Monkshood
Anne Mather
Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release. Room for two…? Melanie is intrigued when a distant relative leaves her his remote house in the Highlands of Scotland. She is even more intrigued by the man who is trying to claim the property as his own – the handsome but formidable Sean Bothwell. Melanie can’t just give up her life in London – and her fiancée – to move to the middle of nowhere, can she? But something about Monkshood and the prickly Sean is compelling her to stay…
Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous
collection of fantastic novels by
bestselling, much loved author
ANNE MATHER
Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the
publishing industry, having written over one hundred
and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than
forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.
This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance
for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,
passionate writing has given.
We are sure you will love them all!
I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun— staggered by what’s happened.
I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.
These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.
We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
Monkshood
Anne Mather
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u4fa5c82b-3519-517e-8103-93b705be8120)
About the Author (#u4cf41ee8-ebb8-5137-908b-53b84685264a)
Title Page (#u496a5c4c-9549-5432-b3d8-d63b204c6a5a)
CHAPTER ONE (#u0226548b-c3aa-5c76-aa42-8611f415f50e)
CHAPTER TWO (#u5ed708ad-d41c-5549-81a2-23bf6162467f)
CHAPTER THREE (#u5b8f2bcc-0ae0-553a-b047-a8c2eba57a3d)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_7170bb39-1f09-578f-8857-7eee4ad081fd)
IT had been snowing when Melanie left Fort William, small, driving grains of white that filmed the windscreen of the car and kept the wipers at full urgency, but nothing like this. Now the flakes were large and soft and unwieldy, apparently impervious to the slowing scrape of the wipers, settling in heavy cumbersome drifts against the windscreen, almost obliterating her view.
Melanie quelled the sense of panic the situation aroused in her, comforting herself with the thought that she could not be far from her destination. After all, she had passed the sign for Loch Cairnross some time ago, and even allowing for the delay, she must have covered several miles since then. But darkness was drawing in, and although it was not late in the afternoon, Melanie found it all rather unnerving. Even so, she was loath to admit that Michael had been right when he had called her foolish and irresponsible driving all the way to Cairnside from London in the middle of December.
Now she peered grimly into the blizzard, trying to distinguish some sign of civilization in the wilderness ahead. Surely there must be some habitation somewhere. Surely someone lived in these remote wastes, even if it was only a shepherd or a farmer. She thought of stories she had read of the Scottish Highlands; of descriptions of the lonely lives of crofters in isolated valleys between the hills, and her spirits plummeted. Hard on the heels of these thoughts came others of motorists and climbers imprisoned in their cars or in lonely hostelries and found days later dead from cold and starvation …
She heaved a deep breath. She was allowing her imagination to get the better of her and there was absolutely no reason to suppose that she was going to be trapped in a snowdrift or anything else, and so long as the car kept moving she was perfectly safe.
Another thought struck her, causing her to slow the car almost involuntarily. Once darkness came down what was to stop her from leaving the road altogether and maybe driving into bog or marshland, or even into one of the lochs themselves? Coated with snow, how would she be able to distinguish her way?
A moment later her wheels began to spin. The slowing of the car combined with an impulsive depression of the accelerator caused by a desperate desire to reach her destination as soon as possible had achieved what her careful driving had avoided until now, and she realized that to continue revving her engine would simply embed the wheels deeper in the snow and slush.
Fastening the top button of her sheepskin coat closer about her throat and pulling on the fur hat which had been lying on the seat beside her since she left London the day before, she pushed open her door and emerged from the warmth and comfort of the car into the blinding chill of the blizzard. For a moment the sudden icy blast took her breath away, but then she wasted no more time trying to look about her when it was impossible to see more than a few yards and bent instead to the rear wheels of the car. As she had already suspected, the wheels were caked with snow and had no grip against an already slippery surface. Sighing, she straightened and wiped tendrils of hair back from her forehead, wet now in the driving flakes of snow that melted against the warmth of her skin. What was she to do? She had no real idea where she was, never having visited Scotland before, never mind this remote area of the Highlands, and being alone seemed infinitely worse than having someone with whom she could have commiserated.
Deciding she might as well keep dry while she considered her desperate position, she climbed back into the car again and consulted her watch. It was only a little after three-thirty, but already it seemed like early evening in this wintry wasteland. She glanced about her, shivering, and her eyes alighted on her suitcases in the back of the car. Inside these were her clothes, and an idea occurred to her. If she could take out some garment, some old garment, and spread it under the rear wheels of the car, she might just succeed in getting the vehicle moving again, and then she would have to try and keep moving until she reached some kind of habitation.
Turning, she knelt on the seat and extracting her keys from her handbag she used them to open one of the cases. As she surveyed the mass of woollens and lingerie that confronted her, she wondered how she could use any of these things for such a purpose, knowing that whatever she did use would have to be written off as she would be unable to stop and pick it up again. She bit her lip. She was not thinking constructively. What use would any of these clothes be to her if she froze to death instead?
With determination, she drew out two sweaters, made of wool, which she thought might serve the purpose. Then she climbed out of the car again and bent to push the woollens hard against the rear tyres. The wind whistled through the pines at the side of the road and the biting particles of snow stung her cheeks. She was trying desperately to remain calm when everything around her seemed determined to arouse a sense of panic inside her, and she was concentrating so hard on what she was doing that she did not see the glimmer of headlamps through the gloom or distinguish the sound of a vehicle’s engine above the roaring of the wind.
Awareness came swiftly, and she had only just enough time to get out of the way as a huge Range-Rover ground to a halt beside her on the narrow track, showering her with slush. Shivering and breathless, as much with shock as with cold, Melanie saw a man climb out of the driving seat and stride heavily round the bonnet of the vehicle to her side. It was impossible to make out his features as she blinked rapidly in the blinding blizzard, but she could see that he was reasonably tall and broad and male and relief overwhelmed all other emotions.
She was about to make some thankful comment about his timely arrival, when he halted before her and snapped: ‘Do you want to get yourself killed?’ in a harsh, angry tone.
Melanie stared at him helplessly, shading her eyes with a mittened hand. ‘I beg your pardon—’ she began.
‘Oh, English!’ he muttered impatiently, glancing down at the tyres of her car and their woollen accoutrements. ‘Exactly what are you trying to do?’
He had only a faint accent, but he was unmistakably Celtic in the brusqueness of his manner, and as her eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom she could see that his hair was thick and very black against the whiteness of the snow.
‘My car is stuck, as you can see,’ Melanie explained now, refusing to allow his manner to annoy her.
The man surveyed the car with some derision. ‘It isn’t actually the kind of vehicle used to this kind of terrain, is it?’ he commented dryly.
Melanie kept her temper with difficulty. ‘No,’ she agreed carefully. ‘I will admit it’s used to more – well – civilized routes!’
The man allowed a faint smile to lift the corners of his mouth. ‘Undoubtedly. Exactly where are you making for?’
‘Cairnside. Am I far from there?’
‘As the crow flies, no. Just a couple of miles, that’s all. The way you’re going you should reach there some time tomorrow.’
Melanie compressed her lips. ‘What do you mean?’ she snapped.
He shrugged. ‘What do you think I mean?’
‘I’m going in the wrong direction.’
‘Exactly.’ He bent and tugged at the sweaters she had pushed under her wheels. ‘You’d better put these away. I somehow don’t think they’re going to be of much use.’
