One Summer At The Castle

Sam arched his grey brows. ‘Shall I come with you?’ He eyed his employer’s injured thigh with concerned eyes. ‘You don’t want to have another of those spasms when you’re out on the cliffs.’

Liam hid his impatience at the other man’s fussing, and said evenly, ‘The physio says I should get plenty of exercise. He says that spending too long at my desk is probably the reason why I’m still having problems.’

‘Even so—’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Liam assured him tersely. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

After collecting a coat, and the dogs, Liam emerged into the open air with a feeling of relief. The animals were just as glad to escape the confines of the castle, and they ran about excitedly, chasing every cat and bird in sight.

Liam didn’t intend to go far. There were clouds massing on the horizon, and unless he missed his guess they’d have rain before nightfall. Knowing how quickly the weather could change in these parts, he had no desire to risk getting caught in a storm. He could be soaked to the skin in minutes. It wasn’t as if he could run for cover, either. Thanks to his attacker, his running days were over.

Even so, he went out onto the cliffs, trudging through knee-high grasses that were an ideal hiding place for small rodents and birds of all kinds. The wind, blowing off the ocean, lifted the thick dark hair from his forehead and made him wish he’d worn something warmer than the ankle-length waterproof coat that flapped around his legs.

His thigh did move more freely as he exercised it, but he didn’t think he was up to negotiating the cliff steps down to the cove this morning. Climbing down necessitated climbing up again, and that was probably a step too far.

He was considering turning back when Harley, the younger of the two retrievers, scared up a rabbit. The terrified creature must have been hiding in the gorse bushes that grew near the edge of the cliff, and when Harley started barking it shot away across the headland, making unmistakably for the gully that ran down to the beach.

Naturally, Harley gave chase, pursued by the other dogs, and although Liam shouted himself hoarse he soon realised he was wasting his time. The dogs weren’t going to come back until the rabbit had been rousted, and it was at that moment that he felt the first heavy drops of rain.

He swore loudly, limping across to the edge of the cliffs. He could see all three dogs from this vantage point. The gully was a lot easier for a dog to negotiate than the steps, and, although there was no sign of the rabbit, the dogs were having a whale of a time racing along the sand, splashing in and out of the waves breaking on the shore.

‘Dammit!’ He swore again, but although he tried every way he could to get them to come back they weren’t listening to him.

What price now his arrogant assertion that he didn’t need Sam’s help? he thought grimly. The man might be fifteen years older than Liam, but he wouldn’t have thought twice about going after the dogs. And, unless he wanted to return home with his own metaphoric tail between his legs, Liam knew he’d have to do the same.

It wasn’t too bad going down. Although the rain was getting heavier, his determination kept him going—until his boots sank into the damp sand. The dogs came to him eagerly now, barking and leaping around him, as if their aim had been to get him down there all along.

‘Home,’ ordered Liam grimly, ignoring their welcome, and at last his tone had some success. Or maybe it was the rain, he reflected wryly. It was certainly quite a downpour, and even the dogs preferred a dry coat to a wet one. Whatever the reason, all three of them obeyed his command, charging up the steps ahead of him, standing at the top, panting and wagging their tails with apparent pride at their achievement.

However, Liam found it much harder to follow them. The steps were slippery now, and every now and then, he was forced to clutch at handfuls of turf to prevent himself from sliding backwards.

His thigh ached, and halfway up he had to stop and allow the spasms in his leg to subside. God, he should have swallowed his pride and gone back to the castle for help, he thought bitterly. The way his muscles were feeling now, he’d probably undone all the good that treatment he’d had in London had achieved.

The dogs had disappeared by the time he finally reached the clifftop. Which was par for the course, he thought, panting heavily. He just hoped they’d gone back to the castle. If they hadn’t, hard luck. He wasn’t going looking for them. He was just relieved that Rosa Chantry wasn’t still there. He’d have hated for her to see him like this. Dammit, he still had some pride.

It rained all day Wednesday.

Rosa, who was confined to Katie Ferguson’s guesthouse, stared out at the weather with a feeling of desperation. She felt so helpless. Where was Sophie? she fretted, the inactivity putting her at the mercy of her fears. All right, she’d said she was okay, and Rosa had to accept that. But something about this whole situation didn’t add up.

