Chapter Eleven

‘Rosalie, can you hear me?’

Marc’s insistent voice cut through her consciousness and the cacophony of metal crushing, engine roaring, and glass smashing that still rang in her ears. Her face was squashed against something rubbery, and as she opened her mouth to breathe some foul, chemical-tasting dust filled her throat, making her cough. She jerked back and gasped for air, crying out when a sharp pain stabbed her shoulder, neck and back.

‘Don’t worry, it’s the powder from the airbags that’s making you cough,’ Marc said. ‘You’ll feel better when we get out.’

‘Get out?’ Her lungs and throat were on fire, and her shoulder hurt so much she dare not move any more.

‘We’re stuck halfway down the mountain. We were lucky a clump of trees stopped us, but I’m not sure how long it’ll hold.’

Marc peered anxiously into her face. ‘You look dreadfully pale. Are you injured?’

‘My shoulder and my back hurt.’ She tried to move her arm but gritted her teeth as pain shot through her again. ‘What about you?’

‘I’m fine.’ He pushed his door open and let out a muffled curse as he jumped down from the car and into the snow. Through the shattered windscreen she watched him limp around the front of the car. He tried to wrench her door open but it was stuck.

‘No worries. I’ll get you out from my side.’ He returned to the passenger side of the car.

‘Please be careful …’ But he was already pulling her out. ‘Careful!’ This time she cried out loud.

Marc frowned. ‘Is it that bad?’ he asked as he managed to manoeuvre Rosalie out of the car.

‘The side of my body feels like it’s on fire,’ she said, through gritted teeth, ‘and I can’t move my arm. So, yes, it is that bad.’

‘May I?’ Without waiting for an answer, he touched her shoulder blade and prodded gently through her jacket. She jerked out of his reach.

‘Are are trying to finish me off?’

‘I think your shoulder is dislocated, but I can’t do anything about it now.’ He looked up towards the top of the hill, and his face hardened. ‘I can’t see the other car’s headlights.’

‘Do you think they crashed too?’

He clenched his jaw. ‘No. I think they left us. Damn them … I’ll call the emergency services.’ He looked back inside the Range Rover, and let out a curse. ‘My mobile’s in pieces. What about yours?’

She patted her pocket with her left hand and retrieved her phone, but there was no signal.

‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘We’ll try later. Can you walk?’

She nodded. ‘Our best bet is to head for the old holiday chalets we drove past earlier. If we follow that ridge over there and cut across the forest it shouldn’t take us too long.’

The darkness and the snow covering an uneven terrain made their progress slow and difficult. Marc walked ahead, sweeping the beam of the electric torch in front of him, and Rosalie followed in his footsteps, issuing instructions now and then as to which way he should turn. Every time she stumbled on a root or a rock, or her feet sank into a pothole, pain reverberated through her body and she had to bite her lip harder and harder to stop herself from crying out. To add to her misery, her boots were soaking wet and her trousers, stiff with snow and frost, rubbed against her legs like sandpaper.

At long last, they reached the empty holiday village.

‘We’ll try that chalet over there,’ Marc said.

‘I hope the driver of the four-wheel-drive alerted the emergency services and they’re on their way.’

He didn’t answer and she was far too exhausted to repeat her question, so she struggled through knee-deep snow to the back of the chalet. Marc leaned against the door and gave a few hard shoves with his shoulder. The door yielded with a loud crack.

He led the way into a small dining kitchen, and flicked the light switch on. Shaking from the pain and the cold, Rosalie followed him down a narrow corridor and into a small living room. Marc drew the curtains, switched on a table lamp and turned to her.

‘Let me help you take your coat off.’

‘No!’ She stepped back so quickly she bumped against the wall. ‘I’ll do it myself.’ The very thought of anyone touching her shoulder made her want to be sick.

‘All right. For now.’ He fiddled with the controls on the small electric heater and let out a satisfied grunt when warm air started blowing into the room. ‘We could do with a hot drink. I hope there’s coffee or tea in the kitchen.’

While he went to check, Rosalie pulled down the zipper of her anorak and tried to wriggle out of it. Every move was torture, pain lanced into her shoulder and radiated into her back, and soon nausea made her stomach lurch.

‘Here. Try that. It’ll numb the pain better than a cup of tea.’ Marc stood in front of her, holding out a tumbler.