‘What do you mean?’ Melanie was past caring about being pleasant now. ‘Where have I gone wrong?’
He smiled mockingly. ‘Maybe you know the answer to that better than I do. But you left the road to Cairnside almost half a mile back.’
‘What?’ Melanie was horrified.
‘I’m afraid so.’ He shrugged and in less sardonic tones added: ‘It’s easily done in these conditions. I saw your tracks and followed them. If you’d continued on in a straight line you would most probably have ended up in Loch Cairnross!’
‘What?’
Melanie was aghast, and her legs felt quite weak when she realized how close she had come to disaster. Leaning against the bonnet of her car for support, she said: ‘I – I suppose I ought to thank you.’
He shook his dark head. ‘That’s not necessary. I’d have done the same for anyone. However, you’ll have to leave your car here tonight. I don’t intend to try towing it back in this. If you’d like to put your luggage in the Rover I’ll drive you to the hotel. You can arrange about your car when the weather breaks.’
Melanie hesitated. “That – that’s very kind of you. But I don’t even know your name.’
He frowned and brushed past her to open her rear door and take out her suitcases. He slammed the opened suitcase shut with complete disregard for its contents and then turning said: ‘I don’t consider this either the time or the place for formalities, however, if it means anything to you you can call me Bothwell!’
‘Bothwell!’ Melanie stared at him incredulously. It seemed such an appropriate name somehow. ‘I – er – I’m Melanie Stewart!’
Bothwell didn’t seem to hear her, or if he did he considered it of no import, and with a shrug Melanie stepped aside as he carried her cases to the Rover.
‘You’d better get inside,’ he advised brusquely, ‘before you freeze to death! I’ll lock up your car. Are the keys inside?’
Melanie nodded and climbed obediently into the vehicle. It was so much warmer inside out of the driving sleet and she began to realize exactly how cold she had become almost without being aware of it. Her fingers and toes were numb and a trickle of water was making its way down her neck, past her collar, to the warmth of her spine.
Bothwell closed her car and came towards the Range-Rover tossing her keys in a gloved hand. He aimed a kick at each of his tyres with a booted foot as though to check their serviceability before getting into the front of the vehicle beside her. Then he switched on the interior light and regarded her clearly for the first time without the protective shield of snowflakes.
Melanie for her part found his scrutiny rather disturbing, and she was annoyed to find the hot colour running up her throat to her face. Certainly he seemed to find her appearance interesting, but she refused to return that insolent appraisal, deciding she did not care for such harshly carved features. He was by no means handsome; indeed, she was sure his nose had been broken at some time, and his eyes were too deeply set above high cheekbones, and yet she could not deny that some women might find the sensuality of his mouth and the pale intensity of his eyes below dark brows attractive. She already knew he was about five feet ten inches tall, only three inches taller than herself, and his frame was broad and muscular, but it was his undoubted masculinity that she found the most provoking. He was, she decided, a typical example of the kind of man who used to terrorize the Borders in the days when England and Scotland were ruled by different queens, and when that other Bothwell held sway over thousands of his countrymen.
So absorbed was she with her thoughts that when he spoke she started. ‘Exactly what is a girl like yourself doing out here in the depths of winter?’
Melanie bit her lip. The outspokenness of his question was in keeping with his manner, she thought, and she was tempted to tell him to mind his own business. Only the realization that he was the only person capable of returning her to civilization caused her to have second thoughts. To some extent he was an unknown quantity so far as she was concerned, and he was most definitely not the kind of man she was used to. She thought he was primitive and uncouth, and she resented his assumption that because he was helping her he should be privy to her private affairs almost as much as having to accept his assistance in the first place.
Now she said: ‘I’m going to the Black Bull at Cairnside.’
Bothwell raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Indeed? That’s a strange place to be going at this time of year. There are no skiing facilities near Loch Cairnross, and we don’t go in for entertaining much.’
Melanie ran her tongue over her dry lips. ‘That’s quite all right, Mr. Bothwell. I don’t expect to be entertained.’
His eyes narrowed and then with a shrug he turned and flicking off the interior light started the engine. He swung the vehicle round in a body-shaking curve and started back the way they had come. The Range-Rover covered the ground powerfully, and presently they turned again and Melanie guessed they were back on the road.
The snow was not falling so heavily now and the sky had lightened considerably, illuminating the road ahead more adequately than headlights. The wind still howled around them, but at least now Melanie could see where she was going. Bothwell was, if nothing else, an expert driver, and she felt secure in this knowledge, realizing she would have had immense difficulty on this glassy surface even had she made it this far. Bothwell did not speak to her again, and she could only assume that her final comment had made her feelings clear to him. Whatever his reasoning, she was glad. He was altogether too disturbing when he gave her all his attention, and she deliberately directed her thoughts to Michael. She tried to imagine what he would have made of her companion, and decided he would have found his overwhelming masculinity distasteful.
The road suddenly curved downwards and Melanie slid forward on her seat before she could grip its edge and propel herself back again. To either side of the road stretched forests of pines, their branches laden with snow, while above them now she could see the towering mountains that covered this area. She wanted to ask what mountains they were, but hesitated about breaking the silence between them, and presently the road flattened out again and she realized they were in a narrow valley.
Ahead of them lights were gleaming and she leant forward with undeniable excitement. As they drew nearer she saw her destination. The hotel nestled at the foot of a high mountain whose peak was shrouded in mists, and whose lower slopes were dark with pine trees that encroached to the hotel itself. The Black Bull was small and compact and welcoming, smoke curling from several of its many chimneys and dogs to announce their arrival. Melanie lay back in her seat with some relief. She had arrived, and for the moment that was all she could cope with.
Bothwell brought the Range-Rover to a halt in front of the hotel and switching off the ignition slid out without speaking to her. Melanie gathered her gloves and handbag and fumbled with the door catch. But before she could open the door, he swung it open for her and then turned away into the hotel.
By the time Melanie had climbed out and closed the door, he had disappeared and she was left to enter the hotel alone. Contrarily, she missed his escort, and she approached the entrance with some trepidation. What if they had no rooms? What if the hotel was closed to guests?
Inside the heavy oak door she was pleasantly surprised. Beyond a small enclosed lobby there was a small reception area, carpeted and furnished with old but highly-polished furniture. There was a reception desk with a register and a bell to be used for service, and if the lighting was shadowy, at least it was electric.
Encouraged by this evidence of comfort, Melanie approached the desk and rang the bell, wondering as she did so where Bothwell had gone. There was no sign of him here and she glanced surreptitiously up the wooden-balustraded staircase to the floor above.
A door opened behind the reception desk and a young woman emerged. She was unexpected, too. Small and very blonde, with a rounded figure that was clearly outlined beneath the close-fitting woollen dress she was wearing. She smiled politely at Melanie, and said: ‘Yes? Can I help you?’ in an unmistakably Scottish brogue.
Melanie smiled in return. ‘Er – I realize this is rather short notice, but could you possibly put me up for a couple of nights?’
The girl showed little surprise. ‘I think that could be arranged, Miss – er—?’
‘Oh, Stewart, Melanie Stewart,’ supplied Melanie at once. ‘Oh, thank goodness! I was afraid you might be full up or not taking residential guests at the moment!’
