Chapter Nineteen
She shouldn’t be feeling this good on less than three hours sleep.
Heaving a contented sigh, she snuggled closer to Marc. It had been late, very late, when they had made it back upstairs, stumbled into bed and fallen asleep. Her body might be a little sore and her head foggy, but it felt like she was floating on a heavenly cloud, and it was all thanks to the man next to her.
‘What time is it?’ Marc’s voice was rough and sleepy.
She craned her neck to read the alarm clock dial on the bedside table. ‘Just after seven. I must call Fiona. She’s on the early shift at the switchboard today.’
‘Don’t forget to tell her you’re driving me to the airport,’ he said, bursting her lovely, warm and dreamy bubble.
‘Oh … yes, of course.’
He pulled her on top of him and fastened his arms around her waist. His hands stroked her back. His chin, rough with stubble, rubbed against the top of her head. She listened to his strong and steady heartbeat. Never had she felt so whole, so protected, so loved, even if that was just an illusion.
‘I’m going to miss driving your cab and listening to your customers. I’m even going to miss listening to you singing to your Happy Baby Radio.’
She curled her fist and gave his chest a pretend punch. ‘Liar! You don’t like chatting to people, you don’t like smelly toddlers. You find pushing a supermarket trolley a waste of time, and you hate my Happy Baby Radio – that’s what you said the day you arrived.’
His arms tightened around her waist and he kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Maybe I was wrong. You enlightened me, in more ways than one. Not to mention saved my life last night, and for that I’ll be forever grateful.’
Her throat tightened. It wasn’t his gratitude she wanted. It was his love. ‘Well, then, I must call Fiona or she’ll worry.’
‘And we wouldn’t want to worry Frosty Fiona, would we?’
He let go of her and she scrambled to her feet to retrieve her robe and cover up quickly. She felt keenly aware of her body’s imperfections this morning.
‘She’s not that bad,’ she objected as she made her way towards the en suite. ‘She can be a little grumpy from time to time, but deep down she really is a very nice girl and a very talented artist. She designs the menus and posters for Alice’s café and a few other businesses. She actually came up with the logo for Love Taxis. I’m sure she’ll have lots of great ideas for the new minibus company. I can’t wait to tell her and Fergus the good news.’
‘No. I don’t want you to say anything to anyone.’ His voice snapped, cool and sharp.
She turned round, surprised. ‘Why ever not?’
‘I’d rather have my business plan worked out and the funding in place before you involve other people.’
She shrugged. ‘All right. I won’t say a word, if that’s what you want.’
He pulled the sheets down, got up and walked towards her, gloriously naked. Holding her breath, she took a step back.
‘Monsieur Petersen,’ she said, forcing a note of playfulness in to her voice even though her chest was so tight it hurt, ‘you might deny that Isobel’s magic bed has anything to do with it but I think it has worked wonders for your … hmm … stamina.’
He came closer. And closer. Her back pushed against the door to the shower room but it wasn’t the feel of the cold wood against her skin that made her shiver. It was the hot and dangerous glow in Marc’s eyes.
‘I think I should put that bed’s magic powers to the test one last time, don’t you?’ He slipped one hand under her hair to the back of her neck, the other around her waist to draw her to him and bent down. Her heart sang a happy tune and she couldn’t help smiling as his lips touched hers. He may not love her but right now, he wanted her, and she would have to be happy with that.
A few hours later, she was negotiating the busy Inverness traffic through a blur of tears. Marc had left. Dressed in the crisp white shirt and the navy suit and coat he’d worn the day he’d arrived, he had once again looked cool and businesslike – a far cry from the passionate man who had driven her cab, and shared a game of cards or dominos with her elderly customers. From the man who had made love to her time and time again.
His last words at the airport resonated inside her. ‘Call the police immediately if you’re worried about anything. Then call me.’ He had slipped a business card into her hand. ‘I can’t remember where I left my new mobile last night, so you’ll have to try the numbers to the London office. There’s no point ringing my flat, I’m never there.’
He had made her promise again to ask Alice to come over to Raventhorn in the evenings, and in return she had urged him to be careful on the plane.
‘I have no need to be careful. I’m not doing anything but sitting down and reading my reports. It’s the pilot who’ll do all the work and I trust him to do a good job,’ he had answered with a brief smile.
She almost retorted that she’d never trust any pilot enough to climb into a plane, but remembered just in time that Marc’s father had died in a helicopter crash only a few weeks before, and bit the words back.
So she had rested her head against his shoulder, breathing in the fresh sharp citrus fragrance of his aftershave and his own, deeper scent, as if to imprint them into her memory.