She breathed in the bitter, malt scent of whisky. ‘Where did you find it?’

‘In a cupboard. There’s also tea, coffee, a packet of crackers, and a few tins. More than enough for tonight.’

She lifted one hand to her mouth. The mere thought of food made her heave. Right now she didn’t care much for whisky either.

‘I want you to drink it all,’ Marc insisted. ‘Then I’ll help take your coat off and you will lie down on the sofa.’

She eyed him with suspicion. ‘What for?’

‘I am going to fix your shoulder.’

‘Oh no, you’re not. You are not laying a finger on me, do you hear?’ She pressed harder against the wall. ‘I’ll wait until we get to Tomintoul tomorrow. What’s more, you’re not a doctor.’

‘If your shoulder is dislocated, then the quicker we reset it, the less chance you run of permanent injury. Don’t worry, I’ve seen it done before.’ His voice was soft and patient, as if he was talking to an anxious pet or an unreasonable child.

She looked at the glass and pulled a face. Maybe he was right and the liquor would numb the pain. She gulped some whisky down, gasping as fire trailed down her throat, all the way into the pit of her stomach.

‘Have a bit more.’

After a few more sips, she felt warm, and very, very tired. The floor moved like the deck of a ship, the walls shrunk then expanded around her. She blinked, and everything became still again.

‘I think I need to sit down,’ she said.

He took the glass away and put it on a side table. ‘Let me take your coat off first.’

She tried to move away from him. ‘I told you to leave me alone.’

‘I didn’t think you were such a coward.’

She drew in a breath. ‘How can you call me a coward? You have no idea how much this hurts.’

‘Actually, I know exactly what you’re going through. I dislocated my shoulder during a rugby game once. The pain was so excruciating I cried like a baby. Now stop wriggling and let me help.’

The thought of cold, controlled and steely Marc Petersen crying like a baby was so alien she stood still and stared at him. He took advantage of her surprise to peel off her coat. He let it drop onto the carpeted floor, led her to the sofa and helped her lie down. He pulled her boots off, slipped a cushion behind her head and knelt down on the floor next to her.

‘Now I’m going to move your arm around until the shoulder clicks back into place.’

He didn’t give her time to reply but rotated her lower arm, before pushing inwards, towards her chest. The pain was so intense she jumped straight off the sofa with a piercing cry.

‘I’m sorry. Let me try again.’ His voice was calm and matter-of-fact.

Rosalie squeezed her eyes shut but couldn’t stop the tears from spilling out. Marc repeated the process several times until her shoulder popped back into place. The searing pain immediately vanished, to be replaced by a dull ache.

She opened her eyes. He was looking at her, so close she could see the clear grey waters of his irises and feel his breath warming her cheek.

‘It’s over. You were very brave.’ He slid his fingers into her hair and stroked it away from her face.

‘It worked,’ she whispered, shivering under his touch as his fingers slid down her cheeks in a feather-light caress to wipe away her tears.

‘I told you it would.’ He winced as he rose to his feet, and only then did she notice the bloodstains on his trousers.

‘You’re hurt too.’

‘It’s only a cut. There’s a first aid box in the kitchen cupboard. It won’t take me long to sort it out, then I’ll make us something to eat. In the meantime, you should keep warm and rest.’

He draped his coat over her. It was still warm and smelled of snow, of lemon and spice. Of him.

‘Thank you.’ Perhaps the whisky had made her drowsy, or it was the aftermath of the intense pain she’d just experienced, but all she wanted was to snuggle into his coat and close her eyes.

The room was dark when she woke. A blanket that reeked of mothballs covered her from the neck down. Disoriented, she stared at the velvety darkness and listened to sounds of pans rattling, and cupboards being opened and closed. She sat up, holding her breath and flinching when shards of pain needled her neck and shoulder. The worst of the pain may have gone, but it still hurt.

It was cold, much colder than earlier. With the blanket wrapped around her, she shuffled down the corridor towards the kitchen. Marc was standing in front of the gas cooker, stirring baked beans in a pan with a long wooden spoon. On the table were an open packet of crackers, two blue plates with matching mugs and two sets of cutlery, and three lit candles.

‘Hi,’ she said.