The girl consulted the register. ‘Och, at this time of the year we always have plenty of room,’ she said smoothly. ‘There are one or two regulars, of course, but they won’t trouble you.’ She looked up rather questioningly. ‘For a couple of nights, you said?’
Melanie bit her lip. ‘At least,’ she agreed awkwardly. ‘I – er – I have business in the neighbourhood, and I’m not sure how long it will take. Tell me, is the village far?’
The girl frowned. ‘It’s a very small village, Miss Stewart. But such as it is – it’s about half a mile down the valley.’ She hesitated, obviously curious to know why Melanie should be interested in the village, but Melanie chose not to enlighten her right now. That could come later.
‘My – er – car – is stranded some miles back, off the road,’ she said. ‘I wondered if there was a garage …’
‘I see.’ The girl shrugged. ‘The nearest garage is in Rossmore, about five miles away. You could possibly telephone them tomorrow if the weather improves.’
‘Oh, yes! Thank you.’ Melanie glanced round. ‘Er – a Mr. Bothwell – gave me a lift. He came into the hotel. Do you happen to know where he is? I’d like to thank him, Oh, and my cases are in the back of his car.’
The girl hesitated and then turning went to the door which led into the room behind the desk. Opening the door, she called: ‘Sean!’ rather sharply, and a few moments later Bothwell himself emerged.
He had shed the heavy fur-lined jacket he had been wearing, and looked darker and more muscular than ever in tight-fitting dark trousers and a polo-necked navy sweater. Melanie felt impatient with herself for asking his whereabouts now that he was here. She thought he would more than likely imagine she was deliberately drawing attention to herself again, and she tried not to speculate on what his relationship might be with the girl behind the desk.
In consequence, she was very brief in her expressions of gratitude, and he bowed his head politely at her words. She thought he was perfectly aware of her discomfort and his face took on an expression of sardonic amusement as he said: ‘It was nothing, believe me. I’m used to rescuing lambs in distress, and your predicament was not so different!’
Melanie managed a forced smile and then turned back to the girl. ‘I’ll just get my cases,’ she said.
Bothwell came round the desk. ‘I’ll get them,’ he said, his tone brooking no argument, and Melanie said: ‘Thanks!’ rather ungraciously.
The girl surveyed her curiously as Bothwell disappeared outside and Melanie moved a trifle restlessly under her regard. Heavens, she thought impatiently, what was she? An oddity, or something?
Bothwell came back a few seconds later and stood in the hall, a case in each hand. The girl handed Melanie a key and said: ‘Room seven. Up the stairs and it’s the third on your right.’
‘Thank you.’ Melanie took the key and turned to the stairs.
‘The maid will be up later to make up your bed,’ continued the girl, casting a speculative glance in Bothwell’s direction, and with a casual gesture he indicated that Melanie should precede him upstairs.
Melanie hesitated only a moment and then began to mount the wooden staircase. It wound round at the top and then reached a small landing with a corridor running from it. She looked along the corridor and Bothwell nodded rather impatiently.
‘Number seven,’ he said, nodding.
Melanie was making her way down the passage when another door opened and an elderly man emerged to stand and regard them curiously. Bothwell greeted him casually, and the old man frowned.
‘Who’s this, Sean?’ he inquired sharply.
Bothwell stood Melanie’s cases down outside her door. ‘This is Miss Stewart, Alaister,’ he said, flexing his shoulder muscles. ‘A fellow guest!’
‘Oh, ay, is that so?’ The old man eyed Melanie dourly. ‘Ye didna say ye were expecting anyone.’
Melanie’s eyebrows lifted, but Bothwell merely shrugged. ‘We didn’t know we were,’ he observed dryly. ‘Are you away for your tea ?’
The old man stomped off towards the stairs. ‘Oh, ay, ay,’ he said mutteringly, and with a faint smile Bothwell turned back to Melanie.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘can you manage from here?’
Melanie fumbled with her keys and he bent past her and pushed open her bedroom door. ‘It’s not locked,’ he said, unnecessarily. ‘We don’t go in much for security here, I’m afraid.’
Melanie compressed her lips and stepped into the room as he switched on the lamps. It was a very attractive room, she had to admit, with colourfully printed curtains and a fringed bedspread. The furniture was light oak, and as downstairs old but mellowed with years of polishing. Bothwell drew the curtains and turned to face her and she moved quickly, bringing her cases inside the door to avoid that brilliant gaze.
‘There are no private bathrooms, I’m afraid,’ he went on, ‘but there are two at the end of the corridor and if you’re a late sleeper you should find no difficulty.’
There was sarcasm in his tones again and Melanie reacted to it. ‘Why should you imagine I’m a late sleeper!’ she inquired coldly.
He shrugged. ‘Town-dwellers are not known for their early morning fatigues,’ he remarked mockingly.
‘You’re sure I am a town-dweller.’
‘Undoubtedly.’ He walked past her to the door, without waiting for any retaliatory comment. ‘Dinner is at six-thirty. It’s early, I know, but the cook likes to get away home soon after nine.’
Melanie clenched her fists. ‘You seem to know a lot about it, Mr. Bothwell!’
‘I should do. I run the place,’ he replied smoothly, and went out, closing the door behind him.
Melanie stared after him in astonishment. He ran the place! She shook her head helplessly. So that was why that old man had commented upon the suddenness of her arrival to Bothwell. She had thought at first he must be a guest here, too. And that also explained why he had been in the room behind the reception desk. As for the blonde girl, she might conceivably be his wife. There couldn’t be much enjoyment for anyone so young living out here in the wilds of the Highlands without some definite reason for staying.
Melanie shrugged. It was not important. What was important was why she was here, and tomorrow she would have to make some inquiries about Monkshood.
As she unpacked her night things and a dress to wear for dinner that evening, she wondered whether she ought to give Michael a ring. It would at least ease his mind to know that she had arrived safely, and she did owe him that much consideration. After all, he had not wanted her to come all this way without him, and it had been impossible for him to get away at this particular time with several important cases in the offing. He had begged her to wait until he was free to accompany her, but just for once Melanie had wanted to get away on her own. Maybe it was the knowledge that they were getting married in March which made her eager for this last spurt of independence, or maybe it was simply that excitement at inheriting a house like Monkshood had driven all other thoughts out of her mind.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_d0301c7d-69e1-5c21-8b08-7d6b095758c8)
MELANIE awoke the next morning with a feeling of expectancy. There was something entirely satisfying about being away on her own with no one to consider but herself, and if this feeling of satisfaction was vaguely tinged with guilt she thrust such thoughts aside. After all, surely she had the right to show independence sometimes. Michael was always too willing to take her burdens from her and make her life as smooth and easy as possible, and occasionally she had wished that he would just leave her alone to make her own way, mistakes or otherwise. Maybe his training as a solicitor accounted for that air of officialdom that now and then intruded into his private life. At any rate, just for once Melanie was appreciating the freedom of being without his solicitude, and she wriggled her toes under the warm covers with contented abandon.
A glance at her watch told her it was a little after eight and she hastily slid out of the warm bed, shivering as she made her way to the windows. But when she drew back the curtains she could not suppress the gasp of amazement that escaped her at the sight that met her startled eyes. The snow which last night had eased so dramatically had returned with full vigour and beyond the frosted panes of glass all she could see were the whirling flakes.
