Chapter Sixteen

Marc watched McBride’s sports car speed away, so fast it skidded on the bend of the lane. The man was hiding something, and hopefully Luc or Cédric would find out what it was.

After picking up a bottle of Angus’s beer, he went up to the library to collect a couple of books and a folder filled with papers, and took them to the drawing room.

He lit a fire, and uncorked one of Angus’s pine needle ales with a popping sound, like a bottle of champagne. The smell emanating from the bottle, however, was so bitter it made his eyes water. ‘It’s an old Highlands recipe,’ Angus had explained, ‘and just what you need as a pick-me-up, my lad, you’ll see.’ He had leaned closer and winked. ‘It won’t do Roz any harm to drink a wee drop either.’

Marc smiled. So Angus believed his ale could increase his libido … As if he needed help in that respect! Being near Rosalie day in, day out was enough to give any man raised blood pressure, not to mention the dreams that plagued him every night as he tossed and turned in that big bed in the Crimson Room. At times he could almost believe that Isobel’s bed was indeed enchanted.

He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank a swig of beer. Although the taste was sharp, it wasn’t as unpalatable as he’d feared. In fact, he thought after a few more sips, it was rather nice. With the heavy green curtains drawn against the night, and the soothing, almost hypnotic crackling of the flames dancing high in the fireplace, a pleasant torpor soon crept inside him. Stifling a yawn, he relaxed on the sofa. So much for the beer’s special powers. It was more likely to make him fall asleep than give him any lustful urges.

He sighed, and closed his eyes. What was he going to do about Love Taxis? The businessman in him knew exactly that he should already have shut it down. Of course he understood why Rosalie was so keen to keep it going – it was her project. He also had to admit that she more than compensated her lack of business acumen with her warmth, kindness and enthusiasm. It was plain to see how much people loved and respected her. With one smile she lit up a cold, grey morning, made a lonely old woman feel cherished and cared for, and reassured an exhausted, insecure young mother. From a more pragmatic point of view, there was definitely a need for affordable transport in the area as he had seen very few buses in and around Irlwick since he’d been there.

Perhaps he could turn Love Taxis into a social enterprise project and set up a non-profit bus company. He might be able to find ways of subsidising it, with company money and public grants. He could even turn it into a clever marketing ploy to promote the Petersen brand as humane and people-friendly.

Humane? With his and his father’s track record? He let out a derisive sigh, as once again his past rose up before him and the memory of what had happened to Van Bernd flooded his mind. Whatever he did, he would never atone for that tragic mistake.

The idea of half a dozen pink minibuses with the name Love Bus painted on the side and drivers wearing pink uniforms brought a smile back to his face though. It wasn’t a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. He grabbed a pen and a pad, scribbled a few notes and figures down and started working.

One hour later, he nodded with satisfaction as he looked at the spreadsheet on his screen and the notes on his pad. There was more research to carry out, but he already had a rough business proposal. He would put it to Rosalie the following day and ask for her thoughts and suggestions.

Rosalie … What was she doing right now? His pulse beat harder and heat flashed inside him as once again, images of her naked loveliness and the sensations of holding her in his arms swirled back to torment him.

Enough! This was turning into a seriously disturbing obsession.

He finished the beer and grabbed one of McBride’s books at random and opened it and recoiled. Two pairs of dark, beady eyes stared at him from the brittle, yellowed page.

A raven.

He started reading the text aloud. It had been a long time since he’d spoken any Danish and his voice sounded odd at first, but after stumbling on the first few sentences, the words started flowing and before long he was totally absorbed in the tale of Odin, the Raven God, who sent his two pet ravens to fly over the world every morning. Marc remembered how important ravens were in Norse mythology and how often they were depicted on shields, banners, helmets, and runestones.

There were many runestones on his grandfather’s land – his land now, even if he rented it out – but most of them were broken, buried and long forgotten. One however had stood near the gateway to the Petersen farm, a proud reminder of the family’s more glorious past. Even though it was worn, one could still see the ravens carved on its surface – a dozen small birds flying around a much larger one, its fierce claws on display and wings wide open. An old photo of it had even featured in the Newsweek article about his father and himself.

Ravens seemed to be everywhere here too. In the name the McBrides had chosen for their new castle – Raventhorn. In Isobel McBride’s nickname – Lady Fitheach, the Raven Lady. In the improbable tale that Harald, her murdered husband, was carrying a mythical Viking Raven banner from his Orkney estate to the wedding of his King’s daughter. Even in the name of the woods surrounding the castle – Corby Woods, or Raven Woods.