Still, she could do nothing until the ferry arrived the following morning, she consoled herself, rubbing a circle in the condensation her breath had made on the glass. The guesthouse was cosy, her room small, but comfortable. But there were no other guests with whom she could have passed the time.

She glanced across the room at the table beside the bed. Two paperbacks that she’d bought at the post office-cum-general store resided there. One was a historical romance with a Scottish setting that she’d hoped might distract her from her troubles, but it hadn’t. The other was a Liam Jameson.

The postmistress, a rather garrulous Scotswoman, had gone on at some length about the quality of Liam’s writing. She’d read everything he’d ever written, she’d said, even though she didn’t usually enjoy that sort of thing.

‘But his characters are so good, aren’t they?’ she’d enthused. ‘That Luther Killian! My goodness, I’d never realised that vampires could be so fascinating.’

Of course Rosa had had to admit that she hadn’t read any of Liam’s books, and that was when she’d discovered how Sam had explained her presence on the island.

‘Why, I was sure you’d have read all of them, seeing as you work for his publisher and all,’ the postmistress had exclaimed in surprise. And when Rosa had looked confused she’d added ruefully, ‘Och, old McAllister told us who you were. When Sam Devlin called him out to Kilfoil, he said a young lady from Pargeters had been visiting Mr Jameson.’ She’d nodded at the rain. ‘It’s only a pity you’re seeing the island in its worst light. It’s really quite beautiful.’

Rosa had admitted then that it hadn’t been raining when she’d first arrived. But, not wanting to contribute to any more gossip, she’d paid for the books and made good her escape.

However, she wondered now if Sam had told Mrs Ferguson the same story. It seemed possible, although her landlady was much more reserved, and she hadn’t questioned why Rosa should have been visiting the castle.

Rosa sighed. Nevertheless, it was because of Liam that she’d found it impossible to read his book. She couldn’t help associating Luther Killian with the man who’d created him, and the fact that Liam hadn’t bothered getting back to her was a constant thorn in her side.

Not that she’d told her mother that. She’d rung Mrs Chantry on Tuesday evening to let her know where she was staying, giving her the phone number of the guesthouse as if she’d never stayed anywhere else. She’d promised she’d be speaking to Jameson again the following day, leaving her mother with the impression that another interview had been arranged.

Fortunately Mrs Chantry hadn’t questioned that, and Rosa hadn’t talked for long. Apart from anything else, she’d been conscious that Mrs Ferguson could come into the small hallway where the phone was situated at any time, and the last thing Rosa wanted was for her to suspect that her reasons for being here weren’t what she’d heard.

All in all, it had been a miserable couple of days. The rain had started soon after she and Mr McAllister had left the castle the previous morning, and his old estate car had taken for ever to cross the moor. Then, coming down into the village, they’d skidded onto the grass verge, so that Rosa had been relieved when she’d arrived safely at her destination.

Leaving her seat by the window, Rosa crossed the room and picked up Liam’s book. There was still an hour to fill before supper, which appeared to be served early in the Highlands. And another couple of hours after that before she could reasonably retire to bed. She had to do something.

Of course what she ought to do was hire old McAllister’s cab again and drive back to the castle, if only to keep the promise she’d made to her mother. Liam wasn’t going to ring her, either because Sam hadn’t given him her message or because he chose not to, and this might be her last chance.

But the idea of chancing another ride in the elderly estate car filled her with unease. And, apart from that, she didn’t really have a reason for seeing Liam again. Not a genuine one, at any rate. Wanting to spend a little more time with him just didn’t cut it, particularly after he’d admitted that he’d be glad to see her go. So she might as well resign herself to another night at the guesthouse and a trip back to the mainland tomorrow afternoon.

But the following morning Rosa awakened to the sound of the wind howling round the walls of the old building. Snuggling under the covers, she wished she didn’t have to get out of bed. It sounded more like a gale than anything, and she could just imagine being on the ferry in such a wind. Goodness, she’d felt sick coming here, and the water had been reasonably calm then. Now it was going to be as choppy as a bathtub. Or rather the ferry would be as helpless as a bathtub in a turbulent sea.

Rosa sighed, but there was no help for it. She had to get up. Mrs Ferguson had told her that the ferry usually arrived at about half-past-eleven and then left again at half-past-twelve, calling at the nearby island of Ardnarossa before returning to Mallaig.