She drew back the curtains completely and turning back to the bed reached for her dressing gown. Heavens, she thought, not without a trace of unease now, how long was this storm going to last? Had it been snowing all night, and if so, however was she to find her car, never mind get it to the hotel?
Opening her door, she peeped out. No one was about and picking up her toilet things she made her way quickly down the passage to the bathroom. Once inside, she turned on the bath taps and while the bath filled she cleaned her teeth at the porcelain hand-basin. She was so intent on thinking about the deplorable weather conditions that she did not notice that the bath was not steaming as it should have done and when she put one foot tentatively into its depths she drew back with a gasp of dismay. The water was cold and her foot tingled from that icy contact.
With an exclamation of annoyance, she pulled out the plug and allowed the water to drain away while she doused her face and hands in the running water at the basin. Then, compressing her lips, she opened the bathroom door and came face to face with the man she had seen the night before and whom Bothwell had called Alaister.
‘Oh!’ She stepped back in surprise, wrapping her housecoat closer about her slim figure, but the old man merely regarded her sourly.
‘Morning,’ he grunted abruptly, and Melanie forced a smile.
‘Good morning,’ she responded politely. ‘Er – the water’s cold.’
Alaister eyed her derisively. ‘Och, ay, is that so? Then the boiler’s gone out again.’
Melanie moved past him. ‘Does it often go out?’ she inquired, deciding that were she in charge of the hotel it would not be allowed to do so.
Alaister sniffed. ‘Och ay, occasionally. Ye’ll no freeze to death. Sean will have seen there’s a good fire in the dining-room.’
‘That’s reassuring,’ commented Melanie, a trifle dryly, beginning to feel decidedly cold.
Alaister made a sound very much like a snort. ‘If ye’d wanted the comforts of a plush hotel, ye shouldna ha’ come to Cairnside,’ he retorted grimly, and going into the bathroom he slammed the door behind him.
Melanie was taken aback by his rudeness. What a disagreeable old man, she thought angrily, marching down the passage to her room again. Surely expecting hot water to wash with in the mornings was not unreasonable?
Back in her room, she rummaged in her cases for warm pants and a chunky sweater and dressed before doing her hair. She had shoulder-length hair which she sometimes put up for evenings, but this morning an Alice band secured it and she was quite satisfied with the result. A glance at the window showed that it was still snowing and collecting her handbag she left her room.
Downstairs it was considerably warmer. The previous evening she had dined in the small dining-room that opened off the hall and she had seen her fellow guests. There were four of them altogether, including Alaister; two elderly women who looked like retired school-mistresses, and another man who seemed a more cheerful individual. But as she had left the dining-room immediately after her meal to make her call to London, she had not learned their names. Nor had she seen either Bothwell or the blonde girl again. The elderly man who tended the fires and seemed general factotum about the place had shown her where the telephone kiosk was situated and the maid who had made up her bed was the same one who had served dinner in the dining-room. Melanie thought they would not need a large staff here. There were so few visitors and even accounting for the evening callers to the bar at the other side of the building they could not make a lot of money.
After making her call she had gone straight to bed, but now thinking of that call, Melanie sighed. Maybe Michael had been right in his protestations about her coming so far alone at this time of the year. She had deliberately refrained from mentioning how nearly she had sought disaster on her way here, but he still expressed his anxieties on her behalf and urged her to return home immediately and abandon the whole idea.
Melanie sighed again. Everything should have gone so smoothly, but as it was … She shrugged. Who knew what might happen? She could get snowed up here, and then what would she do?
A roaring fire was burning in the grate in the dining-room, but the room was empty. The hotel fires burned logs and as well as giving off a tremendous amount of heat they smelt sweetly of pine. She was standing, her back to the fire, feeling wonderfully warm and glowing, when the door opened again to admit Bothwell.
Dressed this morning in knee-length black boots, close-fitting black trousers that moulded the muscles of his thighs, and a laced leather waistcoat over a bronze shirt, he looked powerful and disturbing, and Melanie attempted to return the challenging look he sent in her direction. The idea of being snowed up here with this man was infinitely more frustrating than she cared to admit.
‘Ah! Good morning, Miss Stewart,’ he greeted her, nodding his head politely. ‘I trust you had a good night.’
Melanie moved away from the fire. ‘I slept beautifully, thank you, Mr. Bothwell.’
‘Good. I thought you might. The beds here are noted for their comfort.’
Melanie bit her lip. ‘It was quite a novelty, having a couple of hot water bottles again. I’m afraid I’ve got quite spoilt with electric blankets!’
Now why had she said that? she asked herself impatiently. Last night she had found the warmth of the hot water bottles rather comforting. Maybe it was his complete self-confidence that aroused this streak of perversity inside her. At any event, she need not have troubled herself. Bothwell was superbly at his ease, as he said:
‘It’s a great pity when people forget that their bodies were given them to use and not to abuse. I find electric blankets destroy the body’s natural powers of self-heating.’
Melanie held up her head. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she returned shortly. ‘However, not everyone has your will power, I’m afraid. I’m weak enough to succumb to comfort before anything else.’
He shrugged. ‘That’s your affair, of course. But if that is how you feel, then I should have thought you would have chosen a less – shall we say – demanding time of the year to visit Scotland!’
Melanie coloured. ‘I’m quite prepared to face any kind of conditions,’ she retorted, his cool insolence getting under her skin in spite of her efforts to remain calm.
‘Indeed?’ He drew out a case of small cigars and placed one between his lips. Before flicking his lighter he said: ‘Do you mind?’ and at her abrupt shake of her head he lit the cigar and inhaled deeply. ‘I’m glad you feel like that, Miss Stewart,’ he continued smoothly, ‘because it seems that you may have to share our hospitality for slightly longer than you had originally intended.’
Melanie stared at him. ‘Why?’
He studied the tip of his cigar. ‘Weather conditions in this area are unpredictable. Unless you intend to leave soon, you may not be able to leave at all.’
Melanie moved impatiently. ‘I can’t leave until—’ She halted abruptly. ‘Is there any chance of getting my car?’
He half smiled. ‘I very much doubt it.’
Melanie heaved a sigh, suppressing a faint sense of panic that ensued at the knowledge that she might well become an unwilling prisoner here. ‘I see. Well, we shall just have to make the best of it, shan’t we?’ Her eyes held his for a long moment before falling before that gaze.
‘My dear Miss Stewart, if you are prepared to make the best of it, who am I to complain?’
‘I shouldn’t like to put you out,’ she retorted, stung by his indifference.
‘You will not put me out, rest assured, Miss Stewart. I am perfectly used to the vagaries of your sex! If it amuses you to drive several hundred miles to stay at an hotel in the heart of the Highlands in these conditions, that is your affair!’
Melanie’s colour deepened. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said sharply.
He smiled at her agitation. ‘All will be revealed in time, no doubt,’ he remarked dryly. ‘Until then – you must excuse me!’
He turned to go when she called him back. ‘Mr. Bothwell!’
‘Yes?’ He turned, his expression sardonic.
Melanie straightened her shoulders. ‘Perhaps you will let me know when I may take a bath,’ she said scathingly.
