled onto her shoulders in a mass of shiny, honey-blonde curls which reached down to her waist. His breath caught in his throat. It was like seeing the sun after a long, bleak winter, or being pulled out of a deep, dark pit into the light. The edges of the cold, grey world around him faded and blurred, and all he could see was the woman in front of him, radiant like a bright summer's day.

‘I want to go back to the ship right now.' She stomped her booted foot on the cobbles.

He let out a breath and the world came back into focus. Forget sunshine and summer heat, the new Lady McRae – if that's indeed who she was – looked about to throw a temper tantrum.

Well, she could scream and rant all she wanted, he was reverting back to the old ways – seize, hold and barter. It had worked well enough for his people in the past, it would work for him now. Fate had blown the ship and the woman into his Kyle, and into his hands, he would be stupid not to grab the opportunity. If McRae wanted his bride and his clipper back, then he'd call off the bankers.

‘I said wanted to return to the
Sea Eagle
.'

Her voice shook and tears now shone in her eyes. For some absurd reason, the idea that he'd made her cry annoyed the hell out of him. He raked his fingers through his hair, smelling the sweet, exotic orange-blossom fragrance she had left on his hand, on his coat and pretty much all over him as he held her close. He pressed his lips together, and a dark pulse started beating inside him.

‘And I said you couldn't,' he growled. ‘The clipper suffered some serious damage already. It won't be fit to sail for a while, a week or two, maybe.'

There was no need to tell her any more for now. He had neither the time nor the patience to deal with a hysterical female.

‘A week or two? That's not possible. I must be at Westmore Manor for my husband's birthday party on Saturday,' she protested. ‘There's going to be a grand ball, Cameron will announce our marriage, and introduce me to his family and friends.'

‘A grand ball? Strange how McRae has no qualms spending vast amounts of money entertaining when his people are being evicted from their homes.'

She shook her head and looked at him with a mixture of scorn and pity, the way one might look at a diseased dog or a pitiful creature crawling from underneath a rock. No one had ever looked at him that way – and certainly no woman. A flash of heat ran through his veins.

‘Cameron warned me about you and your kin,' she started. ‘He said the McGunns were a sour, vengeful and jealous lot, stuck in their ways and always ready to blame the McRaes for their own failings.' She paused and added, ‘I see he was right.'

His anger vanished at once. He had to give it to her. She was brave. Or mad. He didn't often smile these days, let alone laugh, but his lips now twitched with repressed laughter.

‘Sour, vengeful and jealous? Anything else?'

She shrugged. ‘I could probably throw in hirsute, rude and arrogant… But I wouldn't want to hurt your feelings.' She paused. ‘I will tell Cameron not to expect you at the ball on Saturday since you don't approve of people having fun. Somehow I don't think he will be too disappointed. As for the
Sea Eagle
, Captain Kennedy is a very able sea captain. I'm sure he will manage to get it safely to Thurso despite that broken… thing – whatever it is – on top of the mast.'

‘It's called a top gallant,' he corrected.

She made a wide gesture with her hands.

‘Whatever. So it's goodbye for now, Lord McGunn. I cannot say it was a pleasure to meet you.'

Her cloak billowed around her as she swirled round and walked towards the edge of the quay, fast and graceful, as if she danced on the cobbles. She bent down, grabbed either side of the ladder and started climbing down without even checking that the dinghy was still there. It wasn't, of course, since MacBoyd had followed its instructions and rowed it back to its usual mooring.

Bruce let out a curse and strode after her. The silly woman was going to fall straight into the icy water and drown. He reached her just in time. Sliding his hands unceremoniously under her armpits and oblivious to her screams, he lifted her to safety.

The tip of her boot stabbed his shin, her small fist connected with his nose. Then she caught a handful of his hair and yanked hard.

‘Stop this right now,' he warned. ‘You're making a scene.'

‘Get away from me, you stinking ape!'

He almost dropped her on the ground.

‘You certainly have a range of unusual expletives, sweetheart,' he said, unable once again to repress a chuckle. ‘I'm curious to see what your pompous husband and his stuck-up mother make of them.'

‘There is nothing pompous about Cameron, nothing, and I already told you not to call me sweetheart. Now get off me, I'm going back to the
Sea Eagle
whether you like it or not.'

‘And how exactly do you intend to get there? The rowing boat's gone. Look.'

He put her down on the cobbles and pointed to the harbour.

‘After all, what do I care?' he added with a shrug. ‘If you want to swim back to the clipper and spend a rough night on board, you go right ahead.'

The crowd stepped closer, all eyes on her. The silence was charged with tension once again, the air thick with pent-up anger. The young woman must have felt it too because she darted anxious looks around her and wrapped herself more closely in her cloak, as if hoping she could disappear into it and become invisible.

She looked towards the ship then back towards the grim-faced villagers and her eyes filled with tears again.

‘I can't swim,' she whispered, bending her head down.

Something stirred inside him, something he pushed deep back down.

‘The water's far too cold anyway, you'd freeze to death,' he grumbled. ‘Come on then, let's ride back to the Lodge.'

Taking hold of her arm, he pulled her to his side and led the way out of the harbour to the village square. He walked so fast she had to run to keep up with him. The crowd parted to let them pass, silent but for a few disgruntled comments in Gaelic.

He untied Shadow's reins. She pointed at the horse.

‘You don't expect me to ride with you, do you?'