Marc turned round and smiled. ‘I was just about to wake you. I hope you like baked beans. If not, I’ll open a tin of tomato soup.’

‘No, beans are fine. Thank you.’ She extracted a cracker from the packet with her left hand and bit into it. ‘Why the candles?’

‘The electricity was cut off an hour ago. The power lines must have gone down in the storm. It’s lucky there were a few candles and some matches to light up the gas cooker. Unfortunately, no electricity means no heating, so I piled up all the blankets I could find on the bed for you. I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight.’

He pulled out a chair and helped her sit down, then took the pan off the gas ring and replaced it with the kettle. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t French cuisine,’ he said as he pushed half the content of the pan onto her plate with the wooden spoon. The baked beans plopped down in a gooey, steaming heap.

Rosalie grabbed hold of her fork. ‘It smells wonderful.’ She started eating. ‘And it tastes even better.’

Marc placed a cup of tea in front of her. ‘There’s no milk, but I found some sugar. I hope it’s sweet enough for you.’

Surprised, she looked up. ‘Thanks.’

He made himself a mug of instant coffee, sat down and tucked into the pile of beans on his plate. For a few minutes, the only sound in the kitchen were the scraping of cutlery against plates, the hiss of burning candles and the wind whistling in the trees outside.

When his plate was empty, Marc sat back, cradled his mug in his hands and looked at her.

‘Tell me about Geoff McBride. He seems fairly unusual, eccentric even.’

She smiled. ‘I suppose he is … But most of all, he is kind and generous, and totally dedicated to Raventhorn, and to his research on Isobel and Harald.’ She paused and stared at the candle’s flickering flame that cast moving shadows on the walls. ‘He gave my mother and me a home when we had none. He gave me a family.’

The feeling of doom, fear and pain she’d experienced earlier at the holiday lodge returned, and grew like a shadow around her, inside her, ready to engulf her. A distant echo of her mother’s voice floated in her consciousness. Quick. Hide. Don’t make a sound. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.

She didn’t even realise she had closed her eyes, hunched her shoulders until Marc spoke.

‘What’s wrong? Are you in pain?’ His voice drew her back to the here and now. Her eyes flew open, and she focused on his face to dispel the dark and frightened feelings that had gathered inside her.

‘No … no, I’m fine.’

He frowned as if he didn’t quite believe her, and then asked, ‘How do you think Elaine and Rupert will react when they learn they won’t be inheriting Raventhorn after all?’

‘They’ll be furious, of course. Raventhorn was the only thing they were ever interested in, which is terribly sad since they are Geoff’s only family. At least Geoff has Lorna and I to love him, and he had my mother too.’ Tears pricked her eyes. She wiped them away with her left hand, let out a shaky breath and looked at Marc. If her mother’s death still affected her after four years, she could only imagine how badly he must be hurting, only weeks after his father’s fatal accident.

She bit her lip, hesitated. ‘It must be hard for you to take over your father’s business after what happened.’

A muscle on the side of his mouth twitched. His fingers tightened around his mug. ‘I do what needs to be done. That’s all my father would have expected from me.’ His voice was indifferent, and there was a total lack of emotion in his eyes.

‘What about your mother? Doesn’t she mind you spending time here in Scotland instead of being at her side to comfort her?’

‘My mother lives in the South of France. She has no need for my presence.’

‘Really?’

‘My parents separated amicably over fifteen years ago, Rosalie,’ he explained, ‘and although upset by my father’s sudden death, my mother is probably far more worried about my ability to run the company and enable her to keep the lifestyle she is accustomed to.’

‘How can you say such a callous thing about your mother?’

He drank a sip of coffee. ‘Because it’s the truth. My parents and I were never close. There is no reason why things should be any different now.’

‘I don’t understand. You worked with your father. You must have been close.’

‘I worked with him, I admired his drive and ambition, and the way his mind worked, but that doesn’t mean we were close.’ He shrugged. ‘Things were always strained between us. Not surprising, I suppose, since I grew up at boarding school in England whilst my parents lived in Paris and London.’

‘You went to boarding school?’

He nodded. ‘From the age of five.’

‘You were just a baby!’

‘It’s not that unusual, believe me. My boarding school was excellent. I made good friends there, and had everything I needed.’