Bothwell’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Ah, yes, of course, Miss Stewart. My apologies! The boiler died on us last night. However, it is going now and if you would like to take a bath after breakfast …’ He spread a hand expressively.
Melanie nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘I gather your brave protestations of being ready to face any hazard do not encompass cold baths!’ he remarked dryly, and went out of the room before she could think of any scornful reply.
Melanie was still standing, biting her lips grimly, when the door opened again and the two elderly women came in. They looked across at her speculatively and deciding it was up to her to attempt to make contact, Melanie smiled and said: ‘Good morning! Isn’t the weather appalling!’
One of the two women returned her greeting while the other said: ‘We’re used to these conditions. We live here, you see.’
Melanie raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh! Do you?’
‘Yes.’ That was the other woman. ‘My sister and I retired several years ago and as we’ve often holidayed in this part of Caledonia, we thought it would be rather a pleasant place to retire to.’
‘I see,’ Melanie nodded. ‘I expect you prefer it when it’s a little warmer, though, don’t you?’
The two women exchanged glances. ‘Oh, we like it all the year round,’ one of them volunteered. ‘Winters here are like they used to be. Plenty of snow, and log fires, and roasting chestnuts …’
‘… and lots of berries on the holly,’ put in the other. ‘Are you staying here over Christmas, Miss – Miss—’
‘Stewart,’ supplied Melanie automatically. ‘Melanie Stewart.’
The two women exchanged glances again, and then one of them said: ‘We’re called Sullivan; Jane and Elizabeth Sullivan.’
‘How do you do?’ Melanie shook hands with them politely when it became obvious that it was expected of her. ‘But no, I’m not expecting to stay over Christmas. I have to be back in London in a little under a week. I have a job there, you see.’
‘Oh?’ Elizabeth Sullivan looked expectant. ‘What kind of a job do you do, Miss Stewart?’
Melanie shrugged. ‘Actually I illustrate children’s books.’
‘Really?’ the sisters were obviously intrigued. ‘How interesting!’
Melanie smiled. ‘Yes, it is rather. I enjoy it, anyway. What I really want to do, though, is write the stories, too. And illustrate them myself, naturally.’
‘Naturally.’ The two women were clearly impressed. ‘And why have you come to Cairnside, Miss Stewart?’ asked Jane Sullivan. ‘Are you researching material?’
Melanie sighed. Was everyone here so inquisitive, or was it simply a case of friendly interest? Either way, she had either to answer their question or snub them as she had attempted to snub Bothwell.
Deciding she could not in all decency ignore their query, Melanie said carefully: ‘I – I’ve come to see a house near here. Monkshood.’
‘Monkshood!’ The two sisters looked at one another again. Then Elizabeth frowned. ‘Would that be the house belonging to the late Angus Cairney?’
Melanie’s eyes brightened. ‘Why yes, that’s right. Do you know it?’
Elizabeth shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘I know of it, yes,’ she amended slowly. She looked at Jane for support. ‘You know the house, too, don’t you, Jane?’
Jane Sullivan fumbled with her handbag. ‘Och, it’s that ugly old place near the village, isn’t it?’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘Of course.’ She looked back at Melanie. ‘But what would you be wanting with such a monstrosity? Surely you’re not thinking of buying the old place!’
Melanie warmed her hands at the blaze. ‘No,’ she said, honestly. ‘No, I’m not thinking of buying it, I just want to see it, that’s all.’
‘And you’ve come all this way just to see Monkshood!’ exclaimed Elizabeth in horror. ‘In the depths of winter!’
Melanie was growing a little tired of this catechism. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘Perhaps you could tell me how to get there?’
But just at that moment the dining-room door opened again to admit the man called Alaister, and the two elderly ladies wished him a smiling ‘Good morning’ before taking their seats at a table for two.
Melanie sighed and walked across to her own table laid for one. Her question would have to wait. Besides, there was no hurry. It was still snowing and looked as though it was likely to continue to do so for some considerable time.
The meal, like the delicious dinner she had consumed the night before, was very enjoyable. There were Scottish kippers on the menu, as well as the most conventional kinds of breakfast foods, and Melanie ate well, deciding she might as well linger over the meal to fill in some time. By the time she left the dining-room, the others had gone and she decided to take a look round the hotel.
As well as the reception hall and dining-room there was a small lounge complete with a television, which somehow seemed out of place here. There was the public bar, and a bar lounge adjoining, but the remainder of the rooms were marked private and were obviously used by the landlord and his family. The blonde girl was at the reception desk again as Melanie passed through the hall on her way upstairs, and on impulse she approached her and said: ‘Did you telephone the garage in Rossmore for me?’
The girl looked up. ‘No, miss, but I don’t hold out much hope in these conditions. It’s only a small garage, you understand, hardly a breakdown station.’
‘But surely there’s somewhere in the area capable of towing my car in,’ Melanie exclaimed in surprise.
The girl shrugged. ‘At this time of the year they’re pretty well snowed under, if you’ll pardon the expression, by emergency calls. I don’t think towing your car down to Cairnside could be classed as an emergency, do you?’
Melanie compressed her lips. ‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly.
The girl smiled rather sympathetically, but Melanie was in no mood to appreciate it and she turned away abruptly, only to be halted again as the girl offered:
‘I can ring the garage in Newtoncross, if you like.’
Melanie turned back. ‘Is that near here?’
‘Not exactly. But it is the nearest town of any size and there might be someone there who can help you.’
‘Very well. Thank you.’ Melanie accepted the offer rather ungraciously and then made her way up to her room. Now that the heating was working again, the room was warm and comfortable, and as her bed had been made Melanie carried the basket chair near the bed to the window and seated herself in it looking out somewhat resignedly. If Michael knew the weather was so unpredictable he would insist on her leaving right away and returning to London. But, she asked herself, how could she achieve such a thing even if she wanted to? Her car was lost and abandoned, until someone chose to dig it out, and Cairnside was not at all what she had expected.
Back in London it had all seemed so simple, childishly simple! She would drive up here to the hotel the solicitors had mentioned vaguely and take her first look at Monkshood. But in London the weather had been temperate, with only frosts to contend with, and occasional squalls of rain. No one had prepared her for such extremes as these, and even now she found it difficult to believe that it could last much longer. To return to London without even seeing the house would be too galling. Michael, she knew, would fall over backwards trying to appear sympathetic, when actually he would be feeling delighted that she had proved yet again that she could not manage anything without him. Maybe it was because she had no parents that he felt such a strong protective urge towards her, but whatever it was it became a little overbearing at times and that was why Melanie was determined to succeed in this venture, despite Bothwell’s sarcasm and the deplorable conditions.
She got up from her chair and paced restlessly about the room. What was one supposed to do here when the weather was like this? One simply could not stay in one’s bedroom all day!
She paused by the window and looked out. Her room overlooked the forecourt of the hotel and she could see the man who had shown her where the phone was the night before busily shovelling snow. Maybe she could go out for a walk after all. If she wrapped up warmly and put on her wellingtons she could hardly come to any harm, not if she stuck to the road. She could possibly make her way to the village and inquire the whereabouts of Monkshood, without arousing any further speculation in the hotel.
The decision made, she felt much more cheerful, and she turned to her suitcases eagerly. Luckily she had brought wellingtons with her in case of wet weather, but judging by the conditions it would be some weeks before this area became warm enough to invite rain. She half smiled to herself. Until now, she had never encountered conditions like these.
