A Heart In The Highlands

7-1

7Beatrice Wrexham looked out of the coach window as the horses began to move slowly downhill. Below she saw Skaig Castle and the evening mist rising from the loch, so that the battlements and the pinnacles of the turrets seemed to be but a figment of the imagination which might vanish at any moment and become but one with the mists.

Beatrice had seen too many castles for the magnificence or beauties of Skaig to move her or awake any emotion other than a sense of relief that the end of her long journey was in sight.

The habitations of people never aroused her curiosity, were they palaces or cottages. It was the people who lived in them upon whom her interest was centred and more particularly of course the men.

As she thought of Niall MacCraggan her eyelids drooped a little and her red lips curved into a faint smile.

It had been an amusing interlude with a touch of piquancy about it, due principally to its unexpectedness. And it had been pleasant, after she had spent so many hours alone, to be admired and courted with such an impetuous and unbridled passion. Of one thing she was assured – that neither her face nor her body had lost the power to arouse desire.

She and Lord Niall had lingered for two nights at the little hotel at Aviemore and it was with difficulty that Beatrice had been able to persuade Niall that their sojourn should not continue indefinitely. His wild protestations of love had flattered her, his attitude towards his half-brother and his frankness regarding his own ambitions had intrigued her interest.

Beatrice was eager to reach Skaig, but she was shrewd enough to realise that a weapon had been placed in her hands, which could be turned to her own advantage. Here was an easy approach to the problem that the Marquis had set her, and she was well aware that it would serve his purpose, should she find enough evidence of Jacobite leanings to depose the present Duke, if she could install his half brother as Chieftain of the Clan. So long as the Dukedom of Arkrae was loyal to the English King, it would matter little who bore the title.

Niall would make a handsome Duke, Beatrice thought, and it might be entertaining to be instrumental in placing him in such a position. As she thought of his ardency, of the fierce strength of his arms and the possessive hunger of his kisses, she stretched herself and felt the warmth of her own response steal over her to quicken her pulses.

Journeys did not always have such pleasant respites, she told herself, and remembered that on her arrival at Skaig Castle she and Lord Niall were to meet as strangers. He had told her that he had planned to intercept her on the road because ever since he had first fallen in love with her, he had wondered how he could compel her interest He had been sensible enough to realise he had little chance of doing this in London, where he would be in competition with the Marquis. When he learnt that Beatrice was to visit Skaig he had known that here was a unique opportunity to further both his love and his ambition. Once he had guessed why she was journeying north, he was anxious to leave her in no doubt as to where his sympathies were placed.

Beatrice, while appreciating that Niall needed her help materially, was quite prepared to believe that he spoke the truth when he said he loved her. She was at the same time well aware that, had she been infinitely less attractive, he would to further his plans still have made an effort to seduce her. But she was experienced enough to know that, ambitious or not, desire for her had finally swept him off his feet.

She was too well versed in hearing men talk of love not to recognise sincerity when she met it, and when Niall had driven away from the inn at Aviemore, she knew that he was both her captive and her slave. At the same time it was obvious that he was uneasily aware that his stepmother would make trouble should she learn where he had been or have the slightest inkling that his affections were deeply involved.

It was therefore imperative that they should not arrive at the castle together and Lord Niall had gone ahead with the intention of breaking his journey the following night not in Inverness but at an inn on the outskirts of the town.

“It would not be wise for us both to stay in Inverness,” he told Beatrice. “More beautiful than the stars in Heaven, wherever you go, you are bound to excite comment and someone would doubtless sooner or later repeat that they had seen us together.”

“You sound as if you were afraid of your stepmother,” Beatrice teased and noted that Lord Niall looked uncomfortable.

“She is inordinately fond of me,” he said at length.

“And you – of her?” Beatrice asked.

“When I was very young, I found her not unattractive,” he replied. “I had seen few women, and she was certainly nearer my age than that of my father.”

Beatrice laughed.

“The story has a familiar ring,” she mocked. “Pretty young stepmother and a handsome, lonely stepson.”

There was something provocative in her tone and Lord Niall drew nearer to her to gaze hungrily at her curved lips, parted to show the pearly perfection of her teeth and the tip of a crimson pointed tongue.

“All women for all time will look like hags now that I have seen you,” he said, thickly.

Beatrice smiled, and her eyes gleamed enticingly beneath the dark lashes that bordered her heavy lids.

“How can I believe that?” she pouted. “Memories are short and when I have gone South again, doubtless someone else will hear those very words.”

“Do you doubt me?” Lord Niall asked fiercely. “I could kill you so that no one else could tell you of your beauty.”

He caught her almost brutally in his arms, but she laughed as her head went back against his shoulder. His lips were hard against the whiteness of her neck and after a while her laughter died away.

Yes, Lord Niall had been bewitched by her beauty, but now, as the wheels of the coach rumbled over the bridge leading into the castle, Beatrice wondered if the ardency of his love might not prove a trifle fatiguing.

