The Pemberley Collection

And the Bride Wore Prada

Katie Oliver

Love, Lies and Louboutins

Katie Oliver

Manolos in Manhattan

Katie Oliver

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

And the Bride Wore Prada

Blurb

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Extract

Chapter 1

Love, Lies and Louboutins

Blurb

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Extract

Chapter 1

Manolos in Manhattan

Blurb

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Copyright

And the Bride Wore Prada

Katie Oliver

She’s dated Mr Darcy…now it’s time for Gemma to prepare to say ‘I do’! And the Bride Wore Prada is the sensational first book in Katie Oliver’s long-awaited ‘Marrying Mr Darcy’ series, the follow-up to her best-selling ‘Dating Mr Darcy’ trilogy.

KATIE OLIVER

loves romantic comedies, characters who ‘meet cute’, Richard Curtis films, and Prosecco (not necessarily in that order). She currently resides in northern Virginia with her husband and three parakeets, in a rambling old house with uneven floors and a dining room that leaks when it rains.

Katie has been writing since she was eight, and has a box crammed with (mostly unfinished) novels to prove it. With her sons grown and gone, she decided to get serious and write more (and hopefully, better) stories. She even finishes most of them.

So if you like a bit of comedy with your romance, please visit Katie’s website, www.katieoliver.com, and have a look.

Here’s to love and all its complications...

To my wonderful readers, who've supported me, encouraged me, and told me how much they enjoy my stories, this one's for you. With thanks to Clio Cornish, my fabulous editor, and to the writers at Carina UK for their unstinting support and friendship.

Chapter 1

‘Flight 6072 to Inverness – Two-Hour Delay.’

Natalie clutched her Vuitton cosmetics case and stared at the electronic arrivals and departures board in dismay. She glanced over at her husband Rhys. ‘That’s us, then.’

Rhys took her arm and led her over to a row of seats – horrible, crowded, uncomfortable seats – in Heathrow’s British Airways departures lounge.

‘Nothing for it but to wait,’ he told her. ‘Have a seat and I’ll go and fetch us a coffee.’

With a sigh, she sank into a chair. The skies outside the airport were a gloomy, lowering grey, and despite her warm coat and boots and the promise of Christmas in the air, Natalie felt the chill in her very bones.

‘You know, Rhys,’ she grumbled, ‘we could be in the Galleries lounge right now, drinking martinis, if we’d only flown first class.’ She looked at him hopefully. ‘You could still upgrade our tickets.’

‘It’s a short flight,’ Rhys pointed out. ‘Hardly worth paying double. And it’s a bit early for martinis. Besides,’ he reminded her as he glanced round the crowded airport, ‘we can’t be extravagant with our expenditures. Dashwood and James department stores are still regaining their footing. We don’t want the press saying that we’re wasting company money.’

‘But it’s our bloody money,’ Natalie said crossly, and sneezed. ‘Yours and mine! We own half the company.’

‘Twenty-five percent,’ Rhys corrected her. ‘And don’t forget ‒ public perception is very important. It’s all about financial restraint.’ He lifted his brow. ‘What’ll you have, coffee, or tea?’

‘Coffee,’ Natalie answered, her expression sulky. ‘Cream. One sugar. If you think we can afford it.’

He didn’t answer; he’d already turned and plunged into the crowds to fetch their coffees.

Public perception. Financial restraint. Crikey, Natalie thought irritably as she fished out a wodge of tissue from her jacket pocket and blew her nose – bloody allergies – she and Rhys had been married less than six months, and already she was beyond tired of those words. It was annoying, living one’s life under a glass dome, having one’s every move watched and criticised—

A commotion just ahead caught Natalie’s attention, and she glanced up. The click and whirr of flashbulbs and the sound of raised voices carried across the airport.

Natalie frowned. What in the world—?

Through the crowd she glimpsed a woman with a glossy fall of dark-red hair and a tiny black dress clicking purposefully across the airport in a pair of dagger-sharp heels. Next to her, a man, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses and his dark hair stylishly cut, linked his arm through hers.

Oh my God, Natalie thought, startled. It couldn’t be. But it was. It was Gemma Astley and Dominic Heath!

‘Dominic,’ one of the reporters called out as he lunged in front of the rock star, microphone outstretched, ‘is it true that you and Gemma are getting married soon?’

‘Yeah.’

‘When?’ a female reporter shouted. ‘Have you set a date?’

‘No comment.’

‘Is it true there’s to be a secret wedding at your Scottish estate in Inverness?’

‘Not much of a secret if you lot know about it, is it?’ Dominic shot back. ‘Now fuck off.’

Natalie stood and waved to catch his eye – he and Gemma were headed for the VIP lounge, no doubt – but the throngs of people and camera-wielding paparazzi around them made eye contact all but impossible.

‘Dominic!’ she called out. ‘Gemma!’

But they neither saw nor heard as they swept past. Disappointed, Natalie sank back down in her seat and wondered if it were true.

Were Gemma and Dom finally getting married?

If so – and if they’d be on same the flight to Scotland with her and Rhys – then perhaps the four of them could get together for a drink, or dinner.

Or perhaps not. After all, Natalie reflected with a frown, Gemma hadn’t bothered to share this latest news with her, nor had she invited them to the wedding. No surprise there, really; after all, she and Gem hadn’t spoken in nearly four months. But they used to tell each other everything.

And it really hurt to be excluded.

Oh well, Nat reminded herself, at least she and Rhys would be spending the holidays with her good friend Tarquin at his family’s castle in the tiny village of Loch Draemar in the Scottish Highlands.

It promised to be a fun and relaxing few weeks of roaring fires, delicious food (hopefully minus turnips or haggis), and brisk walks across the heath, not to mention nice long fireside chats with Tark and Wren, and she was really looking forward to it.

She looked up as a family trundling wheeled suitcases behind them trudged past in Gemma and Dominic’s wake. ‘I want a sweet, Mummy,’ a little girl with ginger hair complained. ‘You said I could have an ice lolly.’

‘Sam, it’s two degrees outside,’ her mother said, exasperated. ‘You can’t possibly want an ice lolly.’

‘But, Mummy, I do. And you promised.’

‘You did promise,’ a slightly older boy pointed out. ‘In the car, you said Sam might have one if she only stopped singing “The Wheels on the Bus” for five bloody minutes—’

‘That’s enough out of both of you,’ their father interjected. ‘Come along, or we’ll be late boarding our flight.’

As they walked by and merged into the crowds, the ginger-haired girl still sulking, Natalie eyed them wistfully. How lovely to have a family of your own, she thought. A sweet little girl or boy – or perhaps, one of each – for whom she could buy lots of darling little outfits, and lots of darling little shoes, and lots of darling little toys...

She sighed. She really, really wanted a baby. And although Rhys was amenable to the idea, he thought it best that they wait a bit, and enjoy being a couple before they started a family. After all, he’d pointed out, they’d only just got married. And although Natalie knew he was right in theory ‒ that they should travel and dine out and enjoy one another’s company before they added children to the mix – still, the pull of motherhood grew stronger within her every day.

Her sister Caro had a new baby. Such a sweet lamb little Phillipa was, too – so soft and cuddly and smelling of baby powder and...well, to be honest, Natalie thought as she wrinkled her nose, of poo, sometimes. She didn’t much look forward to that. Still – the image of Rhys, bent over a changing table as he put a nappy on their baby girl or boy, made her absolutely melt...

‘Excuse me. Sorry to bother you, but...aren’t you Natalie Dashwood?’

Startled out of her reverie, Natalie looked up to see a woman with short-cut brownish hair and blue eyes regarding her quizzically. A laptop bag hung off her shoulder.

‘Well, I was,’ Natalie said, her expression guarded. ‘I’m Natalie Dashwood-Gordon, now. Sorry, have we met—?’

She smiled in apology. ‘Oh, no. Only...I spotted you across the way and thought I recognized you. I saw you waving to Dominic Heath just now.’

Natalie nodded. ‘I tried to catch his eye, but with all the paparazzi...’

‘Yes, horrible buggers, aren’t they?’ The woman indicated the empty seat next to hers. ‘Do you mind? It took me two bloody hours to get through the security lines.’

‘Of course not. Please, sit down. My husband’s just gone to fetch some coffee.’

‘Ah, yes. Rhys Gordon. You two are married now, aren’t you? I read about it in the tabs,’ she added as she slid the laptop strap from her shoulder and sat down.

Natalie nodded politely. ‘Yes. We got married five months ago.’ She sneezed again. ‘Sorry,’ she apologized as she withdrew another tissue from her pocket. ‘Allergies.’

‘Quite all right, I have them too. So you’re still practically newlyweds! How lovely.’

‘Yes. It’s almost five months now.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Thank you.’

The woman leant forward. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but you tied the knot at Dominic’s family home in – oh, where was it—? Warwickshire?’

‘Yes. We had a lovely wedding at Mansfield Hall.’

‘The photo spread in Town and Country was gorgeous,’ she agreed. ‘Still,’ she added with a tiny frown, ‘getting married at your ex-boyfriend’s family home... That must’ve been a bit awkward.’

‘Not really,’ Natalie said, with a trace of defensiveness. ‘It’s true Rhys and Dom don’t like each other, but they managed to be civil for the duration of the wedding reception.’

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ The woman glanced in the direction of the VIP lounge. ‘Rumour has it that Dominic and Gemma are off to Scotland to get married in a secret wedding ceremony.’

‘Is that right? I wouldn’t know.’

‘Really?’ She regarded Nat in mild surprise. ‘But I thought...well, aren’t you and Dominic’s fiancée good friends?’

Natalie hesitated. ‘We are. Well, we were. But we’ve...lost touch.’

‘Ah,’ she said, her face etched in sympathy. ‘Running in loftier circles now, is she?’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s it, exactly.’

‘Here we are, darling ‒ coffee, cream, one sugar.’

Rhys stood before her, holding out a Costa cup.

