The Dream Catcher (6 page)

‘Come on. Let's get you back to your room.'

She followed him down the stairs and along the corridors. Too late she remembered the vase she'd sent crashing onto the floor earlier.

‘What the hell happened here?' he muttered between clenched teeth as he contemplated the pile of debris.

‘It was me. I'm sorry. I was rushing, it was dark, and I bumped into a few things along the way.'

His lips twitched and stretched into a smile. ‘And exactly how many things did you bump into in your haste to get into my bed?'

‘It wasn't like that and you know it!' She took a deep breath, bit her lip, and added, ‘I'm sorry I broke the vase.'

‘I wonder what Morag will make of that fine mess in the morning. This vase was always a favourite of hers.'

‘Please don't tell her it was me who broke it,' she cried out, picturing the housekeeper's cold eyes and her unsmiling face. ‘You said nobody should find out I went to your room tonight.'

He cocked his head to one side. ‘I guess it depends how much you think my silence is worth.'

‘I– I don't understand what you mean.'

He stepped closer. The flame of his lamp cast a sinister light around him, shadows moved on his face and made his eyes dark and dangerous.

‘I think you do, my sweetheart. Maybe it's time we had that kiss after all.'

‘Keep away from me,' she said as she backed towards the stairs. ‘I'll find the way back to my room on my own.'

She ran as fast as she could up the staircase and along the corridor. The man was vile. He was a thug and a brute, and she didn't care if a woman ever tried to shoot him in his sleep again!

It wasn't until she slipped into her cold bed, still tightly wrapped inside McGunn's plaid and with his big woolly socks warming her feet that she realised what had troubled her earlier.

Lord McGunn had claimed that the mysterious woman did not exist but then he had said that she was wearing a black cloak when Rose hadn't mentioned her clothing at all. It could only mean one thing. McGunn had lied. The woman did exist and he had seen her.

Then who was she, and where had she disappeared to?

Chapter Four

‘Good morning, my lady.'

Rose opened her eyes reluctantly to see Agnes stand in front of her.

‘It can't be morning already,' she protested. She had left the curtains open as usual, and the sky was pitch black with only a hint of grey along the line of the horizon to announce the rising dawn.

‘It is almost half past seven. I hope you slept well.' Agnes moved away from the bed and put down the bucket of water she was carrying near the fireplace.

With a groan, Rose sat up, pushed her hair away from her face and shook her head.

‘I can't say I did.'

It had been a dreadful night. She had fallen into a fitful sleep sometime after the clock rang three, only to dream of ghostly women whispering in her ear, ships sinking into dark, deep waters, blue men pulling her towards the bottom of the ocean… and Lord McGunn's stormy grey eyes.

Now the blustery wind blew into the bedroom through gaps in the rotten window frame. It was so cold that her breath steamed in front of her and she couldn't even feel the tip of her nose. She pulled the blankets up to her chin and sneezed.

‘Lord McGunn ordered breakfast to be served in the dining room at eight.' Agnes poured hot water into the washstand.

Rose lifted her hand to the scratch on her cheek. The mere mention of the horrid man's name was enough to make it tingle and burn, and give her stomach a tight, queasy feeling. She'd been in his bed. He'd pinned her down and she'd felt his warm breath on her face as his hard, naked body pressed down on her. There was no way she could face him this morning – or ever.

She took a deep breath. She didn't have to see him at all. She could pretend she wasn't feeling well and stay in her room all day.

‘I'm afraid Lord McGunn can't be with you this morning,' the girl continued. ‘He had to go to the village.'

‘Good!' It was as if a weight had been lifted of her chest and she could breathe again. ‘I mean, will he stay there long?'

She slipped her hand under the blanket and crossed her fingers. With luck, the beastly man would be out all day.

‘Until tonight, I think. So I'm sorry to say you'll be on your own for breakfast, since Morag left early too to run some errands.'

Rose gave a sigh of relief so loud that Agnes looked up and smiled.

‘I dare say my lady isn't very keen to meet Morag or the laird this morning.'

Rose's cheeks grew warm.