‘I’ll be back in a few days,’ he had said as he put his hands on either side of her face and pulled her gently to him before giving her a long, searing kiss that left her breathless. And then he had got out of the cab and disappeared through the terminal’s sliding doors.
She took advantage of stopping at a red traffic light to dab her wet cheeks with a soggy tissue.
The radio crackled. ‘Hi, Roz, I’ve just taken over from Fiona. She told me Petersen’s left for London. Is that right?’
She grabbed hold of the mike. ‘Hmm, yes. He had to go to a funeral.’
‘So he won’t be away too long?’
‘A few days.’ She sniffed back the tears.
‘Are you all right, lass?’ asked Fergus.
‘Of course, I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Well, it’s just that the man hasn’t left your side for over two weeks now. I reckon you may feel a wee bit lonely without him. Anyhow,’ he carried on quickly, ‘I have a few bookings. I’ve checked the numbers. They’re all legit.’
‘Go on. Give me the details.’ At least work would stop her from feeling sorry for herself.
Fergus listed names, times and pick up locations.
She was busy the rest of the day and by the time she dropped her last client at Aviemore train station, it was well after seven and she was starving. She drove up Irlwick’s main street, found a parking space and climbed out of the cab. She hadn’t had time to phone Alice and ask her for a bed for a few nights, but the café was open until eight most evenings, and her friend rarely had visitors to her flat, so it shouldn’t be a problem.
She licked her lips in anticipation of a cup of sweet, hot and milky tea, a bowl of soup and a chocolate brownie, and couldn’t repress a moan of disappointment when she arrived in front of the café and saw it shut and the blinds drawn. Worse still, the windows of Alice’s first floor flat were dark too. Rosalie buzzed the intercom and stomped her feet on the pavement to stave off the cold. There was no answer.
Her boots made slurping sounds in the wet snow as she walked back to the cab. That would teach her to take people for granted. She should have phoned ahead instead of turning up unannounced. Now it seemed she would have to stay at Raventhorn on her own after all, and for the first time the prospect depressed her.
Perhaps she could call at Fergus and Marion’s house. They’d put her up for the night, except that Marion was probably watching her favourite soap after a long day’s cleaning, and Fergus would be doing his model making or his crosswords, and it wasn’t fair to impose on them. No, she’d have to toughen up, be a big girl, and go home alone.
As she drove out of Irlwick, the flashing neon sign of a Chinese takeaway caught her eye. She slammed on the brakes and slid the car in a parking spot at the side of the road. She should have thought of it before. Niall loved Chinese food. She’d get a selection of his favourite dishes and stop at his house for a couple of hours.
Thirty minutes later, she was ringing the bell of Niall’s bungalow, a bulging carrier bag in her hand.
It wasn’t Niall who opened the door but his sister Julia.
‘Ah. It’s you.’ Julia’s voice was as sour as her long, narrow face.
‘Hi, Julia,’ Rosalie started in a forced cheerful voice even if she felt equally unhappy to see her. ‘Is Niall in?’
Julia crossed her hands on her chest. ‘No. He went out with Alice.’
‘Really? Where did they go?’ Rosalie couldn’t help the pang of disappointment that her friends should have gone out without inviting her.
Julia narrowed her eyes. ‘A party in Nethy Bridge. What did you want?’
Rosalie lifted the carrier bag. ‘I thought I could share a Chinese with Niall, but I guess I’ll have to eat it on my own.’
‘What about your fancy businessman – Petersen? Is he not with you?’
‘Marc? Oh no, he went back to London earlier today.’
Julia let out a snort. ‘I see. So now he’s left, you come running back to Niall. Well, I have something to say to you, Rosalie Heart. I’ve had enough of seeing my brother suffer because of your fickle ways. You’ve taken him for a fool long enough.’
Taken aback by the animosity in Julia’s voice, Rosalie gasped. ‘I didn’t … I never treated Niall badly.’
‘You’ve kept him on a tight leash for years,’ Julia retorted. ‘You took advantage of his good nature to get your car repairs on the cheap, you called him when you had nobody to go dancing with, and all the time you thought you were better than him. He would have done anything for you, even closed his garage for a week to drive your cab, but no, you chose that foreigner – that Petersen – and cavorted with him all over town. I told Niall tonight that enough was enough, that he should forget about you and try and enjoy himself with someone else for once! So he called Alice and they went out.’
Stunned and dismayed by Julia’s tirade, Rosalie could only shake her head. ‘You’re not being fair, Julia … but I won’t waste my breath arguing with you. I’ll go home now. Goodnight.’