‘Thank you,’ Nat murmured, and took the cup. ‘While you were gone, Gemma and Dominic went past with a boatload of paparazzi in their wake.’

He grimaced. ‘Glad I missed that.’

‘Oh – where are my manners? Rhys, let me introduce you to... I’m sorry,’ Natalie apologized as she turned back to speak to the woman in the seat next to hers, ‘but I didn’t catch your name—?’

But the seat was empty. The woman with the short brown hair and the laptop was gone.

Natalie frowned, perplexed. ‘That’s odd. She was just here, sitting next to me, chatting. She was very nice. But she’s gone now.’

‘They probably called her flight. Or she went to the loo.’ He sat down and sipped his coffee. ‘The queue at Costa was ridiculous, that’s what took me so long.’

‘I wonder if it’s true?’ Natalie mused as she resumed her seat next to him.

‘If what’s true?’

‘I wonder if Dominic and Gemma are finally getting married? I tried to catch Dom’s eye, but he never noticed me with all the reporters and photographers clustered round.’

‘Is Gemma still engaged to that rock star twit?’

‘Of course she is! Why wouldn’t she be?’

‘I’d hoped she’d come to her senses. Besides, they’ve been engaged for a donkey’s age, haven’t they?’ Rhys observed as he sipped his coffee.

‘Only five months,’ Natalie pointed out, ‘as long as we’ve been married. That’s not so long. And knowing Dominic, I’m sure he’s in no hurry to tie the knot.’

He lifted his brow. ‘Haven’t you talked to Gemma, then? What does she say?’

‘Well, that’s just it,’ Natalie admitted, and frowned down at the lid of her coffee. ‘I haven’t spoken to her, really, since she and Dom got engaged.’

It’d been four months since they’d talked, to be exact. Four whole months! Gemma, Rhys’s very capable personal assistant at Dashwood and James, had quit her job shortly after Dominic asked her to marry him. Although Gemma and Natalie had gotten off to a rocky start – Gemma thought Nat was a posh, pampered princess, and Nat thought Gemma was a rude cow – they’d eventually become, if not best mates, at least good friends.

Yet it seemed all that had changed, now.

Gemma, as her father Milo would say, had come right up in the world. She’d gone from being Rhys’s PA (and an underage topless model in Ladz magazine) to become Dominic Heath’s now-famous fiancée. Her photograph appeared with equal frequency in the pages of high-end fashion magazines and tabloids. She ran in altogether different circles now – circles that included rock stars, Brazilian models, former Spice Girls, and paparazzi...

...circles that plainly didn’t include her any longer, Natalie thought, hurt by Gemma’s exclusion a bit more than she cared to admit.

‘Not put out with you, is she?’ Rhys asked.

‘No!’ Nat said indignantly. ‘Why would she be? I’m sure Gemma’s just...busy, with lots to do now that she’s engaged to Dom.’

‘Yes,’ Rhys said, although he didn’t sound particularly convinced as he opened the latest issue of Top Gear he’d bought and began to flick through the pages. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

And as Natalie stood up and went to toss her half-empty coffee cup in the bin, she had to agree – she wasn’t completely convinced, either.

Chapter 2

‘Bloody hell, babes – please, no more perfume,’ Dominic Heath grumbled. ‘You’ve bought out the entire duty-free shop as it is! You’re fucking bankrupting me.’

Gemma ignored him and reached for a purple bottle of scent. ‘Ooh, look, it’s your ex-wife’s new scent, Positively Posh!’ She paused to squeeze the atomizer and took an appreciative sniff. ‘It’s nice. It smells like freesias and roses.’

‘It ought to smell like disappointment and an empty wallet,’ Dom retorted, ‘because that’s all I ever had when we were together.’

‘That’s not what Keeley said,’ Gemma pointed out as she put the bottle back on the shelf. ‘She said you were always borrowing money from her—’

‘Never mind that,’ Dominic cut in, annoyed. ‘Can we talk about something besides my cow of an ex-wife?’

‘Fine.’ She dumped her purchases on the counter in front of the till and fixed him with a gimlet eye. ‘Let’s talk about our wedding, then.’

Dominic let out a long-suffering sigh and handed over his AmEx black card to the clerk at the till. ‘I told you, babes, I’m leaving all that wedding crap up to you.’

‘It’s your wedding, too,’ Gemma pointed out, ‘and so I need your input. I mean it, Dom,’ she warned him as she gathered up her purchases and thrust them into his arms, ‘this isn’t only about me, you know. You’re the groom. You have certain responsibilities.’

‘Responsibilities? Like what? I say ‘I do,’ slap a ring on your finger, get bladdered afterwards, and have an X-rated honeymoon with my new bride. Job done.’

‘There’s a bit more to it than that!’ she snapped. ‘There’s the wedding toast, and choosing a best man, and then there’s your boutonnière—’

‘All right, all right,’ he grumbled. ‘No need to go on about it endlessly. We’ll talk about it on the jet.’

Normally, ‘the jet’ referred to Dominic’s private Lear. But since it was side-lined with mechanical problems, they’d been reduced to flying to Inverness for the holidays on a commercial flight. They were flying first class, of course, Gemma consoled herself as she trailed after Dominic into the VIP lounge, but still...it wasn’t the same as having your own private plane, was it?

No. It bloody well wasn’t.

‘And what about our children?’ she added when they were seated in side-by-side, heated massage chairs.

‘Hmm?’ Dom murmured, his eyes half closed and his thoughts lingering on that morning’s Page Three girl. Candi, her name was, and her tits had been very sweet indeed...

‘I want kids. Two. Possibly three,’ Gemma mused, ‘a girl, a boy, and another girl. Rafaella, I think, and Dylan, and Phoebe.’

‘Dylan? I’m not naming my kid Dylan! That’s a naff name,’ Dominic objected. ‘I’m not wild about Phoebe, either. I’ve got an Aunt Phoebe, and she’s a right bitch.’

‘And we’ll need to get the baby registered for Wetherby as soon as it’s born,’ Gemma went on, oblivious. ‘The waiting list is miles long.’

‘What? Is the waiting list so long we’ve got to register the baby for school before it’s even in bloody utero?’ Dominic demanded. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘That’s what we have to do if our baby’s to have a proper education.’

‘Poor little mite. Not even conceived yet, and the wheels are already in motion.’

‘Are you saying I’m wrong to want our baby to have a proper education?’

‘No. I’m just saying that you barely got through the local comprehensive, Gems, and I ‒’ he paused ‘‒ well, I’m not exactly a Man Booker prize candidate, am I?’

‘Maybe not,’ she agreed, ‘but you’re a famous rock singer, with lots of fans and hit records to your credit.’

‘And lots of dosh, too,’ he added with a satisfied smirk. ‘Don’t forget that.’

‘But we don’t know if little Rafaella or Dylan or Phoebe will have your artistic talents, do we? So we need to make sure they receive an excellent education.’

‘I had an excellent education,’ Dom pointed out, ‘and it didn’t do me much good.’

‘That’s because you didn’t apply yourself. And you wanted more out of life than being the next Locksley heir.’

‘True,’ he agreed, and sat up. ‘Well – at least the old man’ll be happy to know he’ll soon have a little heir-in-waiting in the old bun-warmer. He’s always banging on at me and Liam, wanting to know when we plan to produce a grandchild.’

Gemma leant forward and brushed her lips against his. ‘We can get started on making a baby tonight, if you like,’ she murmured, and smiled seductively.

‘How about sooner, babes, like...on the plane?’

Gemma giggled. ‘And tell our little girl or boy that they were conceived in an airplane loo? No!’

‘Why not? We can christen the kid...Lufthansa. Or Ryanair. Or if it’s a girl, EasyJet.’

Gemma slapped his hand away from her thigh. ‘I want our baby to be conceived in romantic surroundings, Dom, in a canopy bed piled with blankets, with a roaring fire in the fireplace, and snow coming down outside... not inside an airline loo, balanced atop a stainless-steel sink with a faucet up my arse.’

‘Every detail can’t always be perfect, you know,’ he grumbled. ‘What’ll you do ‒ post a picture to FacePage before we do the deed? I can see it now: ‘Look, everyone ‒ here’s the bed where Dom and I are about to conceive little Lufthansa’? Or maybe you can add a new relationship status – ‘currently being roundly shagged’?’

‘Oh, do shut up,’ Gemma said crossly as she picked up her mobile and thumbed through her text messages. ‘I’m not that bad.’

‘No. You’re worse. You’re obsessed with social media. The only way I can get your attention lately is to send you a bloody text message.’

But Gemma didn’t hear him. She was too busy posting a status update to FacePage to notice.

Thank God they haven’t cancelled the flight, the woman thought as she shoved her laptop into the already crowded overhead bin and squeezed into the last remaining seat in economy class. Otherwise I wouldn’t get to Scotland until after Christmas.

She glanced out the window. Snow fell steadily and had just begun to cover the Tarmac. Another hour of this and all flights out of Heathrow would be cancelled.

A family came down the aisle and sat across from her. The mother settled into a seat with her little girl beside her, and her husband sat just in front with their son. The girl had ginger hair and was perhaps nine or ten, complaining about the injustice of being denied a promised sweet. Her brother ignored her and played a game on his father’s mobile phone.

The woman reached for her iPod and earphones. Thank God for noise-blocking technology. She had far too much work to be doing to sit here and listen to children complaining and video games beeping and parents shushing their little darlings for two-plus hours.

Still, as she busied herself drafting a few notes on her mobile before the flight attendant asked them to shut off all electronic devices, her glance strayed once again to the girl and her brother. They were cute kids, she thought. For a moment – just for a moment – she allowed herself to imagine having a little ginger-haired girl, or a tow-headed little boy, of her own...

She pressed her lips together and turned her thoughts back to the matter at hand. Work. She had plenty to be doing, she reminded herself firmly, and a deadline to meet. She forced her attention back to her mobile screen.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! The little girl just behind her was kicking the back of her seat in time as she sang a (very loud) CBeebies song.