‘I do find Morag a little… forbidding. As for Lord McGunn, he scowls, frowns and glares just like that…'

She narrowed her eyes to slits, frowned hard and gave Agnes a dark, angry stare.

‘In fact, I'll call him Lord McGlum from on,' Rose carried on. ‘What do you think?'

Agnes burst out laughing. ‘McGlum! That's him, for sure. 'Tis true that the laird doesn't often smile these days, let alone laugh.'

Except when he's having fun at my expense
, Rose corrected silently.

Agnes smile faded and her eyes became serious once more.

‘Then again he does have a lot on his mind. He tries to hide it but we all know how exhausted he is. He works all the hours God sends, never accepts anyone's help, even MacBoyd's.' She sighed. ‘He's making himself ill.'

She poked at the fire and placed a few dark bricks onto the grate, and soon the strong earthy smell Rose had noticed before filled the room. She wrinkled her nose.

‘What do you put in that fire? It smells awful, like dry mud.'

‘'Tis peat, my lady.' Agnes wiped her hands on her grey skirt and turned to Rose, a satisfied look on her face.

‘There you are. You'll be all nice and warm now.'

Rose didn't think that the fire made a blind bit of difference to the freezing temperature in the room, but she couldn't linger in bed any longer. She wrapped Bruce McGunn's blue and green plaid around her and climbed out of bed.

The girl pointed at the blanket.

‘That's our laird's plaid!'

Cursing inwardly for not thinking about hiding the blanket under the bedcovers, Rose feigned surprise.

‘That old thing? Is it really? I found it in the room… there on that chair.'

Agnes stared at her woolly socks.

‘These were on the chair too,' Rose added quickly.

‘They're the laird's socks, and they're far too big for you.'

‘And awfully scratchy too,' Rose added as she rubbed her hands over the flames. ‘By the way, is there any news about the girl who was found on the beach yesterday?'

At once Agnes' eyes filled with tears. Her chin quivered and a sob escaped her.

‘It was Fenella MacKay.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry. It is very sad.' Now she knew why the maid had been crying the evening before.

‘Aye, my lady, but in a way 'tis better for her poor mother and father that she was found at last. At least now they know for sure she's gone. All this waiting, all this hoping, it's been very hard for them.'

Rose's throat tightened. She remembered only too well the agony her mother and she had gone through when her brother had run away, blaming himself for their father's death. It hadn't been Lucas' fault at all that their father was murdered by French soldiers after being trapped in a cave, but Lucas didn't see it that way. He had given no sign that he was alive for five years long years during which they had feared him dead, without ever being able to mourn him. Rose and Lucas had both suffered in their own way after their father's death: Lucas by living in the desert, plotting with rebels and forsaking his family; and she had developed a terror of being trapped inside a dark, enclosed place, like her father had been the night he was killed.

Her fear of darkness was forever a part of her now, along with her rage and bitterness about her father's unjust death, and the cruel awareness that she had been powerless to console her mother or draw her out of her grief.

She heaved a sigh and shook her head. Maybe now she was married, her mother would be proud of her at last.

‘What happened to Fenella?' she asked.

‘I heard the laird and MacBoyd say that she was murdered,' Agnes replied, ‘but nobody knows who did it yet. It was the summertime when she went missing. She went out to pick bilberries on the moors and never came back. We looked everywhere for her. Her father went back to their village in the hope of finding her there, but there was nothing but rubble and burnt wood. It was as if she'd disappeared from the surface of the earth. Some people even said that Black Donald took her.'

‘Donald? Who is he? Did Lord McGunn talk to him?'

Agnes leaned closer to Rose and whispered.

‘No, my lady. Black Donald isn't a man; he's the devil.'

Rose's heart skipped a beat at the sinister image conjured in her mind.

Shaking her head, she recalled something the maid had just said, something odd.

‘Did you say that her village was burnt down?'

‘Aye, my lady. Her village was destroyed by Morven.'

‘Morven?' The name sounded familiar.

‘He is McRae's factor, and just as mean and heartless as his master.' Agnes' hand flew to her mouth.