He closed the book with a sigh. Enough with fairy tales. It was time to go back to the real world. He rose to his feet, and pulled his mobile out of his jeans pocket. It wasn’t too late to call Kirsty. She was after all a workaholic like him, and they had things to discuss – a new office in the States if the proposed merger went ahead being one of them.

A small piece of paper stuck to his phone. It was the message that he’d retrieved from under the cab’s wipers at lunchtime – the message he hadn’t wanted to show Rosalie.

I am watching you.

The words were written in capital letters and in black marker pen. The sheet of paper was thin and white, and with its jagged edges appeared to have been torn from a notebook. Apart from that, there was no clue as to who had written it.

Anger tightened inside him. He may have vowed to keep Rosalie safe, but the note showed that he had failed miserably. Someone was still out there, making threats, and he still had no idea who that might be.

He scrunched the paper into a ball and threw it in the waste-paper basket just as the lights flickered and went out. Damn. The electrician had assured him that he’d checked the wiring and dealt with the worst issues at Raventhorn. There was obviously quite a bit of work still to be carried out.

He was about to make his way down to the kitchen when an eerie screech pierced the silence of the night. His blood froze. What the hell was that? It didn’t sound like Rosalie’s voice. Or any woman’s voice. He wasn’t even sure it was human. Perhaps there was an injured animal – a fox or a deer – out there.

He walked to the window and pulled open the curtains to peer outside but couldn’t see anything.

Then he heard it again. Urgent, insistent.

His heart drumming hard, he rushed down the service stairs to the kitchen, and flung the door open. There wasn’t anyone out there, human or animal. He glanced towards the loch shimmering under frigid moon rays and muttered a curse. Someone was in the water … Without stopping to take his coat, he started to run.

As he got nearer, he could see who it was. A woman with long, dark curly hair. Rosalie! He’d never run so fast in his life, and pebbles clanged underfoot as he sprinted across the shore to the edge of the water.

‘Rosalie!’ he called, his voice hoarse and urgent.

Her face gleamed in the moonlight as she looked at him, then slid under the surface of the water. Seized with panic, he marched into the frozen loch, gritting his teeth against the cold. He had to get to her before she drowned. Perhaps it was already too late … There wasn’t even a ripple on the surface of the loch. It was as if she’d never been there.

‘Rosalie,’ he shouted again, his voice echoing in the dead of the night. Lunging forward, he started swimming, and when he thought he’d reached the spot where she had gone under, he gulped down a lungful of air and dived.

He could see nothing. Nothing but blackness. His eyes stung, his lungs burned, but he dived further down. He had to find her, save her. He couldn’t let her drown. When his lungs felt like they were bursting, he kicked his legs and swam back up to the surface. He took a deep, long breath and got ready to dive back down despite the terrible cold that bit into his body.

‘Petersen! Marc! What are you playing at?’ A woman shouted from the shore. ‘Are you out of your mind? Come back here, right now!’

He blinked the water out of his eyes. A white shape stood on the shore. Had the cold got to his brain and he was hallucinating, or was one of Raventhorn’s ghosts standing in front of him?

‘I said to come back. I have no intention of getting into that freezing loch to fish you out, do you hear?’ The voice was high-pitched and slightly hysterical.

It was no ghost. It was Rosalie. But if she stood in front of him, who then was in the water? He glanced around him. The loch was empty. Its smooth surface reflected the moon and the stars. Had he imagined the woman? Had he drunk too much ale, or had some kind of dream?

He tried to swim but his arms and legs were too cold, too heavy, almost numb, and he gulped another mouthful of silty water. His muscles were seizing up. Now wasn’t the time to puzzle about the mysterious figure he thought he’d seen. He had to get out.

The shore wasn’t that far. He had to make it. He gave a few desperate kicks, his arms jerked into a clumsy breaststroke, and after what felt like an eternity he felt the pebbly ground under his feet at last. He reached out for a dead tree that stuck out of the water.

As he scrambled to his feet, a raven perched on a rock close by and let out the same blood-curdling cry he’d heard before. It glared at him, its small, shiny eyes reflecting the moonlight, then flapped its wings and flew off.

‘Come here, you big eejit.’ Despite what she’d just said, Rosalie didn’t hesitate for a second. She walked into the water, slid her hands under Marc’s arms and dragged him out of the loch and onto the beach.

The hem of her flannelette pyjamas was soaking wet, and so were the boots she’d hastily slipped on when she’d happened to glance out of the window of her flat and seen Marc run out of the kitchen towards the loch without even a coat. Something must be wrong, she thought, and she’d gone after him. Just in time, it seemed.

Now he was safe, anger took the edge off her fear.