She let out a long, aggrieved sigh.

Bloody deadlines. Bloody economy. Bloody children.

Chapter 3

‘What d’you mean, you don’t have a hire car?’

Dominic Heath, his face inches away from the man’s standing behind the hire counter, spoke in a deceptively calm voice despite the dangerous glint in his eyes.

The hire agent’s smile was apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Heath, but we haven’t a car reserved for you.’

‘Well, get me another one.’

‘Regrettably, we have no other cars available at this time. They’ve all been hired out.’

‘That can’t be,’ Dominic ground out. ‘My agent, Max Morecombe, arranged for a car – along with a driver ‒ for my fiancée and me two weeks ago.’

With a nod and a nervous smile at the rock star and his glowering girlfriend, the agent tapped once again at the keys of his computer. ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ he said a moment later, ‘but I see no reservation under ‘Dominic Heath.’ Did he perhaps arrange it under another name?’

‘Try Rupert Locksley.’

More tapping, more frowning, and another regretful shake of the hire agent’s head followed. ‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’

‘Try “Dr Feckle”. Or “Mr Clyde”.’

The agent looked at him oddly, but nodded and tapped. ‘Erm...no luck with either. Sorry.’

‘Right, then. Get me another car,’ Dominic demanded.

‘As I just explained, sir, there are no other cars—’

‘So what the fuck am I supposed to do in the meantime?’ the rock star raged. ‘Sleep in this poxy airport lounge all night? Get me a bloody CAR!’

Natalie, alerted by Dominic’s raised voice as she waited with Rhys to get their hire car, glanced over.

‘Oh, dear,’ she murmured, and touched Rhys’s sleeve. ‘Dom and Gemma seem to be having a problem.’

He followed her glance. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, his expression dour. ‘And I’ve no doubt Dominic is the problem. He always is.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Natalie agreed. ‘Just the same, I think I’ll go over and see if I can help.’

Rhys shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. Although I wouldn’t bother.’

Natalie left and made her way across the crowded floor to the car agency counter. Gemma, her attention focused on finding the perfect wedding gown on her mobile phone, didn’t look up as she approached.

‘Hullo, Dom,’ Nat said warily as she joined him at the counter, ‘what’s wrong?’

He looked up, a scowl on his face. It morphed into surprise as he caught sight of her. ‘Natalie! What are you doing here?’

‘Rhys and I are on our way to Loch Draemar to visit Tarquin and Wren. You remember Tark, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, of course I do. He’s that Scottish bloke with the castle and shedloads of money, isn’t he?’

She nodded. ‘He’s invited us to stay for the Christmas holidays. I’m really looking forward to it.’ She glanced over at Gemma, still texting and oblivious to anything around her, and back at Dominic. ‘Why were you shouting just now? What’s wrong?’

‘What’s wrong?’ he echoed. His face darkened. ‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong! This poxy hire car agency doesn’t have a car reserved for Gemma and me. And now there’s not so much as a clown car available for hire, thanks to Max’s screw-up and this bloody blizzard!’

Natalie cast an apologetic glance at the hire agent and drew Dominic aside. ‘We’ll just be a moment.’

Gemma, alerted by Dominic’s raised voice, looked up from her texting long enough to see her fiancé having a cosy tête-à-tête with Natalie, his ex-girlfriend.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Natalie,’ she said as she put away her mobile and strode over, ‘what are you doing here? I didn’t expect to see you in Scotland.’

‘Obviously not,’ Nat said, and sniffed.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘How could you possibly know what I’m doing, when you haven’t spoken to me in months?’

Gemma had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘I’ve been busy,’ she said defensively. ‘There’s lots going on.’

‘So much going on that you couldn’t even tell me you’re about to get married?’ Natalie hissed.

‘Shh! It’s a secret!’ Gemma hissed back.

They glared at each other.

‘All right, you two,’ Dominic interrupted, ‘do you mind having your hen fest or catfight or whatever the fuck it is some other time? I still have no idea ‒’ he scowled at the man behind the counter ‘ ‒ how we’re getting from here to Northton Grange with No. Bloody. Car.’

Gemma sighed. ‘You’re right, Dom.’ She met Natalie’s eyes. ‘Sorry, Nat, it’s been crazy, it really has. But that’s no excuse to ignore one of your best mates.’

‘It’s okay,’ Nat said. ‘The most important thing right now,’ she added briskly, ‘is to find you both a ride. I’ve an idea ‒ why don’t you come along with us? Rhys is just getting our hire car now. We can take you as far as Loch Draemar, at any rate.’

‘Ooh, would you?’ Gemma said, her expression hopeful. ‘You’d really save our bacon. I don’t fancy sleeping in the airport. Thanks, Nat.’

‘No problem. Wait here, I’ll just go and let Rhys know there’s been a change of plan.’

‘You want to do what?’ Rhys hissed after Natalie explained the situation. He cast Dominic, glowering at him from in front of the hire counter, a black look. ‘I don’t want to share our car with that bolshie little shit.’

‘It’s only until we get to Draemar,’ she pointed out reasonably, and added, ‘We can’t very well leave them stranded here at the airport, can we?’

‘Is that a rhetorical question?’ Rhys gritted.

‘Rhys!’

He sighed. ‘Bloody hell! All right, tell them to get their things and come along. I want to get on the A96 as soon as possible, or we’ll never make it to Tarquin’s castle by nightfall.’

The snow came swirling down in thick flakes as the unlikely foursome made their way across the car park to the waiting hire car.

Dominic loaded their luggage into the boot next to Nat and Rhys’s, then climbed into the back seat of the Ford Mondeo alongside Gemma and slammed the door, grumbling under his breath.

‘Have you something to say, Dominic?’ Rhys enquired as he eyed the rock singer balefully in the rear view mirror.

Dominic glared back. But, ‘Thanks for the ride, mate,’ was all he said.

With a grunt, Rhys started the engine, and began their journey down the A96 through the snowy Scottish countryside.

The woman clutched the steering wheel with white-tipped knuckles, her face set in a pale mask of concentration as she manoeuvred the hired Fiat along the ice-slick roads. She forced her attention on the Tarmac, barely visible through the windscreen now under the heavy curtain of snowflakes falling relentlessly down.

Without warning, the wheels lost traction, sliding on a patch of snow-covered ice. With a sharp intake of breath, she gripped the wheel tighter and slammed on the brakes, remembering as she did that you were meant to tap the brakes gently and turn into the skid, not against it; but it was already too late.

The car veered sideways. Panicked, she tried to regain control, but the Fiat slid off the road, down an embankment and into a snowdrift-covered ditch.

She let out a piercing scream.

The lorry was huge, and came hurtling straight at them in the rain. Headlights loomed, blinding their faces as each of the drivers twisted the wheel in a futile, too-late attempt to avoid a head-on collision.

The horrific shriek of metal shearing and glass shattering was the last sound she heard before the impact threw her from the car.

Her screams still echoed in her ears as she lifted trembling hands away from her face. The windscreen was covered now in white; the wipers had stopped working, frozen into immobility. Must get out, she thought disjointedly, her heart doing odd things in her chest. Can’t stay in the car. Carbon monoxide poisoning, blocked tailpipes...runaway lorries...

She struggled to open the door, shoving it back against a pile of snow until she was able to wedge herself out of the car on trembling legs. She groped for a pair of mittens in her coat pocket and pulled them on. Cautiously she edged round the front of the car to inspect the damage, clutching at the fender, when she heard the driver’s door swing shut behind her with a thud of finality.

And as it shut, she realized her keys were still in the ignition, and her purse and her laptop were still on the passenger seat...and the bloody Fiat was bloody locked.

Oh, fuck. What do to? She was alone in the middle of a blizzard somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, with a car she couldn’t get into and only a threadbare puffa jacket and a pair of mittens – already sodden ‒ to keep her warm.

She stood and clutched at her elbows as a wave of unadulterated panic washed over her. Her mobile phone, locked away in her handbag in the car, was useless, as was any hope of calling someone to come and rescue her.

Why, why, why hadn’t she listened to the nice man at the hire car counter in Inverness and waited the storm out in a nearby hotel?

Because you never listen, she told herself, you never bloody listen.

Grimly she pulled her jacket collar closer against her chin and trudged forward through the snow – because what else was she to do?

There was nothing for it but to walk, to follow the snow-covered sliver of Tarmac and keep moving.

She’d slogged through the snow for perhaps ten minutes when she glimpsed a house – no, it looked like a bloody castle – looming up ahead, half hidden by the snow and the trees. Her fingers were numb and she couldn’t feel her legs beneath her. Was she really seeing a castle, she wondered, or was she having some sort of...of snow hallucination?

You go to sleep, don’t you, she thought, just before you freeze to death?

The snow was intermingled now with a sharp, icy rain, and she stumbled forward for several more minutes, grown slow and stupid with the cold. She thought she saw a stone cottage a few yards ahead. Or was it, too, a figment of her snow-fevered imagination?

It was a gatehouse of some sort, she realized dazedly, and thank God there was a light on inside.

She didn’t realize she was crying until she felt the tears, frozen on her face. Something under the snow – a fallen tree trunk or a rock – made her stumble. With a cry she fell hands-first into a snowdrift as her ankle gave way and twisted beneath her. Now her trousers were as sodden and wet as her gloves and her ankle began to throb. She shivered and dragged herself back up, then staggered, wincing with pain, towards the door.

‘Help,’ she croaked as she pounded weakly on the door, ‘someone let me in, please...’

Chapter 4

‘I saw the sweetest family at Heathrow,’ Natalie ventured an hour later. The atmosphere in the Mondeo, she couldn’t help but notice, was decidedly tense.

Dominic said nothing and glowered out the window. Rhys, his jaw set, was silent as he focused on navigating the slippery, snow-covered road.

And Gemma was too busy texting and posting on her mobile phone to notice anything – or anyone – around her.