‘I'm sorry, so sorry, my lady. I shouldn't have said that. I forgot Lord McRae is your… that you're his…'

But Rose wasn't listening. ‘I remember now,' she said. ‘Cameron mentioned Morven a few times… Why do you say he burned down Fenella's village?'

The girl hesitated. ‘You mean you don't know about the evictions and the clearing of the land?'

‘What evictions?'

‘Morven is clearing the land to make way for sheep farms. He gets a judge to sign eviction orders he serves to the crofters. If they refuse to get out, he gets his thugs to burn the cottages so that people can't come back. It's happening all over Westmore.'

‘That's terrible!' Rose put a hand against her heart. ‘Is there nothing people can do about it? Can they not report this Morven to the police?'

Agnes snorted. ‘The police are on his side, my lady, and so is the army. Sometimes they even give him a hand. I've seen constables beat old women up and drag them out of a burning house by the hair.'

‘Then Lord McRae and Lady Patricia must be told about it without delay!'

The girl opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again without saying a word.

‘Where do people go once their house has been destroyed?' Rose asked.

‘Some go to Glasgow, Aberdeen or Dundee. Others board a ship bound for America or Australia, but many are left scraping a living in one of the new coastal villages. We were lucky. Lord McGunn took us in. He gave us a house and some work.'

‘So you and your family came from Westmore too?'

The girl nodded. ‘We left our hamlet near Chaelamy last year.'

She pulled her sleeve above her elbow. Her forearm bore ugly red scars.

‘I was helping my mother gather our things when Morven and his men served our eviction order. We didn't get out quickly enough and my dress caught fire. Luckily for me, Lord McGunn paid for Doctor Kilroy's fees and for all the ointments I needed too. We had nothing left, you see, no money, nothing.'

Rose shook her head in consternation.

‘I must tell my husband about these terrible things his factor is committing in his name. I promise he'll have that despicable Morven arrested and thrown into jail.'

Once again Agnes seemed about to speak, but she shrugged and said nothing.

The clock on the mantelpiece rang the hour. Rose waited for the music to start and the shepherdess to do her dance, but nothing happened.

‘That's odd. There's no music this morning.'

Agnes looked at her as if she had lost her mind.

‘It's just a clock, my lady, it doesn't play music.'

‘It does. It kept me awake most of the night.'

Rose couldn't resist reaching for it and stroking the clock's smooth lines.

‘It's so beautiful. I wonder who it belonged to.'

‘This was Lady Bonnie's room – Lord McGunn's mother – before she…' Agnes stopped, bit her lip and tucked her hands in the folds of her skirt.

Rose looked at her, willing her to continue. ‘Before she… what?'

‘Before she died, miss. It was a long time ago, when the laird was only a bairn. I was told the poor lady fell from the cliffs.'

She lifted her hand and tapped her forehead with her index finger.

‘She didn't have all her head. Apparently it wasn't the first time she'd been wandering alone at night.'

She glanced towards the door and lowered her voice.

‘People say she jumped off the cliffs on purpose, that's why she isn't buried in the village churchyard but on the cliff top.'

‘You mean she committed suicide?'

Agnes nodded.

‘It must have been a terrible shock for her husband.'

‘She didn't have one.'

Rose's eyes opened wide in shock. ‘Then who is Lord Bruce's father?'

Agnes picked up the empty bucket.

‘Nobody knows,' she said, walking across the room and opening the door. ‘And nobody ever talks about it.'

‘I shall send my report to Thurso as soon as the weather lifts. In the meantime I'll have a word with the pastor about Fenella's burial.'

Bruce held the office door open for Kilroy and the two men walked down the corridor. The smell of fish and brine, salt, seaweed, oilskins and wet boots clung to the walls and the floor, thick and pungent.

Bruce didn't mind the smell. What he minded were the quiet and the emptiness of the cases and boxes lining the corridors. His boats needed to go out to sea; fish needed to be caught, processed and despatched to towns in Scotland and England. Without income from the fisheries, the prospect of repaying the bank loans he owed slipped further and further away.