Which meant at least another hour on her journey, thought Rosa dismally. Another hour in weather like this! She was going to be so seasick. She wished she dared feign illness and stay until the following Monday, when the ferry came again.

But it wasn’t in her nature to lie, and she owed it to her mother to get back to the mainland and try and find out from the Scottish Tourist Office if they knew anything about the company Sophie professed to have joined. It was a doubtful proposition, but it was the only one she had at the moment. And right now the idea of being back on the mainland again sounded pretty good to her.

However, after washing and dressing and packing her bag, she went downstairs for breakfast to find Mrs Ferguson waiting for her.

‘I’m afraid you won’t be leaving today, Miss Chantry,’ she said apologetically. ‘This storm has suspended all sailings, and the ferry won’t be leaving Mallaig until it’s blown itself out.’

The relief Rosa felt was paralysing. ‘You mean, I’ll have to stay here until the wind’s dropped?’

‘Well, until it moderates, at least,’ Mrs Ferguson agreed with a regretful smile. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault.’ Rosa was ashamed to realise she could hardly contain her relief. ‘So—um, when do you think the storm will blow itself out?’

‘Not before Saturday, at the earliest,’ said the landlady sagely. ‘And even then there’s no guarantee that the ferry will come. We’re just a small island, Miss Chantry. They may decide to wait until the regular sailing on Monday.’

‘Monday!’ Rosa thought ruefully that you really should be careful what you wish for. ‘I see.’

‘Of course, if there’s an urgent reason why you need to get back to the mainland, you could always ask Mr Jameson. He might be willing to have his pilot take you in his helicopter. I mean…’ Mrs Ferguson seemed to be considering the situation ‘…he is the reason why you’re stuck here, isn’t he?’

‘Y-e-s.’ Rosa drew the word out, knowing that her reasons for being here and the reasons Mrs Ferguson had probably been given for her being here were mutually exclusive. ‘But I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ As the landlady looked as if she was about to protest, she added swiftly, ‘Don’t helicopters have problems in bad weather, too?’

‘Not like ferries,’ Mrs Ferguson assured her. ‘I’m sure that by tomorrow you’d have no trouble at all.’

Wouldn’t she? Rosa doubted that. There was no way Liam would lend his helicopter—a helicopter, for heaven’s sake!—to her. It was just another indication of how stupid she was being in wanting to see him again. His way of life was so incredibly different from hers.

However, she refrained from making any comment, and the landlady bustled away to get her guest’s breakfast. Mrs Ferguson was probably thinking she was considering it, thought Rosa, with a grimace. When in fact what she was really thinking was that this might give her another opportunity to speak to Liam again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

FAT CHANCE, thought Rosa on Friday morning, having spent yet another day watching the rain. She had borrowed a coat from Mrs Ferguson and gone out for a while on Thursday afternoon, but it hadn’t been much fun. The rain had been bad enough, but the wind had been unforgiving. It had torn back the hood of her coat and had left her hair at the mercy of the weather.

She’d even made another attempt to read Liam’s book, and had been enjoying it until Luther Killian said something that Liam himself might say. It had brought back the memory of their encounter in all its disturbing detail, and she’d had to put the book aside and do something else.

Looking out of her window now, Rosa saw that it was going to be another wasted day. The wind hardly seemed to have eased at all, and although the rain seemed lighter, it was still coming down.

She could see the harbour from her window, the small boats that were moored there straining on their lines. No doubt the fishermen whose boats they were, were cursing, too. At least her incarceration didn’t affect her livelihood.

Or Sophie’s, she thought uneasily. But her sister would be all right, she assured herself. She was probably sitting in some luxury hotel at this moment, having a late breakfast with this man she’d taken off with. Okay, he wasn’t Liam Jameson. But perhaps he’d told her that he was. Yet somehow she knew Sophie was too savvy to be taken in like that.

So where was she? Although Rosa was fairly sure Liam didn’t know, perhaps he might have an idea. Anything was better than sitting here, twiddling her thumbs.

She shook her head impatiently, aware that she was only looking for excuses to go and see him again. After all, whatever happened, her mother expected her to do it. Predictably, it was the first thing she’d asked Rosa when she’d phoned home the previous evening.