Desperate to lighten the mood, Nat added, ‘This family had a little girl and a little boy. The girl was put out because she wanted an ice lolly. In this weather! Can you imagine? Isn’t that too funny?’

Evidently no one else thought it was funny, or even particularly interesting, as no one bothered to respond. Natalie gave up and subsided with a sigh into silence.

‘I’ll say this much,’ Rhys observed grimly a moment later. ‘It’s bloody treacherous out here.’

Nat leant forward and touched his arm. ‘Will we make it safely to Loch Draemar, do you think?’ she asked in a low voice. Anxiety etched her face.

‘We should do,’ he allowed, his words cautious as he kept his eyes on the windscreen, ‘barring no unforeseen surprises, like an accident or an engine malfunction—’

He’d no sooner uttered the words when a stag leapt out of the surrounding forest and slid to a stop before them, legs wildly cartwheeling, blocking the road. With a startled curse, Rhys wrenched the wheel sideways to avoid hitting the animal.

Natalie gasped. Gemma shrieked. And Dominic snarled, ‘What the fuck are you doing up there, Gordon? You made me lose my place in the latest issue of Luxury Car Gear.’

Rhys shot him a murderous glare. ‘I’m driving, in the event you hadn’t noticed, in a bloody blizzard, whilst trying to avoid the very large elk that just leapt in front of us.’

‘Oh.’ Dominic peered ahead. ‘Well, try not to kill us all in the process, if you don’t fucking mind.’

‘It’s you I’d like to kill,’ Rhys growled, ‘you poxy, ungrateful little shit—’

‘Ooh, look!’ Natalie exclaimed, anxious to de-escalate the hostilities as she clutched at Rhys’s sleeve. ‘Our friend’s leaving.’

It was true. The elk, having decided that the car and its occupants were of less interest than the prospect of food, turned and, with a dip of his majestic, antlered head, leapt back into the nearby woods and disappeared.

‘Could we get on with it, please?’ Dominic demanded. ‘I’d like to get to the village before nightfall. Gem and I still need to find a hotel room, you know.’

‘Perhaps,’ Rhys said, his voice dangerously calm, ‘you’d like to drive?’

‘Not my hire car, is it?’ Dominic fired back. ‘I can’t drive it, as I’ve got no liability. Sorry, mate.’

Rhys pressed his lips together. It was only Natalie’s whispered reminder that Dominic so wasn’t worth spending the night in a Scottish gaol that kept him from shoving the gearshift right up the rock star’s skinny little arse.

And Gemma, who’d returned once again to her texting and posting and uploading, took no notice of any of them.

Helen’s feeble knocking finally alerted someone inside the cottage, and the door swung open. She was vaguely aware of a man who helped her stumble inside, and the moment he led her to a sofa in front of a deliciously warm fire and threw a quilt over her, she fell into a deep and exhausted sleep.

She dreamt of shattering glass and overturned lorries and headlights rushing straight at her, and she heard the sound of her own screams echoing in her head...

With a start she woke up. ‘Where am I?’ she muttered, disoriented. She didn’t recognize the stone fireplace, its maw blackened and its mantel hewn of wood, or the floor lamp with its tasselled shade. Her ankle throbbed dully.

A man knelt down, his voice gruff as he said, ‘Be glad you’re not out there. Worst blizzard in five years.’

‘Who ‒ who are you?’ she asked.

She stared at him, mesmerized. He was a giant...a scowling, dark-ginger-haired giant with a dark-ginger beard who might have stepped from the pages of a fairy tale, one about woodsmen and children who foolishly nibbled on houses made of candy...

‘The groundskeeper.’ He offered no further information. ‘And who are you?’

‘Helen,’ she said after a moment. ‘My car hit an icy patch and slid off the road at the bottom of the drive.’

‘It’s nae a night to be driving.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ she responded, suddenly defensive, ‘but I had no choice.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m working. I have responsibilities. Deadlines. Things I can’t put off until the weather improves.’ She paused and added, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Colm.’

She pushed herself up, wincing as pain shot through her foot with the movement. ‘Have you an aspirin? I think I may have turned my ankle.’

He said nothing, but straightened with a grunt and disappeared into the kitchen. Judging from the sound of banging pots and water running and cabinets opening and closing, he must be making tea. She hoped he was making tea. She’d kill for a cup of strong, hot Earl Grey right now.

Five minutes later she heard the kettle whistle, and the clatter of china and silverware. He returned in a moment with a tray in hand, laden with mugs, spoons, and pots of demerara sugar and cream...and a couple of aspirin.

There was even, she was surprised to note, a plate set out with a lemon wedge.

He put the tray down on the coffee table and glanced up. ‘How d’you take yer tea?’

‘Lemon, lots of sugar. No cream,’ she answered, and waited as he ladled in three heaped spoons of sugar, plonked in the lemon wedge, and stirred the lot with a spoon.

He thrust the mug at her.

‘Thank you.’ Gingerly she took it, and had a sip. She closed her eyes in ecstasy. It was the most perfect cup of tea she’d ever tasted, and she told him so.

In answer, he grunted.

Not exactly a candidate for a London talk show, then, she thought uncharitably. ‘Where is this place?’ she asked, curious.

‘Draemar. Loch Draemar, to be exact.’

She’d never heard of it. ‘Ah. And who owns the castle on the hill?’

His eyes came to rest on hers. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘What is this, twenty questions?’ Irritation coloured her voice. ‘I’ve told you, my name is Helen. Why won’t you answer my question?’

He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Why d’ye need to know?’

My God, but he’s the most suspicious man I’ve ever met, Helen thought. She reined in her annoyance and said calmly, ‘I’m on my way to Northton Grange. Do you know it?’

‘I do. There’s naught there but a church and a cemetery. And a rock star’s estate.’ He said this last with contempt.

‘So you do know it.’

‘I know of it. Not the same thing at all,’ he retorted, and turned away.

‘Wait,’ Helen protested. ‘Where are you going?’

He didn’t respond, just disappeared from the room. He came back a moment later with her handbag and laptop and dumped them both unceremoniously on the table next to the tea things.

‘My purse,’ Helen exclaimed, and reached out to snatch it up and scrabble through it in search of her mobile. It wasn’t there. ‘Shit,’ she muttered, ‘my phone must’ve slid off the seat onto the floor.’ She glanced up. ‘Did you happen to see it?’

‘If it’s not there,’ he retorted, ‘I didn’t see it. I brought what I found.’

She met his impenetrable eyes. ‘Right. So you did. Well, thank you, for that—’ she broke off, puzzled. ‘But...how did you get in? The car was locked.’

He raised his brow. ‘Aye, it was locked,’ he agreed, and eyed her levelly. ‘But the rear hatch wasn’t.’

And although he didn’t say it, Helen knew – just knew – that he was thinking to himself what a stupid, rattle-brained Londoner she was, wandering about in a life-threatening blizzard, when the rear bloody hatch of her car was unlocked the entire bloody time.

‘You’ll want to call in the morning to get someone to tow your car out,’ he said, his words gruff. ‘I can’t do it, the tractor won’t make it down the ravine. And there’s nae a phone here.’

She said nothing, but she wasn’t surprised he hadn’t a telephone. The cottage, with its huge stone fireplace, deep-silled windows, and ancient furnishings, was like something out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Or The Hobbit.

After all ‒ why would a man like Colm have anything as modern as a telephone?

‘It’s late.’ He found another blanket and a pillow and tossed them on the sofa, then turned away. ‘Take that aspirin now, the tea should be cooled enough, and try and get some sleep. If there’s naught else, I’ll say goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, and thank you for this—’

But he’d already turned and trudged upstairs, where he went into his room, and shut the door.

And as he did, it occurred to Helen that he never had told her who lived in that castle up on the hill.

Chapter 5

‘Oh, look, down there!’ Natalie exclaimed, and pressed her face to the car window. ‘Someone’s wrecked their car.’

Rhys followed her pointing finger. A car had indeed slid down an embankment and lay half buried in a snowdrift.

‘I do hope whoever was inside is all right,’ she said, her eyes anxious. ‘Should we check and see, do you think?’

Rhys shook his head. ‘It’s too far down the embankment, and it’s much too dark to investigate now. I’ll tell them up at the house. We’re nearly there.’

Sure enough, the lights of the castle’s turrets shone through the snowy darkness, beckoning them onward. Trees marched thickly along the edges of the road; the blackness beyond was impenetrable.

‘About bloody time,’ Dominic muttered.

He and Gemma had been unable to get a room in the tiny village of Loch Draemar, as no one had booked them in at the hotel. There was only a bed and breakfast down the road, and, the proprietor informed them in a thick Scottish accent, it was fully booked.

‘Thanks for letting us come along with you to Tarquin’s, Nat,’ Gemma offered, and cast Dominic a dark look. ‘It’s a good thing you waited.’

Rhys negotiated a curve in the drive and kept his attention on the road. ‘I didn’t expect there’d be anything available at such short notice. It is nearly Christmas, after all.’ He glanced in the rear-view mirror at Dominic. ‘Didn’t you arrange for a room beforehand?’ You wally, he almost added, but didn’t.

‘Of course I did!’ Dominic snapped. ‘Well, my agent did, anyway. Max said he took care of all of that. Bastard.’

Ten minutes later, Rhys stopped the Mondeo in front of quite the most impressive castle Natalie had ever seen outside of a fairy tale.

It had all the requisite things a proper castle should have – battlements, turrets, multi-paned windows, and a wooden door with metal hinges...even, it appeared, a moat – frozen now – and a drawbridge.

‘It’s gorgeous,’ Nat breathed as she leant forward in her seat, entranced. ‘Like a princess’s castle.’

They’d scarcely flung open the car doors and stepped out cautiously onto the snow-covered drive when the front door swung open. Light spilled out in a warm, welcoming path across the snow.

‘Fàilte! Welcome to Draemar,’ Tarquin called out, standing in the doorway with his arm around his petite wife, the aptly named Wren. ‘We were worried you wouldn’t make it through this blizzard.’