A few minutes later, warmly clad in her sheepskin coat and a fur hat, mittens muffling her hands and wellingtons hugging her slender legs, she went downstairs. The hall was deserted apart from a Border collie who was showing more interest in a meaty bone than anything else and Melanie crossed to the outer door.
Both the door leading into the lobby and the door to the yard were heavy to swing open, but she managed it and emerged into a white world so cold it took her breath away. In the hotel, it had seemed almost inviting looking out on the snow-covered yard, but now that she was actually out here Melanie had second thoughts. She looked about her, blinking in the flurries of snow that caught on her long lashes and invaded her nose and mouth, but there was no one with whom to pass the time of day. The man who earlier had been shovelling snow had apparently disappeared round the back of the hotel and only the path he had cleared was evidence of his presence.
Sighing, Melanie thrust her hands into her pockets and hesitated, stamping her feet indecisively. She knew the direction of the village, but wasn’t she being a little foolhardy attempting to walk there in this?
She looked round at the hotel. Its mellowed walls were smudged with clinging flakes, while its eaves were laden with more snow. It looked somehow warm and comfortable and inviting and Melanie was tempted to abandon her ideas altogether. But the thought of spending the whole day in the hotel, wasting time, was more than she could bear, and with determination she set off.
It wasn’t so bad, actually. The snow covering the ground had taken away the glassiness and she could walk quite briskly and keep warm. The road was quite clearly defined in daylight, the tracks of the one or two vehicles which had passed this way providing a trail, and Melanie’s spirits lifted. This was better than sitting in the hotel, hugging the fire, and listening to the click of the Misses Sullivans’ knitting needles. Which was perhaps a little unkind, she conceded silently to herself, as she did not really know whether they knitted or not.
Beyond a curve in the road, she came upon a snow-covered gateway, and something made her stop and stare beyond the gate to the house at the head of a tree-lined drive. The whole place looked neglected, even in its blanket of snow, and she hesitated for a moment before stepping across the grass to the gate itself.
She looked up the drive speculatively. The house was empty, certainly, and it backed the mist-shrouded mountains as did the hotel. And if she was not mistaken, the village was not much further now. She frowned. Jane Sullivan had said it was near the village, so this could conceivably be Monkshood.
Without waiting to consider her actions, she pushed open the gate and walked slowly up the drive. The keys the solicitors had given her in Fort William were lying in her handbag at the hotel, so she would not be able to go inside, but she could not resist taking a look round and maybe peeping through the windows.
It was certainly an ugly old place, as Jane Sullivan had said. Not even the frosting of snow could improve upon its square windows and heavy eaves, and the straggling creepers that clung grimly to its walls gave it a rather ominous appearance.
To her disappointment the front windows were shuttered downstairs and she walked disconsolately round the back, following what appeared to be a path through straggling gardens interspersed with pine trees.
To her astonishment, there were footprints at the back of the house – huge footprints that laced and interlaced the area just outside the back door. Some had obviously been made some days ago, as these were already beginning to disappear under more layers of snow, but some seemed to have been freshly made.
She frowned. Could she possibly have made a mistake? Was this not Monkshood after all? If so, she was trespassing on someone else’s property.
She shook her head in bewilderment. Cairnside was such a sparsely habited area it seemed incredible that there could be two houses possessing the same characteristics and both in such an obvious state of neglect. She had been prepared for neglect, the solicitors had warned her of that, but they had also said that basically the house was sound and that was why she wanted to see it for herself.
The silence all around the house was almost deafening. Even the snow fell silently, and Melanie felt a sense of unease assail her. What if she was right? What if this was Monkshood and someone was using it as a sleeping place? After all, there had been no footprints at the front of the house, so whoever it was wanted to remain anonymous, it would seem.
She shivered momentarily. There were footprints at the front now. Her footprints! And anyone looking out of an upper floor window would see them. A desire to run assailed her, and only the memory of Michael’s smiling contention that she would never be able to manage alone caused her to still her racing pulses. She was being melodramatic, allowing the silence to get the better of her. This was her house, after all, and if anyone was inside, they would jolly well have to shift themselves.
Stepping forward, she tried the handle of the back door. To her astonishment, it gave under her fingers and she pushed it open incredulously.
The door fell back to reveal a kitchen, stark and cold. There was a range of the like Melanie had never seen before, which appeared to provide cooking as well as heating facilities, a scrubbed kitchen table, somewhat mildewed now with dampness, and several plain wooden chairs.
She hesitated on the threshold, listening, but there were no sounds. It seemed that whoever was using the place was not at home at the moment. She stepped inside, but refrained from closing the door behind her – just in case!
Resisting the impulse to walk on tiptoe, she crossed the kitchen and opened the door at its farthest side. This led into a passage which, although it was gloomy, could be seen to lead directly through the house to the front door. At the end of the passage, near the front door, stairs could be seen running up, and there were several doors opening from the passage itself.
Melanie grew a little more confident. There was no sign here of anyone’s habitation, and she threw open the door opposite the kitchen door.
This appeared to be the dining-room. There was a table, heavily covered with dust, several chairs, and an antique dresser loaded with grimy plates and cups.
Another door revealed a kind of study, with books against the walls, and a desk that would do marvellously for her illustration work. Yet another room appeared to be the lounge, with an old suite and several odd chairs and tables.
The whole house, it would appear, if the upstairs was the same, was furnished after a fashion, and Melanie thought that a good spring-cleaning was what was needed. Indeed, her spirits rose higher, if she was stranded in Cairnside for any length of time, she might be able to accomplish this herself.
She was so absorbed with her exciting reasoning, that she did not hear footsteps descending the threadbare carpet on the stairs, nor hear a man approach the doorway of the lounge to stand regarding her with obvious astonishment, until a deep voice said:
‘Do you mind telling me what the hell you’re doing in here?’
Melanie almost collapsed, so great was the shock, and she swung round to face Sean Bothwell.
‘You!’ she exclaimed, in disbelief. ‘It was your footsteps I saw outside!’
‘It was,’ he agreed uncompromisingly, his expression grim. ‘But you haven’t answered my question. I asked you what you thought you were doing here!’
Melanie quivered a little under that penetrating stare. ‘I – I might ask you the same question,’ she retorted.
Bothwell’s eyes narrowed. ‘I asked the question first,’ he said, with harsh insistence in his voice.
Melanie swallowed hard. ‘Very well, then. I – I own this house.’ She put a hand to her lips. ‘This is – Monkshood, isn’t it?’
There was a moment when she thought she had been mistaken after all; when she began to think frantically that she had made some terrible mistake, and had indeed invaded someone else’s private property.
And then he said, slowly and clearly: ‘Yes, Miss Stewart, this is Monkshood. But you are not the owner. I am!’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_ccf43531-396d-583b-8e7e-a41db18f4153)
MELANIE was speechless for a moment and she stood staring helplessly at Bothwell as though he were some kind of malignant spirit. Then, gathering her scattered senses, she said carefully:
‘I think there’s been some mistake, Mr. Bothwell. Angus Cairney was my mother’s cousin. She was his only relative, and as she is dead, Monkshood was left to me.’
