The Dream Catcher (7 page)

McNeil had taken up guard duty outside the cold room where the girl's body had been laid out. Leaning his shoulder against the wall, he was busy stuffing tobacco into his clay pipe.

‘Thanks for the tea this morning,' Bruce said as he walked past.

The bulky, dark-haired man nodded. Silent and unsmiling as usual, he lit his pipe and drew hard on it until his thick-set features disappeared behind a cloud of tobacco smoke.

‘Not the most eloquent of men,' Kilroy remarked a minute later as they stood by the main door, ready to step into the storm outside. ‘I can't say I heard him say more than three words in the six months he's been here.'

He pulled his sheepskin hat down over his fair hair and fastened his cloak.

‘There's nothing wrong with being economical with words,' Bruce replied. ‘McNeil might not say much but he is solid and dependable. Actually, he helped me out of a sticky pass during our trip to Inverness.'

‘What kind of sticky pass?'

‘We were ambushed at the docks one night. I was knocked out and can't remember a bloody thing. It was lucky McNeil was there to take me back to our inn.'

Kilroy arched his eyebrows, looking puzzled.

‘What? The legendary claymore devil was defeated by a gang of common muggers? I find it difficult to believe.'

As always when his memory failed him – which happened more and more often these days – a dark cloud pressed on Bruce's chest and frustration made his temper rise.

‘Well, you'd better believe it, because it's the truth. We had a meal and a card game in a tavern at the docks. It was after midnight when we headed back to our inn. I remember walking down a dark alley. Then someone jumped on my back and…'

He lifted his shoulders, made a gesture with his hands.

‘McNeil had to fight off our attackers single-handed and drag me back, unconscious, to our inn. I surfaced, late the following afternoon, bruised and groggy.'

Kilroy arched his eyebrow. ‘And?'

‘And that's all there is to it.' His voice came out sharper than he had intended.

He took a deep breath. There was something else in the recesses of his mind: a series of blurred and disjointed images of a beautiful, dark-haired woman scantily dressed, lying in a room decorated with crimson silk curtains, gilded mirrors and a huge brass bed – a bordello no doubt. The woman looked scared and bruised, but his memories were so elusive he couldn't make any sense of them, let alone talk about them.

He must have been drunk, even though he didn't remember drinking that much. He never did, never had. Growing up with his grandfather, and seeing how whisky could change a sensible man into an incoherent and violent drunk, he'd never been keen on following his example.

He raked his fingers through his dark hair.

‘Anyway, McNeil sleeps as little as I do, so he brings me breakfast at dawn every morning, and shares a whisky or two with me sometimes in the evenings.'

‘So you still have bad nights.' Kilroy's tone was casual but his pale blue eyes were sharp as they assessed him. ‘Why didn't you tell me?'

‘Some are worse than others. Actually, last night was rather eventful.'

Bruce raised his hand and added quickly. ‘And before you jump to any conclusions, it wasn't because of a headache or a nightmare, but because of a woman.'

Kilroy didn't have to know that the woman had come
after
the headache and the nightmare.

The doctor's blue eyes twinkled with laughter.

‘A woman? Things are looking up, McGunn. Who is she?'

‘You must have heard that I'm playing host to McRae's new bride, Rose.'

As soon as he said her name it was as if he was back in his room with the woman in his bed, her barely clothed body tantalisingly soft under him. He could smell her sweet, feminine scent and feel her heart fluttering against his chest like the wings of a butterfly trapped in a net.

He couldn't remember the last time a woman had affected him so much. She was everything he despised: a scatterbrain and a spoilt, capricious heiress. Worse still, she was McRae's wife. Yet, there was something about her. Something sweet, funny, irresistible…

‘I can't wait to meet her. What is she like?' Kilroy's voice drew him back to reality.

‘She is… different. Actually, why don't you come for supper tonight and find out for yourself?'

The doctor nodded. ‘Good idea. Maybe I can appeal to her good heart and get her to ask McRae to stop the evictions.'

‘You're welcome to try but I wouldn't be too hopeful if I were you. She treats her own people in Algeria as harshly as her husband does here in Westmore. And even if she was sympathetic to the crofters' plea, I doubt McRae would listen. He cares more about the cut of his jacket or the card tables than his tenants.'