‘Tark!’ Natalie exclaimed, and catapulted herself into his and Wren’s arms. ‘It’s so good to see you both again, you have no idea!’

‘Aye, you too. It’s a nasty night for traveling.’

‘It was a dicey trip,’ Rhys admitted as he shook hands with Tarquin and Wren, ‘but somehow, we made it.’

Wren smiled warmly as she leant forward to kiss his cheek. ‘And we’re very glad you did.’ She turned with a quizzical but welcoming smile to Dominic and Gemma, hovering uncertainly in the darkness behind Nat and Rhys. ‘And who is this? Oh, my goodness ‒ isn’t that Dominic Heath? The rock star?’

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ Natalie apologised, ‘where are my manners?! Yes, it’s Dominic, and Gemma, his fiancée. They ran into a bit of trouble at Heathrow. It seems Dom’s agent forgot to book them a hire car, or rooms in the village hotel, and so they’ve no place to stay tonight.’

‘Oh! How awful.’ Wren eyed them in sympathy. ‘Then you must stay here, of course.’ She glanced over her shoulder at the enormous face of the castle. ‘It’s not as if we haven’t plenty of room to spare,’ she added wryly.

‘Thank you,’ Gemma said. ‘That’s very kind.’ Dominic mumbled his thanks and thrust out a hand to Tarquin and Wren.

‘Please, all of you, come inside,’ Tark urged. ‘You must be tired, and cold, and famished.’

‘I wouldn’t say no to a sausage roll and a cup of Builders,’ Dom muttered.

The main hall was enormous, with a sweeping staircase and a minstrel’s gallery overlooking the entranceway. An ancient carpet in faded shades of green and blue and red silenced their footsteps as they came inside. Overhead, a chandelier glimmered like a magnificent, jewelled bauble.

‘Ooh, what a gorgeous chandelier,’ Gemma breathed, awed.

Rhys glanced up, then back at Natalie. His eyes narrowed. ‘It ought to be. It cost £11,000. Plus shipping.’

Natalie blushed. ‘I’ll never hear the end of that, will I?’ She cast Rhys a reproving look and went to link her arm through Wren’s and glanced round in awe. ‘How on earth do you manage a place this size?’ Nat asked, curious. ‘It’s simply...enormous!’

‘Oh, we’ve a full staff,’ Wren explained as she and Tarquin led them into an elegantly appointed drawing room. ‘Draemar employs thirty-nine people.’

‘Thirty-eight,’ Tarquin corrected her. ‘One of the kitchen maids was sacked this morning.’

‘Not Lucy, I hope?’

‘No. It was the new girl. Betty, I think.’

‘Shit, this place is a regular Downtown Abbey,’ Dom observed, impressed despite himself. Draemar Castle made his own estate in Inverness look like a bloody Wendy house.

A fire blazed in the great black throat of the massive fireplace as they entered the drawing room, and sofas and chairs were arranged in small groups throughout the room. A serving cart set out with an assortment of Scotch whisky stood under one of the tall, multi-paned windows.

After inviting them to sit down and pouring them each a generous measure of the amber liquid, Tarquin rang for refreshments and settled himself on a sofa next to his wife. ‘I’ve arranged for smoked salmon and sandwiches. Will that suffice, do you think?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Or would you all prefer something a bit more substantial?’

‘That sounds perfect,’ Natalie assured him from the depths of a massive wing chair. ‘With cheddar, and that lovely brown granary bread...?’

Wren smiled. ‘Of course! You can’t have a decent Scottish meal without it.’

‘Where are your father and mother, Tark?’ Natalie asked. ‘Will they be joining us?’

‘Alas, no. They’ve gone to the Greek islands for the holidays. Said they’d had enough of cold, snowy weather and wanted to spend Christmas slathered in sun cream, drinking ouzo.’

‘I can’t say I blame them.’

‘That’s why we invited you and Rhys to spend Christmas here with us. And Dominic and Gemma, now, of course.’ He slid his arm around Wren’s shoulders. ‘It gets a bit lonely rattling around this old place when it’s just the two of us.’

‘I can imagine,’ Nat agreed. ‘I could get lost for days just trying to find the loo.’

Tarquin laughed. ‘You only need to tug on the nearest bell-pull,’ he advised, ‘and someone will come along to fetch you back to civilization.’

‘How many rooms in this place?’ Dominic asked, glancing around in curiosity.

‘About 150, at last count, and twenty or so bedrooms.’

‘And have they all been christened?’

Tarquin looked at him blankly. ‘Christened?’

‘Yeah, you know,’ Dominic said, and raised his brow suggestively. ‘Christened.’

He reddened. ‘Oh. Erm...I’m sure I don’t know.’

Gemma rolled her eyes. ‘Really, Dom! What a stupid question. Is sex all you ever think about?’

‘Are weddings all you ever think about?’ he shot back.

‘Wren,’ Natalie said quickly, ‘have you and Tark any plans to start a family? You always said you wanted lots of children.’

She shrugged, and a flash of sadness crossed her face. ‘We’ve been trying for two years, Nat, but so far, no luck.’

‘Oh, it’ll happen,’ Natalie assured her. ‘All in good time, that’s what they say.’

‘That’s what Dominic says,’ Gemma said, and cast the rock star a dark look. ‘Isn’t it, Dom?’

‘I told you, babes, we’ll have whatever kind of wedding you want. Just don’t drag me into it until it’s time to say ‘I do.’’

‘Oh, are you getting married?’ Wren said, and leant forward. ‘How exciting!’

‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ Rhys muttered.

‘Yes, in Northton Grange,’ Gemma replied. ‘Dom has a place there. We want to have a nice, quiet wedding in secret.’

‘Yeah,’ Dominic said, and snorted. ‘A ‘nice, quiet wedding’ with twelve bridesmaids, six groomsmen in kilts, a horse-drawn sleigh, and 500 of our closest friends.’

“And a Prada wedding gown,” Gemma added, her expression smug. “I found the perfect dress online.”

“Prada?” Natalie breathed. “Ooh, you have to let me see it, please!”

“I want to see it, too,” Wren said. “May I?”

As the three women clustered around Gemma’s mobile phone and bowed their heads to worship at the altar of Prada, Rhys turned to Tarquin. ‘So tell me, Laird Campbell,’ he ventured, ‘how does one celebrate Christmas in a Scottish castle? Do you roast an entire pig in that enormous fireplace? Fell a sixty-foot tree and drape it in swathes of tartan?’

Tarquin laughed. ‘Nothing so grandiose as that. We eat a lot and drink too much whisky and take long walks on the heath with the dogs afterwards to burn it all off.’

‘Just like we do at home,’ Natalie said.

‘Exactly.’ He glanced over at Rhys curiously. ‘I thought you were born here. Have you never spent a Christmas in Scotland?’

‘A few, when I was a kid.’ He cast a glance around the vast drawing room. ‘But I didn’t exactly grow up in a castle.’

‘Where did you grow up?’ Wren asked as she resumed her seat. ‘If you don’t mind my asking,’ she hastened to add.

‘Edinburgh, in a tower block in Wester Hailes.’ He drained his glass. ‘It was difficult, but Mum did her best. I made up my mind to get out of there just as soon as I could.’

‘Well, I must say ‒ you’ve done very well for yourself in the interim,’ Tark observed. ‘Well done, you. More whisky, gentlemen?’ he offered, and at their nods, leant forward to pour Rhys and Dominic each another generous measure.

Later, after they’d gone upstairs to their gorgeous – but cold – room in the west wing, Natalie twined her arms around Rhys and snuggled next to him in the enormous canopied bed.

‘Isn’t this lovely?’ she murmured against his chest as she gazed into the flames leaping in the fireplace.

‘Ummm.’

‘And aren’t Tark and Wren the sweetest couple? I just adore them both.’

‘Ummm hmmm...’

Natalie took her fingertip and drew it tentatively across Rhys’s chest. ‘Rhys, darling—?’

‘Hmmm?’

‘I’m feeling a bit...amorous. Are you?’

There was no answer.

‘Are you?’

Silence.

‘Rhys,’ she exclaimed, indignant, ‘are you even listening to me?’

She lifted her head and looked over at him enquiringly in the flickering firelight. He was sound asleep.

‘Poor man.’ She leant down and tenderly kissed his forehead. ‘All that driving in the blizzard did you in, didn’t it?’ she whispered. She snuggled up behind him, breathing in his reassuring male scent, and fell at once into a dreamless, untroubled sleep.

Chapter 6

Helen woke to sunlight streaming into her eyes. She stretched and sat up, blinking. She was on a sofa, in a tiny living room. For a moment she was disoriented and couldn’t work out where she was; but the banging of pots and pans in the kitchen and a man’s muttered cursing brought everything back – the snow, the embankment, getting locked out of her car, her aching ankle – and she realized that her reluctant host must be fixing breakfast.

He returned a moment later with a tray and thumped it down on the coffee table before her.

‘Good morning,’ she ventured.

‘There’s toast, a boiled egg, and tea, if you’ve a mind to eat.’

‘Thank you, that’s very kind—’

‘I’ve work to be doing, paths to shovel and fallen branches to clear off the drive. After you eat, you’ll have to go.’ His eyes – hazel, she noted irrelevantly – met hers without apology.

‘Go?’ she echoed, disconcerted. ‘But my car—’

‘It’s still in the ravine, where it’ll stay until it’s towed out. In the meantime,’ he reached for his parka, hanging on a peg by the door ‘I’ll start the truck. I’ll take you up when you’ve finished.’

His peremptory manner irritated her. ‘Take me up where, exactly? Can you tell me that much?’

‘To the castle. You can call for a towing truck from there. Not that anyone’ll be out to get your car anytime soon,’ he added.

‘Right,’ Helen said tightly, and swung her legs – still clad in yesterday’s trousers – over the side of the sofa. ‘Would it be possible to have a shower before I go? Or is that asking too much?’