Bothwell’s light eyes were veiled by the long black lashes that were the only feminine thing about an otherwise harshly masculine face. The long sideburns that grew down to his jawline accentuated the darkness of his features and added to his air of command. In different clothes he would have fitted well into a more primitive era of history, and Melanie had the distinct impression that even today Sean Bothwell was a law unto himself.
‘I see,’ he said now. ‘And who told you Monkshood was yours?’
‘Why – why, the solicitors, of course.’
‘What solicitors?’ His tone demanded no prevarication on her part and she found herself saying:
‘McDougall and Price, naturally.’
‘Ah!’ He ran a hand down his cheek thoughtfully. ‘They contacted you in London?’
‘My solicitors, yes.’
Melanie stiffened. She was allowing her own surprise at finding him here to weaken her resolve, and he was simply using her to gain whatever information he could get. Straightening her shoulders, she said:
‘And now perhaps you’ll tell me why you should imagine Monkshood belongs to you?’
Bothwell turned those light eyes upon her and she moved a little uncomfortably. She would not admit to being afraid of him exactly, but he did disturb her in a way no man had hitherto disturbed her. It was his attitude; she could not be certain what he might say or do next, and it was most disconcerting. She had always found men reasonably easy to handle, but Sean Bothwell was different somehow.
‘Angus Cairney was my father,’ he said now, his eyes narrowed and speculative.
Melanie fell back a step. ‘What?’ She shook her head helplessly. ‘But – but the solicitors! They didn’t even know he was married!’
Sean Bothwell gave her a derisive stare. ‘He wasn’t,’ he said deliberately.
Melanie felt the hot colour surge up her cheeks at his words and she twisted her fingers together nervously. She was sure he was enjoying her discomfiture, but that didn’t prevent her feeling of mortification. Compressing her lips, she tried desperately to find something to say, but his statement was irrefutable.
As though relenting a little, Bothwell took his eyes from her confusion and glanced round the room. Taking out his case, he put a cigar between his lips and lit it before walking across to the windows. They were shuttered here, as in all the downstairs rooms, but it was possible to see through the slats. He stared out broodingly for a while, giving her time to collect herself, and Melanie was somewhat relieved. Even so, she dreaded the moment when he would turn and their conversation would have to continue.
Eventually he moved away from the window and she felt his eyes flicker over her again. Melanie felt an awful sense of inadequacy assail her, and wished for the first time that she had waited for Michael to accompany her to Cairnside. Surely this situation could never have happened if he had been with her. He would have insisted on her making proper inquiries and making an official visit here to look round. He would never have countenanced an impulsive invasion into someone’s privacy. And yet she had not known what old emotions she was rekindling when she pushed open the door of Monkshood.
‘Well?’ he said finally, spreading his hand expressively. ‘What do you intend to do with it?’
Melanie stared at him, pressing her lips together to prevent them from trembling. ‘I – I – oh, I don’t know,’ she said, bending her head. ‘I – I no longer feel I have any right to the place!’
His eyes narrowed chillingly. ‘Oh, come now, Miss Stewart! Spare me the platitudes! I’m quite aware that I’ve shocked your little system to the core, but don’t allow it to colour your judgment. I’m sure McDougall and Price would agree with me in that at least!’
Melanie bit her lip. ‘Your – your father made a will—’
‘I guessed that. I would imagine it was made some time ago, however.’
‘Yes.’ Melanie looked away from him, unable to suffer that bleak appraisal. ‘Perhaps he left a second—’
Bothwell shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘He had probably forgotten he had made the first. He was an old man, Miss Stewart, not much concerned with worldly matters.’
Melanie shook her head. ‘My mother only mentioned him a couple of times. I never met him.’
‘Your mother must have been his only relative. He never married.’
‘But your mother—’ began Melanie impulsively, only to halt uncertainly as his expression darkened.
‘My mother was already married – to someone else,’ he advised her harshly. ‘I do not think the details of my conception need concern you.’
Melanie turned away. ‘I feel terrible …’
‘Why should you?’ His voice was cold. ‘We cannot be held responsible for the actions of others.’ He walked towards the door, drawing on fur-lined leather gloves. ‘I’ll leave you to investigate your property. Just one point, when you decide to sell the place, I’d like first refusal.’
‘Oh, please,’ Melanie turned to him again, holding out her hands in a gesture almost of supplication. ‘Please, don’t go. I – well – I wish you would stay.’
His eyes surveyed her broodingly. ‘Why?’
Melanie loosened her fur hat, taking it off and allowing her hair to swing in a dark silky curtain against her flushed cheeks. ‘We – we’re almost related, aren’t we? Surely we can be friends. I’d like your advice.’
Bothwell leaned indolently against the door post. ‘You do not strike me as the kind of woman who would take advice from anyone,’ he observed dryly.
Melanie quelled her indignation. ‘Why do you say that?’
He frowned. ‘Surely there was someone back home who advised you not to come to Cairnside at this time of the year, wasn’t there? You’re wearing an engagement ring – didn’t your fiancé express any doubts on your behalf, or is the ring merely a decoration, designed to arouse speculation?’
Melanie looked down at the square-cut diamond Michael had bought her. She was so used to wearing it, she had not thought he would notice. ‘I am engaged, yes,’ she said slowly. ‘And my fiancé did suggest that I should wait until the spring to come here, but surely you can understand my anxieties about a house standing empty all winter?’
Bothwell straightened. ‘You could have had someone look after it for you. The solicitors would no doubt have been pleased to arrange it.’
Melanie compressed her lips. ‘I didn’t think of it,’ she replied.
Bothwell shook his head. ‘Exactly why did you want to come here yourself?’
Melanie sighed. ‘My reasons wouldn’t stand up to your cold-blooded assessment of the situation,’ she answered impatiently.
Bothwell looked wryly at her. ‘Try me!’
Melanie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I wante4 to see the house because I’ve never owned a house before. I’ve never even lived in a house, so far as I can remember. We always had flats or apartments, and I suppose foolishly I thought I might make a home here.’
‘I see.’ Bothwell drew deeply on his cigar. ‘And your fiancé? Is he agreeable to moving north?’
Melanie made an involuntary gesture. ‘I – I haven’t actually discussed it with him yet. He’s a solicitor – in London.’
‘Then perhaps you should,’ Bothwell observed dryly.
Melanie’s colour deepened again. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’
‘Why? To discuss it with your fiancé?’
‘No, you know what I mean. For wanting to keep the house?’
Bothwell threw the butt of his cigar into the empty fire grate. ‘If I say yes, my reasons are bound to be biased, aren’t they?’
Melanie shrugged. ‘In the circumstances, I think you should tell me what you think.’
‘Why?’
Melanie spread her hands expressively. ‘The house is much more yours than mine!’
‘Oh, no, Miss Stewart. It’s your house.’
Melanie stared at him helplessly. ‘You’re deliberately misunderstanding me,’ she accused him. ‘Why did you want the house anyway?’
Bothwell shrugged. ‘To live in – what else?’
Melanie sighed. ‘If I were a man, we could perhaps have come to some compromise—’
‘If you were a man the situation would not arise. You would simply sell the place and not involve yourself in a lot of sentimental nonsense about making a home—’
‘How dare you!’ Melanie stared at him angrily. ‘If I want to get away from London, surely that’s my affair!’