‘What did you think you were doing?’ She curled her hands on her hips and tilted her face up to look at him. ‘If you fancied a bath there are plenty of tubs at Raventhorn, there’s no need to risk drowning in Loch Bran or catching pneumonia.’

He coughed, and struggled to pull himself upwards. His hair, his clothes dripped water onto the pebbly beach. His chest heaved as he drew in a few harsh breaths. He was shaking all over, his face grey in the silvery moonlight and his eyes dark and glazed, as if he was dreaming.

The truth dawned on her. Isobel. She’d never really believed any of the stories about Lady Fitheach. Until now.

‘It was her, wasn’t it?’ she whispered. ‘She was there, she tried to kill you.’

He shrugged her off and stood up to his full height. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He was lying. It didn’t matter. What mattered was to get him back inside and into the warm. She started to unfasten her coat. ‘Quick, put that on, you need it more than me.’

He shook his head. ‘No. You keep it. I’ll be all right. How did you know I was here?’ he asked, his teeth chattering, as they hurried back to the castle.

‘I saw you run out of the house and followed your trail. Then you were in the loch.’ There were no words strong enough to express the icy fear that had gripped her when she’d seen his head bob in and out of the water and his arms beat the surface of the loch.

She forced a smile. ‘I know you have Viking blood in your veins, but surely the loch is too cold at this time of year, even for you.’ She paused and asked in a softer voice. ‘So, if it wasn’t Isobel, what happened?’

‘I have no idea. One minute I was having a beer, the next the electricity went off, I heard something and went out to investigate. And then I thought I saw …’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

They were in the courtyard, outside the kitchen now. He pointed at the rectangle of light reflecting onto the snow where he’d left the kitchen door open. ‘That’s strange … the power is back on.’

His lips had turned blue and his hands shook so badly it took him several attempts to pull his drenched shoes off. The man was freezing. It would be a miracle if he didn’t slip into hypothermic shock.

‘You need a hot shower.’ Rosalie kicked off her wet boots, threw her coat on the back of a chair and led the way up the stairs and to the first floor. The cold, wet hem of her flannelette pyjamas slapped her legs when she moved and her feet felt like blocks of ice.

‘Can you show me how that blasted shower works?’ Marc asked when they reached the first floor. ‘I don’t think I can face any more cold water tonight. Or ever.’ His lips stretched into a tentative smile.

Her heart did a flip and started pounding hard. Suddenly all she wanted was to comb his wet hair back from his forehead, wrap her arms around him and snuggle up to him to make sure he was warm. He might act as if it was no big deal but he’d had a narrow escape tonight. Men had drowned in Loch Bran before. Big, strong men like him.

‘Sure. Get undressed.’

While he sat down on a chair to take his wet socks off, she went into the en suite and turned the shower control on.

‘It’s ready,’ she shouted when steaming hot water spluttered out of the showerhead.

The door creaked open. ‘How do you it? I’ve been here a fortnight and still can’t work it out,’ he said from behind her.

‘That’s because you have to turn the dial very slowly until you hear a click.’ She turned to face him and the words died on her lips.

He stood tall, strong and naked apart from the towel he held around his waist. Steam rose from the shower cubicle, drowning the en suite in heat and white mist, and the lack of air made her lightheaded – unless it was the man who stood only a few feet from her and whose broad shoulders filled the doorway.

‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ she stammered, her cheeks burning and her heart racing.

He stepped aside but she bumped against the doorframe in a clumsy attempt to get out without touching him. Shutting the door behind her, she hurried to her old room where she cast her wet clothes off and rubbed her legs dry. She tried not to think about the man showering a few paces away. The man who had come to mean so much in the space of a couple of weeks.

She rummaged through her wardrobe for another pair of flannelette pyjamas, a green woolly cardigan, and slipped a pair of thick brown socks on her cold feet. She was about to step out of the room when she caught a glimpse of herself in the wardrobe mirror, and stopped in her tracks. No, it wouldn’t do at all. No woman should ever wear these sort of nightclothes around a man, except perhaps her granddad.

She stepped closer to the mirror. Her hair was wild, her skin red and blotchy from the cold. Her gaze travelled downwards and she sighed. That she was plain was nothing new, but these past few years she had also become a lot curvier and her old pyjama and cardigan did nothing to flatter her figure.

The thought of Marc Petersen seeing her shabby flannelette pyjamas was suddenly unbearable. She pulled the wardrobe doors open again. There must be something else she could wear. Didn’t she buy a peach satin nightdress and dressing gown in the sales once?

There it was, folded in tissue paper at the back of the shelf. She stripped off again, except for the socks, and slipped the nightdress on, enjoying the feel of the silky fabric as it glided on her bare skin and swished down to her feet.

