The Dream Catcher (11 page)

He saw how her pulse throbbed at the base of her throat, felt the rapid rise and fall of her chest against him. The urge to lay his lips there and taste her skin was sudden and powerful, irresistible. Blood started hammering, pulsing inside him, and his body grew hard.

He tore his gaze away from her soft white skin, but didn't release his grip.

‘I'm sorry you feel that way, sweetheart,' he said, his voice a harsh whisper, ‘but you don't have a choice. You will stay at the Lodge as long as I say so.'

‘I know you're planning to keep me hostage,' she retorted. ‘And I won't let you. I'm going back to the clipper.'

‘Damn it, woman, can you not see that the whole village is against you and that you need my protection? You should count yourself lucky you got out of the Old Norse's Inn with only a pint of beer thrown in your face.'

‘I'm not afraid of your barbarian friends and I'll take my chances without you.' She tried to break free but he only pulled her closer.

‘I did warn you this afternoon that I'd toss you over my shoulder, and that's exactly what I'm going to do now if you don't come with me.'

‘Never!'

‘Then you leave me no choice.'

He lifted her up and flung her over his shoulder. Her fancy little shoes fell on the cobbles. Oblivious to her screams of rage and the kicks she aimed at his stomach and groin, he started towards the stables where he'd left Shadow.

A crowd of men stood in the door of the Old Norse's Inn as he walked past, carrying a screaming, gesticulating Rose. Their whistles, rude expletives and salacious encouragements filled the night and echoed across the square.

‘Is everything all right, McGunn, or do you need a hand?' MacBoyd called from the doorway. His bulky frame prevented the men getting out and forced them to peer into the street over his shoulders.

‘I'm fine.' Bruce gritted his teeth but didn't slow his pace. ‘I'm going home. Keep an eye out for me around here, will you? And be careful.'

‘You're the one who should be careful. The woman is as wriggly as a bag of frogs! At least she'll keep your bed warm tonight again.' MacBoyd burst out laughing.

Behind him, Rose let out a strangled cry, pummelled his back with her fists and kicked him with renewed vigour.

‘Put me down, right now, you hairy brute. You have the manners of a mountain macaque. You look like one. You even smell like one!' she shrieked.

Now why did that make him smile?

‘You certainly know an awful lot about monkeys for a young lady,' he said, holding her more tightly as he walked into the inn's stables. ‘I will put you down if you promise to do exactly as I say.'

‘I hate you! I hate this place!' She wriggled so much his arm ached.

‘Well, that's too bad, sweetheart. Now listen, if you don't give me your word that you'll shut up and behave, I shall throw you across Shadow to ride back to the Lodge. I wonder what your dandy of a husband will think when he hears about his beer-soaked bride being paraded bottom up on my horse in front of the whole village.' He paused. ‘Somehow I don't think he'll be impressed. If there's a stickler for etiquette and good manners, it's him.'

She stopped moving.

‘So, what's it to be?'

‘I will… I will do as you say.' Her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear.

He eased her off his shoulder and kept his arm around her slim waist as she slid down along his body, awakening as she did so hundreds of warm, tingling, tormenting sensations. She kept her eyes down but in the glow of the torches lighting the stables, he saw tears pearl at the tip of her eyelashes, and roll slowly down her cheeks.

Guilt stabbed at his heart. Damn. He'd made the woman cry. Again. He stood in front of her feeling big and clumsy. He could deal with blows and insults, but he had no idea what to do about a woman's tears. He patted his coat pocket and was about to produce his crumpled handkerchief once more when the stable boy appeared behind him, leading Shadow by the bridle.

‘Here's your horse, my laird,' the lad announced.

With a sigh of relief, Bruce grabbed hold of the bridle and stroked Shadow's neck before tossing the lad a coin.

‘I'll help you up,' he told Rose and held out his hand.

She didn't answer, didn't even look at him as she put her hand in his and climbed onto the horse. He mounted behind her, seized the reins and started on the road to the Lodge. Although he couldn't see her face, he knew she was crying. Her body shook with silent sobs all the way to the Lodge.