She started to turn round when something Julia said came back to her mind. ‘Hang on a minute. What did you say just then, about Marc Petersen being a businessman? How did you know? Did Alice say anything?’
Julia shrugged. ‘Alice? No. Why would she? I recognised him, that’s all. When I saw him in the café yesterday, I knew his face was familiar but I couldn’t quite place him. It’s only when I went back to the library that I remembered where I’d seen him before. Wait here, I’ll show you what I mean.’
She turned on her heels and disappeared inside the house, only to come back a couple of minutes later, clutching an edition of Newsweek magazine. ‘There, what do you think of that?’ She shoved the magazine into Rosalie’s free hand.
Rosalie stared at the cover. It showed Marc dressed in a smoking suit and an older man who looked so much like him he could only be his father. ‘Slash, burn … and prosper,’ the headline read. ‘Are Petersen and Son the Vikings of International Finance?’ The article was dated from the summer, before Marc’s father’s fatal accident.
‘It makes for interesting reading,’ Julia added. ‘Geoff thought so too.’
Startled, Rosalie looked up. ‘Geoff saw this?’
‘Aye, he did. You know how he loves spending hours searching through the archives, using the computer and chatting with me about his research,’ Julia answered, looking smug.
‘When did he see that magazine?’
‘It was back in July. I had just put it on display when it caught his eye. He flicked through it, found the double page with the article on Petersen and spent almost ten minutes muttering to himself before leaving with it. I had to run after him to get it back. He looked weird, he hardly heard me. Naturally I was curious to read what he’d been so upset about. Well, there’s one thing I can tell you for sure. These Petersens –father and son – they sound like real nasty individuals.’
She suddenly stared at Rosalie, her eyes shining with curiosity. ‘So what’s Marc Petersen doing in Irlwick? It’s all a lie, isn’t it, that he’s learning to drive a cab?’
Suddenly all Rosalie wanted was to be alone and read the magazine. ‘That’s none of your business. Thank you for the magazine. I’ll bring it back tomorrow.’
And before Julia could object, she turned on her heels and walked down the path back to the cab. Sliding behind the wheel, she put the magazine and the carrier bag with the Chinese takeaway on the passenger seat and started the engine.
It didn’t take long to drive back to Raventhorn. The roads were empty, and it had stopped snowing. The castle stood, dark and ominous against a very dark, cloudy night sky. The security lights came on. An owl hooted as she got out and fished for the keys to the kitchen door inside her anorak pocket. She punched the alarm code in, opened the door and flicked the light on. Heavy silence closed in like a thick cloak around her. Feeling lonely and miserable, she slipped her anorak off, put the takeaway cartons in the microwave oven and filled the kettle to make some tea.
Was it only last night that Marc had made love to her? That he had held her, kissed her, made her feel alive and cherished? Tonight the castle felt cold and sad, and as hollow as her heart.
She dished out some fried rice onto a plate, made some tea and sat down, the magazine open on the table in front of her. She looked at the photos first. There were a number of them, of Marc’s father, of his mother Cécile, who the journalist said now lived in the South of France and still modelled occasionally, and of Marc and Kirsty Marsh – the same Kirsty Marsh who had called him last night.
Rosalie’s heart missed a beat. The woman was stunning. Her honey blond hair cut in a smooth bob framed a beautiful face, her elegant dark blue dress emphasised her perfect figure. And to make matters worse, Marc had his arm wrapped around her slim waist and looked as if he never wanted to let go.
Of course … Kirsty must be Marc’s girlfriend. That was why he had warned her the night before that he didn’t want a relationship, that he could only give her the here and now. Rosalie was even surprised he’d found her attractive enough to make love to her.
Feeling suddenly sick, she pushed her fried rice away and made herself focus on the article. Julia was right. It did make for interesting reading. The reporter retraced the story of how Marc’s father had earned his fortune and risen from a humble beginning as a salesman in agricultural machinery in Denmark to make the Sunday Times’ rich list for the past twenty-five years. It was basically what Marc had said. His father bought failing companies, closed them down and sold their assets to the highest bidder. Sometimes he restarted them, hired new staff, injected a lot of cash then sold them off for a huge profit. No matter how many jobs were lost, how many families or communities were thrown into dire financial circumstances, he never negotiated, never changed his mind, never altered his course of action.
His son Marc, the reporter wrote, was, like him, an astute businessman who kept his eyes firmly set on the company’s balance sheet. After successfully managing and expanding Petersen’s Paris office for several years there were now plans for him to relocate to New York together with Kirsty Marsh, one of the firm’s bright new stars.