‘But why haven’t you seen him?’ she’d demanded, and Rosa had explained about the storm. Then she’d hurried on and asked if Mrs Chantry had heard from Sophie—which she hadn’t—to avoid the comeback. After all, it was her sister who was supposed to be in trouble here, not her.

Personally, Rosa thought her sister was keeping quiet deliberately. Now that she’d alerted them to the fact that she could phone, she was probably afraid they’d trace her call. Which left Rosa with the unenviable task of finding another way to locate her.

Her mother was woefully ignorant of her elder daughter’s circumstances, however. ‘Surely there must be some other way to get back to the mainland?’ she’d protested, when Rosa had told her that the ferries were suspended until further notice. ‘What about aeroplanes? They’re not grounded, are they? Or you could find another boat.’

Rosa had been stunned at her foolishness. ‘There’s no airport on Kilfoil, Mum,’ she’d told her frustratedly. ‘And what other boat would you suggest? A fishing trawler, perhaps?’

Mrs Chantry had tutted impatiently. ‘So you’re telling me there’s nothing you can do until the ferries start running again?’

‘As far as getting off the island is concerned, yes,’ said Rosa shortly. ‘Believe me, I don’t like it any more than you do.’

But was that strictly true? Rosa asked herself now, aware that the knowledge that Liam was just a dozen miles away was some compensation. If the ferries had been running she’d have been several hundred miles away by now, and any chance of seeing him again would have been denied her.

She frowned. Well, she couldn’t stay in her room all day. She’d had her breakfast, and once again the books she’d bought held no appeal. There must be some other way she could get out to the castle, she thought, her pulse quickening at the thought. At least it would give her something to do. Even if that old grouse Sam Devlin refused to let her in.

Mrs Ferguson was dusting the sitting room when she went downstairs and, feeling a little awkward, Rosa stopped in the doorway. ‘Um—I was wondering,’ she said, and the landlady looked up expectantly. ‘I was wondering if there was a car I could hire for the day.’

‘Do you not know McAllister’s number?’ The woman frowned and put her duster aside. ‘I think I’ve got it here somewhere—’

‘No.’ Rosa interrupted her, and when the landlady halted uncertainly, she added, ‘I didn’t mean a taxi, Mrs Ferguson. I wondered if there was a car I could hire to drive myself.’

The woman frowned. ‘Well, it’s not much of a day for sightseeing.’

‘I know that.’ Rosa sighed. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d like to drive over to see Mr Jameson again. There—er—there’s something I forgot to ask him.’

‘Ah.’ Mrs Ferguson nodded. ‘And you’re not keen to have old McAllister drive you, is that it?’

‘Well…’

Rosa felt her face turn red, but the landlady was smiling. ‘Yes, I can see you’re not impressed with his driving, lassie.’ She laughed. ‘I have to admit, I’d think twice about getting in his vehicle myself.’

Rosa relaxed. ‘So—er—is there a car I could hire?’ she asked hopefully. ‘I’m willing to pay.’

‘Och, you can take my car, Miss Chantry. It hardly gets used, anyway. It’s not very grand, mind you, but it’s roadworthy.’

Rosa gasped. ‘Oh, that would be wonderful!’

Mrs Ferguson laughed again. ‘Don’t say that until you’ve seen it, lassie,’ she advised. ‘Come along. I’ll show you where I keep it.’

The car, an ancient Ford, was kept in a shed at the back of the guesthouse, and Rosa saw at once that the landlady hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said it wasn’t very grand. It had to be at least twenty years old, and was covered in dust into the bargain. Mrs Ferguson had to wipe away a handful of spiders’ webs before she could open the door.

But the engine started after only a couple of hiccoughs, and Rosa stepped aside as the woman reversed it out onto the street. One good thing—the rain quickly cleared the dust from the chassis, and Rosa saw that the wipers worked. All in all, it was exactly what she needed, and she couldn’t thank the landlady enough.

‘Och, it’s nothing,’ said Mrs Ferguson, surrendering the driving seat to her guest and stepping back into the shelter of the shed, out of the rain. ‘You drive carefully, now. The roads can be treacherous in the wet. I wouldn’t like you to go skidding into a bog.’