He jerked his head towards the narrow staircase. ‘There’s a bathroom at the top of the stairs. Mind you don’t use all the hot water.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ she snapped.

Colm cast her an unreadable look and slammed out of the back door without reply.

Natalie dreamt she was Snow White, walking through a thickly treed Scottish wood as birds twittered and swooped around her. She was hopelessly lost.

Suddenly a bluebird flew down from a branch and landed on her shoulder.

‘Have you seen the castle?’ she asked the bluebird. ‘I can’t seem to find it, and I really need the loo.’

In answer the bird twittered into her ear, and the soft tickle of its tiny beak and feathers made her giggle.

‘Such a funny little creature,’ she murmured, and rolled over in bed.

‘Little? I’ve been called a lot of things, darling,’ Rhys said against her skin as his lips moved along her neck to the slope of her shoulder, ‘but little’s not one of them.’

‘Rhys!’

She sat up on her elbow, clutching the blankets to her chest.

He raised his brow. ‘Who else would it be?’

‘I was just dreaming about the sweetest little bluebird,’ she began as he pulled her back down next to him and nuzzled the skin behind her ear. ‘I was lost, and it was dark, and I really needed to find a loo...ooh,’ she sighed, ‘that’s nice...’

‘I thought,’ Rhys said as he began to unbutton Natalie’s nightgown with leisurely motions, ‘that we might christen this room, you and I.’

‘Christen it?’ she echoed, and giggled. ‘Rhys! You mean…?’

He gave her a lazy smile and lowered his mouth to kiss her. ‘Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.’

‘Good thing there’s lots of blankets on this bed,’ Dominic grumbled as he burrowed under the duvets and pulled Gemma closer, ‘otherwise we’d be a pair of effin’ icicles by now.’

Gemma, still half asleep, mumbled something incoherent. She’d been dreaming that she’d just topped 300,000 followers on Tweeper...

‘Babes.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Babes...’

‘Ahrm.’ She snuggled deeper into her pillow. She desperately wanted that blue celebrity checkmark on her Tweeper page, and she was close, so very close to getting it...

‘Babes!’ Dominic hissed.

Gemma’s eyes flew open. ‘What?’ she snapped. ‘I’m trying to sleep, Dom!’

He slung an arm around her and kissed her bare shoulder. ‘Don’t you want to start trying for that baby, then?’ he asked.

She levered herself up on one elbow and stared at him. ‘You mean…you mean you’re ready for us to have a baby?’

Dominic slid his hand along the warm curve of her hip and nodded. ‘Yeah. Yeah, Gems, that’s exactly what I mean.’

Fifteen minutes later, Helen emerged from the cottage and made her way cautiously – her ankle still twinged a bit, despite the aspirin she’d gulped with her morning tea ‒ to the waiting truck, an ancient Range Rover.

Although Colm had started the engine earlier, the interior was still frigid, and Helen could see her breath as she climbed inside.

Bloody cold. Bloody man. Bloody Scotland.

Colm, who was looking at something under the bonnet, slammed it shut and opened the driver’s-side door. As he slid behind the wheel, his shoulders filled the cab’s interior.

Without a word – not that Helen had expected him to make anything like conversation, God forbid ‒ he shifted into gear, and the Range Rover lurched forward as he drove them up the snow-covered road to the castle perched at the top of the hill.

Chapter 7

‘Crikey!’ Natalie exclaimed the next morning as she and Rhys stood in the dining room doorway. ‘You could land a plane on that table.’

As he followed her gaze, Rhys realized that for once, his wife wasn’t exaggerating. The dining table, its polished mahogany expanse stretching half the length of a football pitch, could easily accommodate fifty.

The sideboard was laid out with a generous assortment of eggs, kippers, stacks of toasted brown bread, baskets of scones, a fruit platter, and silver urns of coffee and juice and pots of jam and marmalade.

‘Looks like quite a spread,’ Dominic announced as he scanned the plates and platters of food with satisfaction. ‘Time to tie on the old feed bag, eh?’

Natalie eyed him quizzically as she slid into the seat Rhys held out for her. ‘I thought you stayed away from carbs and calories, Dom. You’re always watching your weight.’

He took a seat across from her, next to Gemma. ‘I’m on holiday, Nat. Besides,’ he glanced over at Gemma and leant over to kiss her ‘I’ve worked up a right appetite since we got here.’

Gemma blushed. ‘Shut up, Dominic.’

‘Yes,’ Rhys said as he cast a dark glance at the rock star, ‘please do.’

‘Good morning, everyone,’ Tarquin said as he entered the dining room with Wren. ‘I trust you all slept well?’

‘Fabulously,’ Natalie confirmed.

‘Never better,’ Rhys agreed.

‘Not at all,’ Dom said smugly as he eyed Rhys.

Tarquin turned behind him with a smile and added, ‘We have another stranded traveller on our doorstep this morning. This is Helen Thomas, everyone.’

Curious, they focused their attention on the woman who hovered just behind Tarquin. She had short-cropped brown hair and a hesitant smile and she looked a bit ill-at-ease.

‘Hello, everyone,’ she said, and waggled her fingers. ‘Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but my car slid down an embankment last night. I’ve come to use the telephone, to see if someone can come and tow it out—’

She broke off as she caught sight of Dominic Heath and Gemma, and her eyes widened. ‘Oh. Oh, my. Isn’t that—?’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Thomas,’ Tarquin said quickly. ‘Let me introduce everyone.’ He went around the table, starting with Natalie and Rhys, and finished with the rock star and his fiancée.

Dominic barely glanced up from his toast. ‘Yeah, hello,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘Could someone pass the butter, please?’

‘But how awful!’ Natalie exclaimed, and eyed Helen with sympathy. ‘You must have been petrified. Are you all right—?’ She broke off with a frown. ‘Wait...I remember you! We spoke in the lounge at Heathrow.’

‘Oh...yes! So we did,’ the newcomer said, with equal surprise. ‘You’re Natalie Dashwood. I mean Natalie Dashwood-Gordon,’ she added hastily. ‘How very nice to see you again.’

‘This is the lady I wanted to introduce to you at the airport,’ Natalie explained to Rhys. ‘But she disappeared.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Helen apologized, ‘but nature called. As it does, especially just before one plans to board a flight.’

‘Won’t you join us for breakfast?’ Tarquin enquired. ‘You’re more than welcome, and there’s plenty on hand.’

‘Oh, no thank you,’ Helen said. ‘I won’t intrude. I’m not hungry, at any rate. The gatekeeper was kind enough to fix me a cup of tea and a boiled egg.’

‘Kind? That’s not a word one usually associates with Colm Mackenzie,’ Wren observed, and exchanged an amused glance with Tarquin. ‘He’s avowedly antisocial.’

‘Yes,’ Tarquin agreed. ‘Not a very friendly chap, and he keeps to himself; but he’s a hard worker, for all that.’

‘He wasn’t very forthcoming,’ Helen agreed, ‘but he let me in last night after I got lost. I was wandering out in the blizzard, terrified and half frozen. I locked myself out of my hire car, you see,’ she added ruefully.

‘What rotten luck,’ Tarquin observed.

‘At least you got a hire car,’ Dominic muttered. ‘Bloody Max. I’m giving him the sack when we get back to London.’

‘Well,’ Tark observed, ‘if it had to happen, I’m glad it happened here, with Draemar castle near at hand.’

‘Not half so glad as I am,’ Helen murmured as she cast Dominic and Gemma a thoughtful glance, ‘believe me.’

‘If I can’t persuade you to join us for breakfast, then let me show you to the telephone, so you can make your call,’ he offered, and with another bright smile and a nod, Helen followed him out of the dining room.

‘What shall we do today?’ Natalie wondered a few minutes later, and glanced around the dining room table as she took up her napkin and spread it on her lap.

‘I thought I’d give you the grand tour,’ Tarquin offered as he returned to take his place at the head of the table beside Wren. ‘If you like.’

‘Can’t wait,’ Rhys said, and helped himself to scrambled eggs from the platter the footman held out. ‘I imagine it must take all day to show the entire castle.’

‘Nearly,’ Tark agreed. ‘Especially if we visit the dungeons.’

‘Dungeons!’ Gemma exclaimed, wide eyed. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. Many a prisoner was held captive here. The stories these walls could tell...’ his voice trailed off. ‘Afterwards,’ he added, ‘we’ll have lunch, and the gentlemen can indulge in a smoke and play a few hands of cards, or shoot billiards.’

‘Whilst us ladies adjourn to the drawing room for tea and gossip?’ Natalie teased.

‘How boring!’ Wren said, and grimaced. ‘No. We’ll go up to the screening room and drink wine and munch on popcorn and watch – what is it you call them? ‒ chick flicks all afternoon.’

‘Now that sounds more like it,’ Gemma approved.

Chapter 8

In the entrance hallway, Helen perched on a loveseat next to the telephone table and placed her call.

As she waited for Top Towing to answer, she studied her surroundings with curiosity. Portraits of Campbell family forebears, most dressed in tartan, lined the walls and marched along the length of the gallery above; a few were hung at intervals along the curved wall of the staircase.

Like Tarquin, they had long noses, reddish-brown hair, and serious expressions. But then, Helen supposed, sitting for one’s portrait in the Campbell clan tartan was a very big deal. How strange, she mused, to think that Tarquin’s predecessors, all long dead, were on view on these castle walls, and that his own portrait would one day join them...

The requisite castle décor, consisting of suits of armour and medieval implements of war, held pride of place in the odd nook and cranny – maces, battle-axes, halberds, pikes, and swords, among other unnamed but equally menacing weapons. It was a gruesome yet fascinating display.

‘You want it towed out today, you say?’ the voice on the other end of the telephone asked doubtfully.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m that sorry, but we’ve dozens of calls already. It’ll be tomorrow at the soonest afore we can send a truck out to Draemar.’

‘Tomorrow!’ Helen echoed, dismayed. The prospect of spending another night at the gatehouse with Colm was too much to bear.