The reporter speculated that the move may be seen as a damage limitation exercise following the suicide of Patrick Van Bernd, an industrialist from Northern France. Van Bernd’s luxury chocolate production and distribution outfit had been bought up by the Paris branch of Petersen and Son. It had been forced to shut down – only to re-open under a new brand name and with a completely new set of staff a few weeks later and to become one of Petersen’s success stories. Van Bernd had asked, and been refused, the right to return to his former company as executive manager. He had suffered a severe mental breakdown, his family had disintegrated – his teenage daughter had been killed in a drink driving accident, his wife taken an overdose of sleeping tablets shortly after. The evening after his wife’s funeral, Van Bernd had driven his Jaguar to a local beauty spot and shot himself.
‘Oh my God.’ Rosalie pressed her fist to her mouth.
Kirsty Marsh was quoted as saying that the world of business was indeed a harsh place and that not everybody was cut out for it. Under no circumstances could Sigmund and Marc Petersen be held responsible for Peter Van Bernd’s decision to end his life. Van Bernd had played, and lost, and there was nothing more to say. She also said that Marc had acknowledged not letting Van Bernd return to work had been an error of judgement on his part but did not admit any responsibility in the tragedy.
A knot curled and tightened inside her, her mouth went dry. A man was dead, a whole family destroyed, and Marc talked of error of judgement? What kind of cold, ruthless man had she fallen in love with? Her breath came out fast and shallow, and she felt so dizzy she feared she might faint.
In her haste to grab hold of her cup of tea and sip some of the hot drink to calm herself down, she almost missed the short fixture about Marc’s family and the old sepia photos of the North Jutland farm where his ancestors had lived and worked for centuries.
She blinked, put the cup down and lifted the magazine closer to her eyes. ‘I don’t believe this.’
In the far corner of the photo of a very tall man dressed in a dark suit, holding a wide-brimmed hat, was a standing stone depicting a series of runic inscriptions around what appeared to be the carving of a large raven surrounded by a dozen smaller ones.
Pushing her chair back, she jumped to her feet and searched the kitchen cabinets for the magnifying glass she knew Lorna kept to read her old recipe books. Surely she was mistaken. There were hundreds of carvings of ravens on standing stones in Denmark, what were the odds that the Petersen stone had the same design as Harald’s shield?
She took the magnifying glass from the cabinet and held her breath as she pressed it against the photo. There was no mistake. It looked exactly the same. No wonder Geoff had walked away from the library in a daze. He must have thought this was the breakthrough he’d been waiting for all these years. At last he could trace Harald back to where he came from – Hantsholm in North Jutland.
And even more accurately, the farm of Marc Petersen’s ancestors.
The magnifying glass slipped from her fingers onto the table. Did it mean that Marc was a descendant of Harald’s? Suddenly Geoff’s decision to sell Raventhorn to the Petersens took on an entirely new meaning. Perhaps it wasn’t so much because Geoff needed money that he’d approached Marc and his father, but because he wanted to reunite them with their family history. Perhaps he believed they could help him find Harald’s treasure at last.
If only Geoff would wake up and she could talk to him!
She looked at Marc’s photo again. If he and his father hadn’t slain and murdered men in battle like Harald had, they had driven men to despair and destroyed families in their relentless pursuit for wealth. Shaking her head in disgust, she threw the magazine on the table and walked out of the kitchen and went up to the drawing room, where she drew the curtains and made a fire. How cold she felt – how numb, lonely, and lost.
A soft, melancholic tune behind her startled her. It was the ringtone from Marc’s new phone, which she quickly located, jammed between the cushions of the sofa. She pulled it out, flipped the cover open and saw a text from Carl FitzPatrick.
Need to meet at your Paris office asap. Please.
She recalled Marc’s cold voice as he spoke to the man. It was clear that he was another of his business victims – a man desperate enough to beg. Disgusted, she threw the phone so hard it bounced off the leather sofa and landed near the waste-paper bin. Just how many people had Marc and his father driven to despair before profiteering from the company they had set up and had been unlucky enough to lose? She would phone the office number Marc had given her and relay FitzPatrick’s message in the morning.
As she picked the phone up, she spotted the writing on a piece of paper in the bin. She pulled it out. I’m watching you.
She gasped in shock, and glanced around, almost expecting to see a threatening figure step out of the shadows. Then she remembered the note Marc had peeled off the windscreen after their lunch at Alice’s café. He hadn’t said anything, because he probably didn’t want to worry her.
So, once again, someone was trying to intimidate her.
Well, whoever they were, she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her running scared. She wouldn’t abandon Raventhorn, and she certainly wasn’t going to give up Love Taxis. She would carry on as normal. She scrunched the note into a ball and threw it into the fire.