‘He'll listen if he wants her to be happy,' Kilroy retorted with a quiet smile. ‘Don't underestimate the power of love, my friend.'

‘Love? What's that?' Bruce sneered. ‘I didn't know you were such a sentimental fool, Kilroy.'

Ignoring his friend's quizzical look, Bruce pulled his collar up, pushed the gate open and stepped out into the white of another blizzard.

Rose dropped the heavy, musty volume into her lap and rubbed her aching neck. Agricultural management was such a dry subject – all those tables filled with figures and calculations, these technical, scientific words… Try as she may, she couldn't remember a word of what she'd read that afternoon. Perhaps she could try one of Gibbon's volumes on the history of the Roman Empire instead, or that essay on law and politics…

She closed her eyes. Who was she trying to fool? None of these books were for her. She just wasn't bright enough to understand any of them. Hadn't Cameron laughed out loud when she asked him about Westmore?

‘Don't trouble your pretty head with all this, my poor darling,' he had said, taking her hand and laying a trail of kisses from her wrist to the crook of her elbow. ‘I have an exceptionally competent factor and an army of stewards to take care of all that.'

He was wrong, though. According to Agnes, Morven was a thug, and it was high time Cameron was told the truth about him.

She slipped the note Captain Kennedy had sent earlier inside the book to mark the page, even though she knew she would never read any more of it. Unfortunately, Lord McGunn had been right. The
Sea Eagle
wouldn't be sailing out of the Kyle of Wrath any time soon. Captain Kennedy confirmed that it would take at least two weeks to fix the top gallant and make the ship seaworthy again.

Her only hope now lay with Lord McGunn. She would ask him to freight one of his ships or lend her a carriage to travel to Thurso. She didn't care if she arrived in a cart or a fishing boat, she simply
mustn't
miss the grand ball on Saturday and the announcement of the marriage.

‘Would you like any more tea and scones?' Morag's sullen voice behind her made her jump.

Startled, Rose turned round so quickly she banged her elbow against the side of the bookcase, knocking a book to the ground. The housekeeper seemed to have the uncanny habit of creeping up behind her…

‘I have eaten enough already, thank you.' She forced a smile.

‘Then shall I light another lamp so that you can carry on with your reading?'

‘Oh no, I have quite finished reading for today.' Rose shuddered at the thought of opening the musty manual again.

She gestured at the window. ‘Perhaps I will go for a walk now that the snow has stopped.'

‘I'm afraid that's not possible. Lord McGunn said you weren't allowed to go out.'

Rose stiffened. Who did the man think he was to dictate what she could and couldn't do?

‘I will go out when and where I want, whatever Lord McGunn says,' she insisted.

‘Of course, my lady, but the weather is unpredictable and the cliff path treacherous. You wouldn't want to slip and fall to your death, would you?'

The housekeeper's voice was calm, her face impassive and her eyes a clear, cold blue, so why did Rose feel there was a threat behind her words?

‘No, of course not,' she replied in a whisper, a shiver running down her spine. Morag definitely made her ill at ease. At times she almost looked as if she hated her…

‘Is there anything else, my lady?'

Rose hesitated.

‘Actually, yes. I wanted to ask you about the clock in my room. Do you know what the music is called? I assume it is a French song since the clock is from Paris.'

Morag narrowed her eyes. ‘What music? That old clock is broken, it doesn't play any music.'

‘Why does nobody believes me when I say the clock is almost a music box? It plays a lovely tune every hour to which the shepherdess dances,' Rose protested. ‘It kept me awake most of the night…'

The housekeeper swayed on her feet and gripped the back of a chair.

‘Are you all right, Morag?' Rose asked. ‘You do look pale all of a sudden. Maybe you should sit down.'

Morag stared at her, completely still. ‘Did you touch the clock? You're not to touch that clock, do you hear?

‘Well, I only touched it a little to examine it, but I was very careful.'

An uncomfortable silence hung between them, before Morag spoke again.

‘Did you see her? If you heard the music, you must have seen her.'

‘Seen who? I don't understand who you mean. The only people I met yesterday were Agnes and you… Oh yes. There was that poor French woman who was weeping in the corridor, but I didn't see her, not really, and I hardly had the chance to speak to her before she ran away. Maybe you know who she is. I was very worried about her.'