‘Aye, and it might be even later,’ the despatcher informed her cheerfully. ‘They’re sayin’ another foot of snow’s headed our way tonight.’

She glanced out the window. With the sun currently sparkling on the drifts of snow outside, and birds darting back and forth in flashes of brown and blue, the prospect of more snow seemed unlikely.

But then again, this was Scotland, and in the dead of bloody winter...

‘Just make sure I’m at the top of the list,’ Helen snapped, and rang off.

Now what was she to do? She couldn’t bear the thought of another minute spent in the company of that miserable, tight-lipped Scotsman who acted as if her very existence was a personal affront.

Still, she reflected as she hung up, for once events had conspired to her advantage. After all, she was sharing a roof – and quite a vast roof it was, too – with Dominic Heath and his fiancée, Gemma.

She couldn’t have arranged a better set of circumstances if she’d tried.

The sound of footsteps and low voices approaching echoed across the hallway. Helen risked a peek around the corner as Dominic and his girlfriend emerged from the dining room and made their way towards the stairs. She ducked her head back. They hadn’t seen her, thank God.

‘…glad you finally agree with me on this, Dom,’ Gemma was saying, her voice low but distinct.

‘I told you, babes, I want kids just as much as you do,’ he replied. ‘The time has to be right, that’s all.’

‘Well, then,’ she pointed out, ‘good thing we’re getting married in a few weeks’ time. A Christmas wedding in Northton Grange will be incredibly romantic, don’t you think? Even if we practically had to elope to manage it.’

Helen hardly dared to breathe. It would be embarrassing – not to mention awkward ‒ to reveal her presence now. She only hoped that they didn’t see her sitting here, blatantly eavesdropping...

‘We can’t have the paparazzi bollocksing everything up, can we?’ Dominic replied.

‘No, of course not. I want a proper wedding, with all the trimmings – and no bloody paps,’ Gemma said firmly. ‘I want bridesmaids in tartan gowns, and groomsmen in kilts, and a horse-drawn sleigh, and—’

‘And a Prada wedding gown,’ Dominic finished. ‘Yeah, I know, Gems. You’ve told me often enough. But if it were up to me, we really would elope. Or get married in a chapel at Gretna Green.’

‘Gretna Green?’ she demanded, and came to a halt, just yards from where Helen sat. ‘Have you lost your mind, Dominic? A girl only gets married once in her life, and her wedding should be perfect.’

‘Yes, of course it should! But damn it, babes, be reasonable!’ Dominic hissed. ‘Christmas is less than a month away. There’s no time to put a massive wedding together – not the kind of over-the-top wedding you fancy, at any rate – in a few weeks!’

‘Oh, very well. I’ll scale it back, then. I’ll only have six bridesmaids, instead of twelve. And I suppose I can make do without groomsmen in kilts...although I fancied having at least two, to hold the crossed swords over our heads as we exit the castle to leave on our honeymoon.’

Dominic didn’t bother to point out that they were in the middle of the Scottish bloody highlands, surrounded by snow with another foot on the way, and that the likelihood of pulling off even a scaled-down version of the dream wedding his bride-to-be wanted was slim to non-existent.

But he’d learnt to pick his battles. And this, he decided resignedly, wasn’t one of them.

‘Good thinking, babes,’ he told her instead, and leant forward to kiss her.

Helen heard the sound of smooching, followed by more smooching, and Gemma’s giggles. She winced. Dear God, but this was excruciating...

‘C’mon, Gems,’ Dominic growled, ‘let’s go upstairs and christen our bedroom again.’

‘But, Dom,’ her voice was scandalized ‘we can’t! It’s practically the middle of the day! We’re supposed to mix and mingle with the others. They’ll wonder where we’ve gone to—’

‘Screw ’em,’ he said, and smacked her on the bottom. ‘They can mix and mingle with each other for a bit. Let’s you and I go and make a baby.’

When they’d disappeared up the stairs to their rooms, Helen re-emerged from the shadows and wondered what she ought to do. She needed to call Tom, and soon; but she hadn’t anything to tell him, really.

Besides, she couldn’t very well call him on the house phone, in the middle of the great hall of Draemar Castle.

As she hovered indecisively at the foot of the staircase, Wren appeared, striding briskly towards the baize door that led to the kitchen.

She came to a stop. ‘Oh, hello! Helen, isn’t it? Had you any luck getting hold of a towing service?’

Helen shook her head. ‘They can’t send anyone until at least tomorrow. Or later, if the snow we’re expected to get arrives tonight.’

‘Oh, what a nuisance...I’m so sorry. Of course you must stay here with us,’ she decided. ‘We’ve plenty of room.’

‘I don’t want to be a bother—’ Helen began.

‘Nonsense, it’s no bother. I won’t hear of you staying at the gatehouse with Colm. He won’t welcome the company, and I’m sure you’ve no wish to spend another evening being glowered at.’

Helen laughed. ‘Not especially, no. Dreadful man, isn’t he?’

‘Well, he has his moments, I suppose,’ Wren allowed, ‘and he is a hard worker. Nevertheless, if he were clean-shaven and attired in proper evening kit, I vow he’d make a very credible Mr Rochester. Or Mr Darcy, come to that. He’s very much the broody, mysterious, nothing-much-good-to-say type, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ Helen agreed. ‘Yes, he is.’

‘We’re about to meet in the drawing room for a tour of the castle,’ Wren went on, ‘if you’d care to join us?’

Helen nodded. ‘I’d like that very much. Thank you.’

And as Wren excused herself and resumed her path to the kitchens, Helen made her way across the hall to the drawing room to join the others.

Chapter 9

Later that day, after Dominic and Gemma re-emerged from their rooms, Tarquin and Wren led everyone on a tour of the castle, through the keeping room, buttery, bottlery, kitchens, dungeons, and great hall, and down the formidable length of the long gallery, until they trooped, exhausted, back to the drawing room for afternoon tea.

‘I can’t believe your father actually rode his horse up the staircase,’ Natalie said as she sank into a chair.

‘It’s true.’ Tarquin followed them inside. ‘There are still hoof marks on the treads. Grandfather gave him a good hiding for it, believe me.’

‘What I don’t understand,’ Gemma ventured as she accepted a cup of tea from Wren and balanced it on her lap, ‘is why butter wasn’t kept in the buttery? You said it’s where ales and meads were stored; so why not call it the ‘meadery’ or the ‘winery’? Makes no bloody sense to me.’

He nodded. ‘It’s all a bit confusing, isn’t it? Butter was kept in the larder, and bottles – ‘butts’ to use the Latin term – of ale and mead were stored in the buttery.’ His smile was wry. ‘One couldn’t drink the water back then, apparently.’

‘Yes,’ Rhys agreed, ‘I’ve heard the meat was so spoiled it had to be drowned in herbs and sauces.’

‘That’s a common misconception,’ Tarquin replied, ‘but it isn’t true. Animals were slaughtered and eaten within a few days, and the meat was likely fresher than what we buy at the market today. Spices were expensive; a cook wouldn’t waste them on rancid meat. I doubt it would’ve masked the taste, at any rate. So beef and mutton and pork were layered with salt to preserve it, or soaked in salt brine, or smoked and hung up to dry.’

‘You’re so knowledgeable, Tark!’ Natalie exclaimed, impressed. ‘I’d no idea.’

‘You have to remember, I grew up here,’ he replied, and shrugged. ‘Tour groups were always trooping through the castle – still do, on occasion ‒ which my father absolutely abhors. I used to tag along, when I wasn’t away at school. I learnt the tour guide’s script off by heart.’

‘This place must’ve been great fun for hide-and-seek,’ Gemma remarked. ‘All those rooms, and dungeons, and nooks and crannies...’ She shuddered and sipped her tea.

‘Well, the east and west wings were closed off when I was a boy,’ Tarquin said. ‘And my sister and I were strictly forbidden to play in the dungeons. So that limited our battlefields and hiding places considerably.’

Helen, who stood admiring a collection of family photographs on a table near the fireplace, picked up one of the framed pictures. A handsome young man with the Campbell family’s dark-ginger hair and a wide, engaging smile looked back at her.

‘Who’s this?’ she asked, curious. ‘He looks rather like you, Tarquin.’

He rose and came to stand beside her, and took the picture from her hands. ‘Ah. That’s Andrew. My oldest brother.’

‘Phwoar, he’s gorgeous,’ Gemma approved as she got up and joined them, peering at the photograph over Tarquin’s shoulder. ‘Is he married? Does he live nearby? Will we meet him?’

Tarquin set the photograph back down, his expression unreadable. ‘I’m afraid not. He died, Miss Astley, years ago. He drowned off the coast of West Africa. His body was never recovered.’

An awkward silence descended over the room. Gemma went pale. ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ she began, stammering with embarrassment. ‘I didn’t know—’

‘Of course you didn’t,’ Wren said soothingly as she came up and slipped her arm around Gemma’s shoulders. She led her back to the sofa, and the warmth of the fireplace. ‘How could you possibly know?’

‘I remember reading about it in the papers,’ Rhys said. ‘Terrible tragedy. It must’ve been a difficult time for you and your family, Tarquin.’

‘It was a long time ago.’ With a shrug, Tark turned away from the table and returned to his seat by the fire, and stretched his legs out. ‘Eighteen years, to be exact. I was ten when it happened, and Andrew was twenty. He’d been away from home for a couple of years, traveling. He was always a great one for traveling. So we weren’t close. It devastated my father and mother, of course.’

‘I can imagine,’ Helen murmured. ‘It must be a horrible thing to lose one’s child.’

‘What happened, exactly?’ Natalie asked Tarquin, her face creased in concern. ‘Why was your brother’s body not recovered?’

‘Well, the beaches of the Sierra Leone are amongst the best in the world, unspoiled and vast, but the waters are rife with strong currents. Andrew was sailing when his boat capsized. He was an excellent swimmer, and he struck out for shore; but he got caught in a riptide, and was dragged out to sea.’