Her heart filled with sadness. He may think he’d had everything he needed but he had missed the most important thing – a loving family. ‘It must have been very lonely to be away from home for a little boy,’ she remarked.

He smiled, but it was a cold smile that only made his eyes more distant. ‘There was no home. Not really. Just an apartment in London, and a house in Paris, which were filled with art and antiques I wasn’t allowed to touch. In any case, I didn’t know any different, and I got to see my parents a few times a year, which was more than enough for the three of us, believe me.’

Now that explained a lot, she thought as she watched him drink his coffee. No wonder he was so detached, so lacking in feelings and emotions. He had probably shut them out at a young age as a way of dealing with being abandoned by his parents. She may not have known her father, but she always had her mother’s unconditional love. And there had been Geoff and Lorna. They had formed a family unit based on love and trust, if not blood ties.

‘You have tomato sauce on your cheek.’ Marc’s voice drew her out of her thoughts.

Self-conscious, she lifted her hand to her cheek. ‘Oh …’

‘It’s on the other side.’ Leaning towards her, he lifted his finger to her face and rubbed the side of her mouth. ‘There’s some there too.’

He ran his finger along the line of her mouth in a soft, feather-light caress that raised goosebumps all over her body. Her heart drummed faster, louder and her skin grew hotter under his touch, as shadows danced on the kitchen walls, and the flames of the candles hissed and flickered. In their golden glow Marc’s eyes were a deep, dark grey, and his hair shone like burnished gold. The stubble on his face and the bruise on his cheekbone gave him a raw, dangerous, and very seductive look.

She held her breath when his finger lingered on her lips and caressed her cheek. He drew closer.

‘Rosalie …’ he started, close enough for her to feel his warm breath and see the flint specks in his eyes.

‘Yes?’ she whispered, her voice weak and dreamy.

He frowned, broke contact, and jerked back. ‘Before you go to bed,’ he said, standing up and plucking a candle from the table, ‘I’ll fashion some kind of sling for your shoulder. Follow me.’

He started down the corridor.

What on earth had just happened? Still dazed by confusing feelings and sensations, Rosalie let out a long breath. Had she dreamt the spark, the tension, the heat between them just then? Was it her imagination or had he been about to kiss her … and she had been about to let him?

She wrapped the blanket around her and followed him into the living room. Marc had picked his scarf up from the back of an armchair, and gestured for her to drop the blanket. Reluctantly she allowed him to tie the scarf around her neck. The contact of his fingers on her skin brought on more delicious shivers as he secured the knot and helped her slot her arm in the soft fabric.

‘That should help until we can get you checked out by a doctor.’

‘I don’t want a doctor. I’m not even in pain any longer.’

He arched his eyebrows as if he didn’t believe her. ‘You still need to make sure everything is back to normal.’

He sounded so superior and patronising that she couldn’t help herself, and the words were out before she could help it. ‘The only way things will ever be back to normal is if you leave Raventhorn and promise never to return!’

Holding her head high despite the ache in her right side, she stomped as best she could in just her socks to the only bedroom and slammed the door shut with her free hand – a mistake since the curtains were drawn and she found herself in total darkness.

She took a few steps into the room, her left arm extended in front of her to feel for obstacles. Her fingers touched a pile of thick, fluffy blankets. She sat down on the bed and managed to remove her socks and trousers, still damp from the walk in the snow. Then slipping under the cosy blankets, she stared at the velvety darkness.

She was so annoyed with herself she could have screamed, kicked the furniture or the wall, but with her injured shoulder and one arm in the makeshift sling, she couldn’t even punch the mattress.

How immature to fall for Marc Petersen’s soap story. So what if he’d been left by his rich, indifferent parents in a boarding school? So what if he had never experienced a warm and loving family life? He probably wouldn’t have been any different if he had. The only reason why she’d felt sorry for him was that she’d been weakened by the accident. And as Niall had said, she was too soft and naive for her own good.

What a relief that he hadn’t kissed her. She closed her eyes, shifted into a more comfortable position and let the warmth from the thick blankets lull her into a doze. Guilt, however, prevented her from falling asleep. She couldn’t quite forget that she had all the covers whilst Marc had none.

With a resigned sigh she got up, wrapped a blanket around her to hide her bare legs, and snatched a couple of covers off the bed before marching to the living room.