His heart tightened. She looked as pale and fragile as a porcelain doll next to his huge black stallion.

‘Yes I do.'

He lifted her up and settled her on the saddle before she could protest, and climbed on behind her. He gave the horse a gentle heel kick and started on the track out of the village.

When he felt her body tremble against him he enclosed her more tightly in his arms to keep her warm. As he leaned forward her sunny curls tickled his face, and he breathed a lungful of her intoxicating female scent once more. It was the most delicious, the most enticing scent. He gripped the reins harder and focussed on the road. The sooner they got to Wrath Lodge, the better.

It wasn't the tall, black horse she was scared of, but the man riding behind her. There was something raw and untamed about him which made her heart beat fast and her chest tight with fright.

He rode fast, oblivious to the ice and snow on the path, and to the wind which slapped her cheeks and burned her lungs. Every time she leaned forward, he pulled her back against him, his arms a steel cage around her. His hard chest pressed against her back, his chin, prickly with stubble, brushed the top of her head. She could feel his thigh muscles clench and contract with every bump, every turn of the track. Almost afraid to breathe, she closed her eyes tightly shut.

‘We're here,' he said after a short while.

She opened her eyes.

‘By Old Ibrahim's Beard,' she whispered under her breath.

Wrath Lodge stood on the cliff edge, forlorn and impregnable in the failing light. If it had looked like the gateway to hell from the
Sea Eagle
, from up close it appeared an unforgiving war machine, a stronghold designed to sustain sieges. It was impossible to imagine women being happy or children playing here.

The roar of waves crashing against the rocks and the shrill cries of the sea birds circling overhead filled her ears. As they rode through the gates and into a large cobblestone courtyard, a huge black cloud blew overhead, sucking in the last of the daylight, like a giant bird spreading its wings over the cliff top.

The yard was full of men shouting and women crying. Lord McGunn reined the horse in, lifted her off the saddle and down onto the ground and jumped down himself.

‘Something's wrong,' he said. ‘Please excuse me.'

He left her and strode across the yard to talk one of the men. Whatever the matter, it must be serious because he climbed right back onto his huge black horse, barked a few orders she didn't understand and rode out without sparing her a second glance.

What was she supposed to do now? She looked around her in dismay.

‘Would you care to come with me, my lady?'

Rose turned to face a tall, sturdy-looking woman dressed in a severe black gown, a plain, starchy white bonnet partly covering her grey hair.

‘I am Morag,' the woman said, ‘Lord McGunn's housekeeper.'

Rose forced a smile even though the woman glared at her with barely concealed hostility. Uneasy, she pointed to the gates and the path only just visible in the failing light.

‘Where did Lord McGunn go in such a hurry?'

‘A girl's body was washed onto Balnakeil beach tonight. People think it's a lass who got lost on the moors last summer.'

‘Oh…'

‘She was from Westmore,' Morag added, ‘and came here with her family after they were evicted.'

‘Evicted?' Rose frowned. It was the second time she heard the word tonight.

The woman didn't answer but turned away and started up the steps, and Rose followed, pausing as she entered a large gloomy hall where dozens of hunting trophies of wolves, foxes and stag heads stared from the walls with dead, glazed eyes. Rose shuddered. The inside of the Lodge was even more dreary than the outside, if that was possible.

A fleeting movement on the staircase caught her eye. Something – or someone – waited upstairs in the darkness. Dread tightened like a fist around her heart, she lost her footing and stumbled. When she looked up again, the staircase was empty.

‘Is everything all right, my lady?' Morag asked.

‘Yes, I thought I saw… Sorry, it was nothing.'

She was imagining things, and it was no wonder. She was alone, tired and cold in this dreadful place.

The housekeeper showed her into an austere drawing room and asked her to wait while she had her room prepared. Shivering, her hands numb with cold, Rose walked to the stone fireplace where a meagre fire burned. It seemed to be made from pieces of compacted black soil, and let out an odd sweet, earthy smell. She rubbed her hands above the flames until her fingers tingled back to life and turned to take a look at the room.

No paintings, tapestries or artefacts adorned the wood-panelled walls. On a small table stood a chipped porcelain vase filled with fragrant branches of pine. Opposite the fireplace, a huge, polished sword shone on the wall. A tall bookcase stood in a corner of the room, its shelves lined with dozens of dusty leather-bound volumes.

For want of something to do as she waited for Morag, Rose trailed her finger along the books' spines, cocking her head to one side to read the titles. Each one sounded duller than the next – historical and political treatises, estate management, accounting and the law. They were the kind of books her mother said she should read, the kind of books that gave her a throbbing headache or sent her to sleep.

She turned away from the bookcase and looked around the room. The most interesting feature in the room was the sword hanging on the wall opposite the fireplace.

Intrigued, she walked closer and read out aloud the inscription engraved on the blade in fancy lettering.
Ne Obliviscaris
. It sounded Latin. She didn't remember much of the Latin lessons her mother had forced upon her when she was growing up. She'd always hated being cooped up in the house, staring at a book and willing the words on the page to make sense instead of blurring into long, black, sinewy lines.

What was the point of studying when there were so many better things to do, like wandering the medina's narrow streets, watch a silversmith carve delicate bracelets or a rug-maker weave colourful threads into elaborate patterns? Then there was the oasis, where she escaped every day to sit on the shaded banks of the
oued
that meandered through the palm, jujube and other fruit trees.