He gripped the reins more tightly, and set his jaw hard. Knowing he was doing the right thing by his people and his estate, didn't make him feel any better. Far from it.

Chapter Eight

Tears spilled onto her cheeks. She rubbed them off with the back of her hand. She wouldn't humiliate herself any further by letting McGunn see her cry. How she wished the
Sea Eagle
had never docked at Wrath and she'd never set foot in that horrid, desolate place. How she wished she'd never met
him
!

It was
his
fault she made a spectacle of herself tonight,
his
fault she'd shouted and ranted and fought like a tavern girl. Now her hair and cloak reeked of beer, she'd lost her slippers and her feet were like blocks of ice. Most of all, she was ashamed, so ashamed she wanted to curl inside a very small, very dark place and never come out again.

They rode fast in the night, the horse's hooves ringing on the frozen track and its breath steaming. Soon the Lodge's silhouette loomed closer. More than ever, it looked like an impregnable fortress – her prison.

As soon as they rode into the courtyard, Lord McGunn ordered one of the men standing guard to stable Shadow. He jumped down and reached out for her.

‘I'll carry you.'

‘You carried me enough for one night,' she retorted, trying to summon what was left of her dignity. ‘I'll walk.'

‘Don't be silly. You can't walk barefoot.'

Ignoring his hand she slid down from the saddle, pushed past him and started towards the front porch, wincing as her feet touched the rough, frozen ground. He muttered something about stubborn women, scooped her up in his arms and ran up the porch steps.

Even though she went as stiff as a board, this time she didn't utter a sound. She had done enough shouting already. Reluctantly she rested her hands on his shoulders for support as he walked up the front steps, kicked the front door open and strode into the hallway.

A single oil lamp threw grotesque shadows onto the walls and floor. Rose looked up at the staircase shrouded in darkness and shivered. She could feel that presence again – something or someone, reaching out from a very dark, very lonely place.

A tall shadowy figure moved at the top of the staircase, and slowly started going down the steps. With a whimper of alarm Rose linked her arms around Lord McGunn's neck and pressed her body against his.

A faint smile appeared on his lips, and he walked to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Don't be scared, it's only Morag.'

‘Morag? Are you sure?'

Breathing out a sigh of relief but embarrassed he'd seen her so easily flustered, she unlaced her arms from around his neck and put her hands flat on his chest to push him away.

‘I will be all right now, please let me down.'

For once, he did as she asked and she stood on the cold stone flags as the housekeeper came down the stairs.

‘What are you doing still up?' McGunn asked Morag in an uncharacteristically kind voice. ‘You should be in bed.'

‘I was waiting for news. I hope there was no trouble in the village tonight.'

Morag's face was pale and drawn. Her grey hair stuck untidily from under her bonnet and her eyes had a sad, haunted look. She seemed to have aged ten years in the space of one evening.

‘There was no trouble. Well, not too much trouble – not with MacKay and the men anyhow,' he corrected. ‘Lady McRae, however, had a close encounter with a pint of ale. Then we had a… small disagreement, she misplaced her shoes and I had to offer my assistance to carry her across the village square.'

Heat rushed to Rose's cheeks. She opened her mouth to protest, but what could she say? No doubt the story of her outburst would be all over the village by morning. Perhaps she shouldn't have screamed so much. As usual, her temper had got the better of her, like that time not so long ago when she'd hurled a chamber pot at a French Lieutenant from her window at Bou Saada and narrowly avoided being thrown into jail.

She could only hope to catch the mail post the following day and reach Cameron before the gossip did. If Bruce McGunn had one thing right about her husband, it was that he was very proud of his rank and title, and indeed very attached to manners and etiquette.

Morag glanced down at Rose's bare feet.

‘Would you like me to get anything for you, my lady? A hot drink or something to eat? Some hot water for a bath, perhaps?'

Lord McGunn didn't leave Rose the chance to answer. He put his hand on Morag's shoulder, gave a light squeeze.

‘I'll take care of Lady McRae. Now, go to bed and have a rest,' he said kindly.