The candles had almost burned down to stumps, and it was so cold her breath steamed. Marc Petersen reclined on the couch, with his coat on and her anorak wrapped around his shoulders, and one leg stretched out on a stool in front of him. Her throat tightened. Now she felt even more guilty for not asking him if he was in any pain.

He straightened up when he saw her. ‘Rosalie. Is there anything wrong?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I … well, I was wondering if you’d like these.’

She showed him the blankets. ‘It doesn’t seem fair that I should have them all when you’re freezing in here.’

‘Are you sure you won’t need them?’

‘Positive.’

‘Then I’ll take them. Thanks. You should go back to bed and get some rest. We’ll leave for Tomintoul as soon as it’s light. Even if we manage to get a signal and call an ambulance we still have a fair way to go.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t need an ambulance. All I want is to report the accident to the police and ask Niall to tow the Range Rover back to the garage, although I’m not sure it can be repaired.’

‘You’ll have to phone Fergus to let him know you won’t be able to drive for a while, which means that unless Duncan comes back from Edinburgh or you can find another driver at short notice, the only option is to close down Love Taxis straight away. You should let Fiona know too …’

He heard her intake of breath, saw her stiffen her spine. And when she marched up to him he could have sworn sparks flew and electricity sizzled around her.

‘I have been running my taxi business for four years, Petersen. I know what I have to do, so don’t you dare talk to me in this patronising tone as if I was some stupid, incompetent, clumsy little woman!’

He held out his hands in a calming gesture. ‘I was just making a few suggestions. Now, as you are clearly in pain and overwrought, I suggest you go back to bed and get some rest. Thank you for bringing me the blankets.’

He held out his hand. Without a word, she threw the blankets at him, swung round and strode out of the room. A few seconds later the bedroom door slammed so hard a couple of ornaments shook on the mantelpiece.

He bent down to pick the blankets up, wrapped them around his shoulders. He may have been a little insensitive just then, but Rosalie had to accept the inevitable, and in a painful and roundabout way, being injured and unable to drive would help her do just that.

Thoughts and questions about the accident swirled in his mind. Why had the four-wheel-drive failed to stop when they drove them off the road? And why had they not alerted the emergency services to rescue them but left them to their fate on the mountainside?

As soon as they were back in the civilised world, he’d go back to the chalet and confront the couple staying there. He was sure the black four-by-four had been on its way to the holiday lodge when they met on the mountain road. The road didn’t lead anywhere else, and he’d seen evidence of a vehicle being parked there. He couldn’t help thinking about the two rough-looking men he’d overheard talk with a cockney accent as they were leaving the pub and Rosalie’s comment about the couple at the holiday lodge. She said they had a London accent too, that they seemed overly keen to get rid of her, and that she had seen the woman with Rupert McBride – the same Rupert who was desperate to get money out of his cousin and inherit Raventhorn.

A memory niggled at the back of his mind. Rosalie had seemed distracted, shaken even, after talking to the tourists at the lodge, as if something unpleasant had happened there – something she hadn’t told him about.

Was there a connection between Rupert, the two men at the Stag’s Head and the couple at the lodge? He took a deep breath. Could their accident tonight be related to Rosalie’s crash on the forest road, since both times a black four-by-four had been involved? It was a shame he had so little to work on. The accident had happened too fast for him to read the four-wheel drive’s number plate or see anything that might help identify its occupants.

Tonight had been the latest of too many incidents. He may not understand what was going on, but he knew men who could help.

There weren’t many advantages to growing up in a boarding school – apart from developing a thick skin and a posh accent – but one of them was definitely making lifelong friends. Now was the time to call on his two best friends – Cédric Castel, daredevil freelance journalist, and Luc Peyrac, heir to one of Bordeaux’s oldest wine growing estates who had just retired from French intelligence services. If anyone could help him figure out what was happening at Raventhorn, it was them.

He leaned back against the sofa and stared ahead. Sleeping was out of the question. He had to keep watch in case someone had spotted their vehicle or had reported them missing, and a mountain rescue team drove past, looking for them.

The candles soon burned down and he found himself in pitch darkness. The blankets Rosalie had given him hardly fended off the freezing cold, the gash on his leg throbbed more than he wanted to admit and with nothing to occupy him other than his thoughts, it was the longest, most silent night he’d ever spent.