Her face ashen, Morag gripped the chair harder and closed her eyes.

‘The Dark Lady,' she whispered. ‘She's back.'

Chapter Five

‘The Dark Lady? Who is she?'

Morag didn't seem to hear. Her face deathly pale and her lips bloodless, she stepped forward.

‘What did she tell you?'

Rose took a step back.

‘Morag, I'm really sorry if my question about the clock upset you.'

‘Tell me what she said.'

Alarmed by the woman's menacing tone and the half-crazed glint in her eyes, Rose took another step back. She bumped against the bookshelf and a handful of books fell on the floor with a loud crash.

Morag towered over Rose and grabbed hold of her hand.

‘Answer me.'

‘She said that she was lost and that she wanted to die,' Rose started, desperately trying to pull her hand out of the woman's strong grasp. ‘Then she ran away and I followed her.'

‘Where to?'

Confessing that she had ended up in Lord McGunn's bed wasn't something Rose was prepared to do.

‘I lost her in the hall and went back to my room,' she lied.

The housekeeper squeezed her hand harder.

‘Did she say anything about Bonnie?'

Rose frowned. ‘Bonnie? No, I don't think so. She hardly spoke before she ran off.'

Annoyed now, she yanked her hand out of Morag's grip, crossed her arms on her chest and tilted up her chin.

‘You are acting very strangely, Morag, and I must say I don't much care for your tone. I told you, I don't know who this lady is, why she was crying or where she went. Now will you tell me what this is all about?'

Morag hissed and two bright red spots appeared on her cheeks. With a strangled cry, she swirled around and ran out, leaving the door wide open and Rose staring after her in astonishment. What had just happened? Who was the woman Morag called the Dark Lady and Lord McGunn claimed didn't exist?

Pensive, Rose pulled the sprig of pine out of the pocket of her dress and looked at it for a moment. It was bound together by a faded pink silk ribbon, so old and frayed it was almost threadbare, and yet its pine scent was still strong, as if the pine had been cut just a few days before.

She toyed with it for a moment, then decided not to mention it to anyone until she found out who the woman was. She put the sprig back into her pocket, picked the books up from the floor and looked out of the window again.

Never mind McGunn's orders and Morag's warnings about the dangers of the cliff path, she had to go out or she'd go mad. She yearned to see the ocean, feel the wind on her face, and leave footprints on the thick, soft white mantle covering the ground – something she'd never done before. But most of all she wanted to forget all about mysterious ladies, crazy housekeepers and scowling Scottish lairds!

Ten minutes later, all wrapped up against the cold, she let herself out of the front door. She walked past the stables where boys shovelled manure out of the stalls and onto a steaming pile in the courtyard. Housemaids rushed past carrying baskets filled to the brim with wrinkled apples, fat turnips and cabbages, their cheeks and hands red raw from the cold. At the far end of the courtyard, half a dozen men were busy unloading what looked like compacted black soil from a cart and carrying it into a shed – more of the peat Agnes had mentioned.

Expecting to be challenged for disobeying Lord McGunn's orders, Rose pulled her hood down and hurried through the gates, and was relieved when nobody stopped her or even glanced her way. She hardly noticed the hem of her dress and coat becoming wet and stiff with snow and, her heart pounding to the rhythm of the waves crashing against the rocks below, she carried on towards the cliff edge.

Here it was. The ocean, beautiful and deep, grey and haunting under the stormy skies. The same grey as Lord McGunn's eyes… What a silly thought. McGunn's eyes might be grey but they were harsh and mean, and not in the least beautiful.

To her right were rugged cliffs standing tall and impregnable, to her left a wide, empty bay lined by silver sand. Like an enchanted land, its outline disappeared into a mauve haze. Maybe if she stared at the sea long enough, she would catch a glimpse of the mermaids who were rumoured to haunt the coast, of the blue men who lurked in the sea waiting for passing ships, or of the sea creatures Captain Kennedy called kelpies and said were half men and half seals – whatever that meant. This country was so strange. Hostile and bewitching, it was a land of mythical beings, of cruelty and hardship…