There was however no trace of kindness in his eyes or his voice when he turned to her.

‘Follow me to the drawing room now. We need to talk.'

His abrupt tone irked her.

‘Do you wish to apologise?'

‘Apologise, what the hell for?'

‘For making a fool of me in front of the whole village, of course.'

‘You did that all on your own, sweetheart,' he replied with a mean smile. ‘All you had to do was obey me without causing a fuss.'

‘Obey you?' She was about to say that the only man she'd ever obeyed was her father, but she paused. She wasn't going to let him rile her, not anymore.

‘You may keep me a prisoner in your castle, Lord McGunn, but I don't have to obey you, talk to you or even listen to you if I don't want to. Now if you'll excuse me, I am cold and filthy, and I want to wash that dreadful stink of beer off.'

As she started up the stairs his deep voice stopped her in her tracks.

‘I thought you wanted me to find out what happened to your friend – Malika.'

All her anger melted away at once. Never mind her dirty hair, the reek of beer on her clothes, her wounded pride and feet turning blue. Malika was dead. She'd never again talk about her dreams, laugh or dance with her in the garden at Bou Saada. She would never stroll up and down the winding streets of the Algiers Kasbah or sit in the shade of palm trees to stare at the turquoise blue sea sparkling under the midday sun.

Her shoulders sagged, and in silence she followed Bruce McGunn along long, draughty corridors to the drawing room. Here, too, a solitary oil lamp was lit, which together with the light of the dying fire, bathed the room in a weak golden glow that reflected onto the blade of the claymore on the wall.

‘Please take a seat.' He gestured to an armchair facing the fireplace.

She sat down and folded her cold feet under her.

‘What can you tell me about Malika?'

He walked to a sideboard and poured two tumblers of whisky.

Rose took a deep breath. ‘Her name was Malika Jahal. Her parents died when she was little and she was brought up by an aunt who trained her to be a dancing girl from a very young age and had her perform in market squares and taverns. She must have been about ten when my mother saw her dance one day on the market square at Bou Saada and brought her home.'

It was hard to keep her voice steady, to blink the tears away.

‘We grew up as sisters. I taught her French and English. She taught me Arabic, the ways of her people…'

And how to dance like an Ouled Nail
, she finished silently.

‘When was the last time you saw her?'

‘The night before my wedding. We had a disagreement and she stormed out.'

He swung round. ‘A disagreement? What about?'

She sighed. ‘She didn't like me getting married.'

It had been a lot worse than a disagreement. It had been a full-blown row with Malika saying nasty, hurtful lies about Cameron. Lord McGunn however didn't need to know that.

‘Why ever not?'

‘She didn't care much for Cameron,' she answered feebly.

‘A very sensible girl, if you want my opinion.'

She tilted her chin up. ‘Well, I don't.'

He shrugged and handed her a glass. ‘Drink this, it'll warm you up.'

She took a sniff of the drink and pulled a face. ‘No thank you. I don't like whisky.'

‘Sweetheart, you can't be married to a Scot and not drink whisky. But perhaps the taste is too strong for you.'

It sounded like a dare, and she'd never been able to resist a dare.

‘Too strong? Certainly not. Once you've tasted camel milk, you can drink anything!'

She drank a sip and grimaced as the fiery liquor burned her mouth and throat. If only he wasn't watching her with those dark grey eyes of his and a mocking smile on the corner of his mouth, she could tip the glass into that chipped vase on the side table. But he was watching, so she forced another sip down.

‘I have no idea why Malika travelled to Scotland and how she came to be on that beach today. Somehow, I can't help feeling it's my fault.'

She let out a choked sound, and couldn't stop a tear from sliding down her cheek. She drank a long gulp of whisky and this time welcomed the burning trail it left in her throat. It took her mind away from the painful tightness in her chest.

‘Don't blame yourself. You aren't responsible for the woman's death.'

McGunn's voice was flat and devoid of any feeling, his face impassive, and not for the first time she wondered if the man felt anything at all about the two young women found murdered on his land.

‘She must have travelled on the
Sea Lady
with her friends, the dancers Cameron hired.'