It was always the same where she was concerned. A new love, a new adventure, she swept into it eagerly and excitedly until all too soon the thrill and ecstasy vanished, leaving her bored and impatient with the whole affair. A lover was like an orange she thought, when it was sucked dry, one’s thirst was quenched and there was nothing to do but to throw away the empty rind.

The horses drew up in front of the Castle.

Beatrice gave a last look into the hand mirror her maid held for her. Despite the long drive from Inverness there was not a hair out of place beneath her feather-trimmed hat of black velvet and her eyes were bright and unwearied. She wore her most elaborate travelling gown of azure blue velvet trimmed with ermine, and she carried a tiny muff of the same fur.

As the footmen hurried forward to open the coach door and draw aside the heavy fur rug that had covered her, Beatrice paused before descending, well aware that several figures were waiting for her at the top of the steps that led to the great oak door.

At last she stepped from the coach, two footmen assisting her descent, her maid hurriedly arranging the folds of her velvet gown. Then very slowly, her golden head held high, Beatrice moved up the steps.

The Duchess was waiting for her just inside the door, and Beatrice surprised a look of chagrin in her eyes and knew it was due to a very feminine pang of envy.

The two women kissed, then the Duchess turned to the tall figure standing by her side.

“May I present my stepson,” she asked, “the Duke of Arkrae?”

“We are indeed honoured by your visit, Lady Wrexham,” a deep voice said. “Permit me to welcome you to Skaig Castle.”

Beatrice felt his lips brush her fingers, and then as she rose from her curtsy, she looked deep into his eyes and felt something strange happen to her. She was not sure what it was, a sensation half of pain and half of pleasure that seemed to strike her suddenly and leave her weak and quivering, a frailty she had never known before.

She was only half conscious of the Duchess’s chattering voice,

“You must be tired, my dear Lady Wrexham, for in truth it is a tiresome, exhausting journey. I vow that the last time I drove to London I was prostrate for weeks after my arrival. But let us repair to the salon. You will need a glass of wine to revive you, but I swear you look as if you have but stepped from your bedchamber.”

Beatrice followed her hostess and now she was able to notice the furnishing of the castle and feel relieved at its luxury. She had been half afraid she would find everything exceedingly uncomfortable, for she had been told in London that the Scots were little better than animals without even the most primitive ideas of civilisation.

But one glance at the elegance of the Duke’s exquisitely cut and heavily embroidered coat, the diamonds which glittered at his throat and the formality of his powdered hair reassured her that at Skaig the Scots were not without their graces.

She moved beside the Duchess up the broad staircase, their dresses sweeping against the carved oak balustrade, their silk petticoats rustling over the carpet. Beatrice was conscious all the time of the man who followed them. Never had she imagined for one instance that the Duke would be so handsome or indeed so attractive. No, he was more than that, there was something unique about him, something she had never encountered before. She was not sure what it was, and when they reached the top of the staircase, she turned round, making some trivial question an excuse to look at him again.

He answered her courteously and she noticed with a sudden sense of disquietude that he appeared quite unmoved by her beauty and his eyes were cold. She was accustomed to a change in men’s faces when they first beheld her, to seeing their faces darken, the pupils dilate a little.

She could feel excitement radiate from them, reaching out towards her, drawing her irresistibly as if towards the warmth of a fire. But in the Duke’s expression there was only polite interest, and for perhaps the first time in her life Beatrice wondered if her mirror had played her false.

The Duchess was speaking.

“Where is Niall?” she demanded. “I sent a footman to tell him that Lady Wrexham was arriving and that we were waiting to greet her. He can never have received the message or he would have been beside us. Where do you think he can be, Ewan?”

“I have not the least idea of Niall’s whereabouts,” the Duke replied.

A footman, standing sentinel on the landing, stepped forward.

“His Lordship is in the Chinese Room, Your Grace.”

“What can he be doing there?” the Duchess asked sharply. “I will call him.”

She crossed the landing towards a pair of wide mahogany doors on the far side. The footman hastened to open them for her. They swung open and it was easy for Beatrice and the Duke standing at the top of the staircase to see into the interior of the room.

Lord Niall was leaning against the mantelpiece in a negligent attitude, one hand raised as he played with his diamond-ringed quizzing glass. Standing in front of him, her slim, tense figure somehow conveying an impression of defiance, was Iona. In her hands she held a woollen shawl, the corner of which trailed on the ground. Her face was very white, her eyes wide and dark, but her chin was high, the vivid red of her hair a flag of unvanquished courage.

As the door opened, Lord Niall looked round with an expression of irritation, but it was obvious that the interruption came as a relief to Iona.

“Niall, why are you here?” The Duchess’s voice was almost shrill. “Lady Wrexham has arrived and you were not there to greet her.”

Lord Niall glanced from his stepmother’s face towards the landing and he moved unhurriedly towards the door.