Rosa thought she wouldn’t like that, either, but she refused to be daunted. She couldn’t be a worse driver than old McAllister if she tried. And there was no hurry. If she took all morning to get there, it wouldn’t matter.

The first indication that driving Mrs Ferguson’s car wasn’t going to be a sinecure came when Rosa reached the first corner and tried to turn. The wheel was like a dead weight in her hands, and she realised that it had no power steering. Of course, she thought impatiently, wrenching the car round manually. The installation of power steering in small cars like this was a comparatively recent innovation.

It made driving much harder, and her arms were aching by the time she’d negotiated the twists and turns down to the harbour. It was easier once she was driving up the road out of the village, but she wasn’t looking forward to the journey across that lonely stretch of moor.

The rain hindered visibility, too, and once or twice she was sure she saw ghostly figures rising out of the mist. But it was only the skeletal trunks of trees worn bare by the winds that raked the boggy scrubland. Nevertheless, she was glad she didn’t have to drive across here in the dark.

At last she reached the road that wound down into the glen where Kilfoil Castle was situated. She couldn’t see the castle, of course. The driving rain made that impossible. But now and then she glimpsed a farmhouse, and the unmistakable presence of livestock. She even saw a farmer herding some cows into a barn.

She relaxed. She’d made it. The only problem now was getting in to see Liam himself. She had the feeling Sam wouldn’t be too pleased when she presented herself at the door. But he must know she hadn’t left the island. Surely he might expect that she’d try to see his employer again?

She drove over the small bridge and parked in the same place Liam had used four days ago. Four days! She was amazed. Was that really all it was? She grimaced. Sometimes it felt as if she’d been here half her life.

She got out of the car, closing the door with care. No one had come to meet her, and she was curiously loath to announce her arrival in advance. Squaring her shoulders against the squally wind that blew in off the ocean, she crossed the forecourt to the double doors.

There was no bell, but she’d hardly expected one. Knights of old hadn’t needed such things. In the books she’d read, the knight’s lady would be watching for her spouse from one of the narrow windows in the solar, or perhaps a vigilant guard would warn of a stranger’s arrival. The portcullis would be lowered to protect those within the castle—

‘Miss Chantry!’

Rosa had been so absorbed with her thoughts that she hadn’t heard the door being opened. But now the housekeeper stood there, regarding her with obvious surprise.

‘Oh, Mrs Wilson.’ Rosa knew she should have been better prepared for this encounter. ‘Um—how are you?’

‘I’m very well, thank you.’ The woman cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. ‘Is there something I can help you with, Miss Chantry?’

‘I hope so, yes.’ Rosa smiled. ‘Is—er—is Mr Jameson about?’

It was a stupid question. Rosa knew that as soon as the words left her lips. Where else would he be?

‘Mr Jameson?’

The housekeeper sounded doubtful, and she hurried on, ‘Yes. I mean, is he working this morning? Or could I have a quick word with him?’

‘Oh, I—’ Once again Mrs Wilson looked back over her shoulder. ‘I’m afraid that’s not a question I can answer, Miss Chantry.’ She hesitated, and then went on, ‘You’d have to ask Mr Devlin.’ She nodded. ‘I’ll get him for you.’

‘No, I—’

Rosa started to say Sam Devlin was the last person she wanted to see, but it was too late. The woman had already turned and hurried away, leaving Rosa to cool her heels on the doorstep like some pushy double-glazing saleswoman.

She could have invited her inside, Rosa thought, disheartened. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been inside the castle before. For heaven’s sake, she’d spent a night here. Why was she being treated like an intruder?

Because that was what she was, she’d decided, when she heard Sam Devlin’s footsteps crossing the hall. She’d just nudged under the overhang, in a rather fruitless attempt to keep dry, but she stepped aback almost instinctively when the man appeared.

However, Sam was surprisingly more charitable than the housekeeper. ‘Och, come away inside, Miss Chantry,’ he exclaimed, stepping back to allow her to enter the huge hall. ‘It’s a wretched morning, to be sure. You’ll be wishing this storm would ease, no doubt. I dare say you’re eager to get back to the mainland?’

‘Yes.’ Rosa had little option other than to agree. ‘Um, I’m sorry to trouble you again, but I still haven’t spoken to Mr Jameson.’ She paused, and then went on rather recklessly, ‘You did give him my message, didn’t you?’