Bothwell’s light eyes were coldly contemptuous. ‘If you want to get away from London so badly, perhaps you should examine your motives more closely,’ he said. ‘It may not be just London, after all!’
‘What do you mean?’
Bothwell turned to the door. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have the time to stand here arguing with you all morning, Miss Stewart. Some of us have jobs to do. Excuse me!’ And with that he turned and strode away down the passage.
After he had gone, Melanie stood for a few moments heaving a shaking breath. Always, after a confrontation with him, she felt completely enervated.
However, after a few minutes she gathered her composure and looked about her again. It was no use allowing his bitterness to influence her judgment, and besides, it was by no means certain that she would in fact keep the house. Michael would have to approve and somehow she could not see him subjecting himself to these kind of conditions in winter without a great deal of inducement …
But for herself, the location was perfect. There was so much freedom and life and animal activity here and it would be a perfect place to write the kind of books she wanted to write.
Upstairs was very similar to downstairs, she found as she continued her explorations. The house was furnished, but if she intended living here, she would need to make a lot of changes. She paused to wonder why Bothwell had been in the house, and then shook her head. After all, he had presumed the house to be his, so why shouldn’t he be here?
It was after twelve-thirty as she left Monkshood to return to the hotel for lunch, and still snowing as heavily as ever. To her surprise she found a bunch of keys lying on the kitchen table, and guessed these were the keys Bothwell had used to let himself in and out. Conversely, she wished he had kept the keys, somehow. It seemed so final just handing them over like that. She could not suppress the feeling of guilt that assailed her in that moment.
Trudging up the road to the hotel she was surprised to see a sleek sports car parked in front, its gleaming paint-work liberally splashed with slush. It looked so incongruous, somehow, beside the rather workmanlike bulk of the Range-Rover, and she wondered who it belonged to. Another guest, perhaps?
Lunch was at one, so she had time to go upstairs and wash her face and shed her outdoor clothes before the meal. There was no one in the reception hall although voices could be heard from the bar, so perhaps whoever it was was just having a drink.
When she came downstairs again, she went straight into the dining-room and discovered the Sullivan sisters seated by the fire talking to the other elderly man who was staying at the hotel. They greeted her in quite a friendly fashion, and then introduced her to the other guest. His name was Ian Macdonald and he asked her where she had been to get such colour in her cheeks.
Deciding she might as well make a clean breast of it, Melanie said: ‘Actually, I went to see Monkshood.’ She smiled at Jane Sullivan. ‘You had said it was near the village, and I found it easily.’
‘Oh, did you?’ Jane Sullivan raised her eyebrows with assumed indifference.
‘Monkshood!’ Ian Macdonald frowned. ‘What would you be wanting with that old place? Is it up for sale, after all? Sean didn’t say anything about selling!’
Melanie intercepted a look that Elizabeth Sullivan cast in his direction with meaningful intensity, but Ian Macdonald was not to be silenced. ‘Now then, Lizzie,’ he declared loudly, ‘everyone knows Sean owns Monkshood. Sure and wasn’t it from old Angus himself that he inherited his cussedness?’
Melanie bent her head. Confronted by such an argument, she could not say that Monkshood belonged to her. Instead she turned with some relief as the young maid came in with the first trays of lunch, and everyone was forced to take their seats at their tables. Alaister came in after the maid, and he joined Ian Macdonald at his table, and as the two Sullivan sisters were talking together Melanie was relieved of the necessity of saying anything more.
The meal was delicious. Game soup was followed by a mouth-watering steak and kidney pie, and to complete the meal there was apple tart and custard. The food might be unimaginative, thought Melanie, replete, but at least it was beautifully served, and extremely appetizing. She felt sure that several weeks here would add several pounds to her figure which she could do without.
After the meal, the older guests retired to their rooms, and Melanie carried her second cup of coffee to the seat by the fire, smiling at the maid who came to clear the tables.
Now that she had seen the house and made her own assessment of it, there was nothing to keep her in Cairnside. She could return to London as, she had originally planned. Bothwell’s suggestion that she could find somebody to look after the upkeep of the building had solved her most immediate problems and apart from the difficulty of getting her car there was nothing to prevent her from leaving. Of course, she could return to London by train and send for her car later, when the weather improved, but somehow she was loath to do that. Maybe in a couple of days she would be able to find a garage willing to dig it out for her, and in the meantime she could content herself by taking measurements for curtains and carpets, etc.
She sighed, looking at the snow that was still falling heavily beyond the windows of the dining-room. If Michael knew of her predicament, he would demand that she return by train immediately, but she was in no hurry to leave just yet. Apart from her clashes with Bothwell, she was quite enjoying herself here, and certainly the snow was a novelty. Why should she rush back to town until she was absolutely ready to do so?
Suddenly there was the sound of voices, and the dining-room door opened to admit Bothwell himself and a girl who Melanie had not seen before. The girl was as tall as Melanie, but much slimmer, so that the bones of her face were almost gauntly visible. Her hair was Scandinavian fair, and accentuated the pallor of her skin, and although she was not unattractive, her clothes were so lacking in elegance that she looked positively ungainly. She was clinging to Bothwell’s arm, and looking up into his face adoringly, and Melanie felt uncomfortably aware that she should not have witnessed this scene. This awareness was heightened when Bothwell himself saw her and his cold light eyes bored chillingly into hers. Melanie was tempted to rise and leave them, but to do so would automatically draw attention to herself, so she curled up a little more closely in her chair, tucking her legs beneath her and returned her gaze to the leaping flames from the logs in the grate.
Bothwell released himself from the girl’s clinging grasp and taking her hand instead said: ‘Jennie, I’d like you to meet a new visitor to the Black Bull: Miss Stewart!’
Now Melanie was forced to turn and acknowledge them, and she got reluctantly to her feet, intensely aware of Bothwell’s appraising stare. She had not bothered to change the trousers and sweater she had been wearing earlier, but under his gaze she felt stripped of all composure.
‘How do you do?’ the girl spoke suddenly, taking Melanie’s hand warmly. ‘I’m Jennifer Craig.’
Melanie smiled a greeting and Jennifer went on casually: ‘I live quite near here, beyond the village at the head of the loch. Have you come to stay long?’
Melanie was disconcerted by the girl’s frankness, and she found herself saying: ‘I don’t expect so. Unless the weather conditions force me to do so.’
Jennifer chuckled. ‘Yes, it is pretty dreadful, isn’t it? I was just suggesting to Sean that we should arrange a skating party if the loch ices over. But we’re used to the weather, of course, aren’t we, Sean?’
‘Indeed we are,’ he confirmed dryly, looking not at Melanie now but at Jennifer, his expression so tender in its gentleness that a strange tightness came to Melanie’s throat. Certainly, he would never look at her in that way, she thought, and then chided herself for thinking such thoughts.
‘Are you on holiday, Miss Stewart?’ Jennifer was asking now.
Melanie bit her lip. ‘Not exactly,’ she temporized.
‘Miss Stewart has come to see Monkshood,’ put in Bothwell, his gaze flicking coolly to Melanie again.
‘Monkshood?’ Jennifer was obviously surprised. ‘Are you interested in old buildings, Miss Stewart?’
Before Melanie could think of some suitable reply, Bothwell spoke again, his voice curt and chilling. ‘Miss Stewart is the new owner of Monkshood,’ he informed her.
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