After adjusting the straps so that the tight bodice of the nightdress covered her breasts, she wrapped herself in the matching dressing gown and checked her reflection in the mirror once again. Yes, it was better, much better. She combed her hair with her fingers, and winced. Now she needed to get rid of the muddy smell of the loch. She was reaching out for an old perfume bottle when her hand froze.

What did she think she was doing? Did she really hope that Marc would take one look at her in her slinky peach nightclothes and ravish her there and then? She heaved a shaky sigh and closed her eyes. That was exactly what she was hoping for – yearning for.

How silly of her to get so smitten, so infatuated … It wasn’t only his deep grey eyes, his strong shoulders or his rare smiles that sent her whole being into disarray – it was the way he was. The way he climbed out of the cab to help people get in and out. The way today he’d crouched down to be at eye level with the toddler who’d almost strangled him to get his scarf and let him give him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. And later he had lent Flora his arm and debated on the merits of value crackers as they walked down the supermarket aisles.

She knew she shouldn’t feel that way. It was dangerous, and pointless. Let’s face it, she was not the kind of woman he would ever be interested in. He had come to sell Raventhorn’s assets, and when he was done he would leave, never to return.

She closed her fist and pressed it against her heart as if it could make the yearning go away. Why couldn’t she just be happy with Niall’s steady, loyal affection? Why did she have to be attracted to the most unsuitable man alive, and have these impossible dreams? It was pathetic, and it had to stop.

With a last look at her reflection, she snatched the green cardigan from the bed and slipped it around her shoulders before going down to the kitchen.

Marc was sliding a tray covered with frozen potato wedges into the oven when she walked in. She was relieved to see that his face was no longer grey and he seemed to be no longer shaking.

He looked up and smiled. ‘Dinner should be ready in about fifteen minutes.’

‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry.’ As she moved away from the door, the sleeve of her cardigan snagged on the handle and the cardigan fell to the floor.

Marc bent down to pick it up. His gaze travelled from her unruly hair to her feet and he smiled. ‘Nice socks. They look very … warm,’ he said as he handed her the cardigan.

She almost groaned aloud. He hadn’t even noticed her sexy nightclothes!

‘There’s some of Marion’s chocolate cake left. It’s not as good as Lorna’s but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.’ He smiled again, humour sparkling in his eyes.

So not only had he not even noticed her lovely nightclothes, but he called her a glutton too! With a strangled cry, she swirled round and flew down the corridor and back up the stairs, clutching the edges of her cardigan tightly over her chest. She might as well put her ugly flannelette pyjamas back on. She wasn’t even halfway up the stairs when he caught up with her.

‘Rosalie, wait.’

She ignored him and climbed a couple more steps. The touch of his fingers on her shoulder made her gasp.

‘What’s the matter with you?’

She repressed a sob. ‘Nothing. Leave me alone.’

‘Was it something I said?’

She turned to face him. He stood on the step below hers, so their eyes were almost level, for once. His were filled with shadows.

The words were out before she could think. ‘No, of course it wasn’t. I mean, why should I be upset if you only ever notice what I’m wearing to compare me to a giant marshmallow, complain that pink gives you headaches or comment on my ugly old socks? Why should I be upset if you think all I’m interested in is stuffing myself with chocolate cake …’ And she should stop before she made a complete fool of herself. Shame rose inside her like nausea. She pressed her hands to her burning cheeks and closed her eyes.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ His voice was deep and unusually soft, like the night when he’d fixed her shoulder in the holiday cottage. ‘I’m glad you like cake,’ he carried on. ‘In fact, I love watching you eat cake. I find it incredibly attractive.’

This was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. She opened her eyes, expecting to see him smile. He was serious.

‘If that’s your idea of a compliment, I can’t say I’m impressed,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘I thought French men were the kings of romance.’

‘I’m only half-French, remember? I doubt my Viking ancestors used poetry to woo their women. As for your clothing …’ His voice deepened. ‘Socks or no socks, I would have to be blind not to notice what you’re wearing tonight.’

He lifted a finger to her cheek and very slowly followed the wet trail a tear had made to the side of her mouth. It was only the lightest touch, but her lips parted, her breath hitched in her throat and her body sizzled, tightened and ached all at once.

His hand fell to his side. The heat in his eyes was as potent as a caress as they skimmed down her body, and she responded as surely as if he was touching her. A liquid, molten ache spread inside her. Goosebumps pricked her skin all over. This time, surely, he was going to take her in his arms, kiss her …

He pulled away, took a step down the stairs. ‘Let’s get back to the kitchen. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’