For a moment, the only sound was the snap and hiss of the flames in the fireplace.

‘Helen’s joining us for dinner,’ Wren said briskly, rising to her feet, ‘and she’s staying here tonight.’

‘The towing service can’t send a car until tomorrow,’ Helen added. ‘I hope you don’t mind the imposition.’

‘Not at all, and it’s no imposition,’ Tark said, and smiled. ‘The more the merrier, as they say. And we wouldn’t dream of inflicting Colm on you for another day, would we, Wren?’

‘I should say not!’

Over the ripple of laughter that followed this pronouncement, they looked up to see the groundskeeper standing in the doorway, a grim expression on his face.

Helen stood up guiltily. ‘Colm!’

He strode across the drawing room and thrust something at her. ‘This is yours.’

She looked down as she took the object into her hands. ‘It’s...it’s my mobile phone! You found it!’

‘Aye. It was on the floorboard of your hire car. I went to see if I could pull it out with the tractor, but it’s too far down the embankment.’ He turned to go.

‘Colm – wait.’

He paused. ‘Aye?’

Helen suppressed a wave of irritation. Damn the man! Why did he always make everything so bloody difficult? ‘The towing service can’t come out for another day or two. I’ll be staying here tonight, and possibly tomorrow night, as well. I just...wanted to let you know.’

He shrugged. ‘Good, then.’ He dipped his head at the others. ‘I’ll be off now.’ And he left.

‘Well,’ Natalie said tentatively when he’d gone, ‘that was awkward.’

‘I really put my foot in, didn’t I?’ Tark sighed. ‘Poor chap. I’d no idea he was standing there.’

‘Oh, not to worry,’ Wren assured him, ‘Colm’s got a hide like leather. You could fling spears and arrows at him, and like a rhinoceros, they’d just bounce off.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ Helen murmured. ‘I don’t know him very well, of course, but he strikes me as a man who feels things very deeply and holds a grudge for ever.’

‘How long has he worked here?’ Rhys wondered as he reached for another egg and cress sandwich. ‘Has he been with the family a long time?’

Tark shook his head. ‘He turned up three months ago, looking for work. Our groundskeeper, Mr Finney, had just retired, so the position was open. It was the most amazing good luck on our part. His too, I imagine.’

‘Yes,’ Helen murmured thoughtfully, and took a sip of her tea. ‘Wasn’t it just?’

Chapter 10

Late in the day, as she stepped into a beige silk chemise to dress for dinner, Natalie went pale.

‘Oh,’ she breathed, and sat down suddenly.

Rhys, knotting his tie in front of the mirror, paused. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, concerned. ‘You’ve gone as white as the bedspread.’

‘It’s a duvet,’ she corrected him faintly, ‘and, yes, I’m fine. I just felt a bit...dizzy, for a moment.’

‘Shall I fetch a doctor?’

‘No, don’t be silly.’ Natalie pushed herself to her feet. ‘It’s probably low blood sugar, or all that walking I did this morning. And I didn’t eat much at lunch.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ he accused. ‘And why didn’t you? You’re not on another one of those ridiculous diets, I hope?’

‘I simply wasn’t hungry, Rhys, that’s all,’ she said with a trace of irritation. ‘And I ate a huge breakfast.’

‘You did rather pack it away this morning.’ He came to stand behind her and slid his arms around her waist. ‘Are you nearly ready to go downstairs for dinner, darling?’

‘Almost.’ And as he nibbled her earlobe, Natalie’s irritation melted away, and she closed her eyes, and smiled, and forgot all about her momentary dizziness.

As she rummaged through her suitcase in search of an outfit to wear to dinner, Helen despaired. She hadn’t anything remotely suitable for dining in a castle. Hell, she didn’t even have a properly pressed pair of trousers.

Natalie, she thought suddenly. They were roughly the same size, although Helen was a bit shorter. Perhaps she’ll have something I can borrow...

Then she remembered the sheath she’d bought at Heathrow in one of the duty-free shops. She found it and pulled it out. The black wool hadn’t wrinkled, amazingly enough; and although it was plain, she could dress it up with a bit of jewellery and some heels. But she had to hurry, it was nearly seven...

Ten minutes later, Helen surveyed herself in the cheval mirror with satisfaction. Not bad, she decided, and raised a brow at her reflection. She’d do.

She grabbed her mobile and headed downstairs.

In the great hall, she paused at the foot of the stairs. The sound of voices echoed from the drawing room where everyone had gathered for a drink before dinner. They wouldn’t miss her for a few minutes more.

With a quick glance over her shoulder, she took out her mobile and scrolled to Tom’s number. No time like the present...

‘Bennett here.’

‘It’s me,’ Helen said in a low voice.

‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘Scotland,’ she retorted, ‘as you very well know. It’s been snowing almost nonstop, and my hire car went down a bloody embankment last night.’

‘Shit! You’re all right, I hope?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said dryly, ‘not that you care.’

‘Not true.’ He paused. ‘Where are you, exactly?’

‘You’ll never believe it, but I’ve landed at Draemar Castle, where the celebrity lovebirds are staying with the Campbell family even as we speak.’

He let out a soft whistle. ‘And how did you manage that?’

‘The embankment I hove over just happened to be on the castle property,’ she told him, and cast another wary glance around her. ‘I’d no idea Dominic and Gemma were even here until this morning. I’ve been invited to stay until my hire car’s repaired...which might be a few days.’

‘Perfect. So...have you got anything for me?’

‘Not much. The wedding’s to be in four weeks. Gemma’s demanding a horse-drawn sleigh, and kilts, and masses of white roses, and all manner of ludicrous, romantic fol-de-rol.’ Scorn undercut her words.

‘Where’s it to be, then? At the castle?’

‘No. Northton Grange. It’s a tiny village in the highlands—’

‘Yeah, where Dominic’s got that estate he never goes to,’ Tom finished. ‘So when are they going on to Northton G? Soon?’

‘Oh, I imagine they’ll leave just as soon as this bloody snow stops falling.’ She glanced around her with a shudder. All those medieval instruments of war and knights in armour unnerved her. ‘And you can bet your arse that when Dominic and Gemma leave this pile of mouldering Scottish stone, I’ll be right behind them—’

At the sound of a footstep nearby, Helen broke off. She whirled around to see Colm standing there.

‘I’ll call you later,’ she murmured, and rang off. She glared at him. ‘What are you doing? How dare you creep up on me like that! You startled me.’

‘I think the better question,’ he said grimly as he took her by the arm and drew her aside, ‘is to ask what the hell it is you’re doing, Ms Thomas.’

Helen met Colm’s narrowed eyes. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she snapped, and shook his arm off. ‘Why are you here, anyway, skulking around like a – a ghost? Shouldn’t you be outside, seeing as you’re the bloody groundskeeper?’

‘You were giving out information to someone, information about a Campbell houseguest. Who were you giving it to, I wonder? And why?’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said scornfully. ‘You have a very active – and a very misguided ‒ imagination.’

‘Don’t lie, Ms Thomas.’ He clipped off her name like something distasteful. ‘I know what I heard.’ He leant his face closer, inches from hers. ‘And I know who you really are.’

As she stared into those hard hazel eyes, she suddenly understood how a snake must feel when the snake charmer mesmerized it. She was powerless to move or speak.

‘Helen! There you are. We’re just about to go in to dinner.’

Guiltily, Helen turned around. Wren and Tarquin stood in the drawing room doorway; their expressions were polite, but curious.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled, flustered. ‘I was...I was just—’

‘I was just telling Ms Thomas that we’ve more bad weather coming in,’ Colm said. ‘It’s started up snowing again. I’ve stacked extra wood outside the kitchen door.’

‘Good. Thank you.’ Tarquin hesitated. ‘Listen, Colm, about my remark earlier, I owe you an apology—’

‘Dinnae know what you’re on about,’ Colm said, his words short. ‘I’ve brought wood enough inside to keep the fires lit through the night. G’night to you both.’

He didn’t wait for a reply, but thrust a flat cap on his head and left as abruptly as he’d come.

‘Aren’t you hungry, Helen? You’ve scarcely touched your dinner.’ Natalie’s voice was low and concerned.

Startled, Helen looked up from her plate of roast mutton and turnips. ‘No. I think perhaps I ate too many cucumber sandwiches with tea,’ she admitted, and smiled.

‘More wine?’ the butler offered.

She nodded. As he poured a deep red Syrah into her wine glass, Helen wondered how much – if anything – Colm had overheard. Damn the man, he was as silent as a wraith, for all his size. She scowled. He seemed to take pleasure in creeping up on her unexpectedly and scaring the bejeesus out of her.

‘I know what you mean,’ Natalie agreed, and laid her fork aside. ‘I’m not very hungry, either. I feel...’ she paused ‘...I feel a little sick to my stomach.’

‘You do look a bit green,’ Helen observed, her face creased with concern. ‘Here, let’s go and sit down.’

As the men stood and adjourned to the billiards room for port and cigars, Helen, Wren and Gemma assured Rhys that his wife would be well looked after, and led Natalie into the drawing room, to one of the sofas by the fire.

‘I do hope you’re not coming down with the flu,’ Wren murmured, and insisted on calling the local doctor. ‘You really do look awfully pale.’

‘I’m fine,’ Natalie assured her. ‘I only need to sit down for a bit.’

Still, she didn’t object as Wren picked up the telephone receiver and rang Dr McTavish’s surgery.

After speaking to the doctor for a few minutes, she rang off. ‘Well, he can’t make it out tonight; the roads are already impassible. He said it sounds as though you’ve either got a bad case of indigestion, or flu. Although he says you’d have a fever, if it’s flu. Let me just go and fetch a thermometer so we can be sure,’ she decided.

‘Don’t be silly!’ Natalie protested, and straightened. ‘I’m fine, really.’

Just then, there was a commotion at the front door. A blast of cold air, followed by stamping feet and the dogs erupting into a frenzy of barking, signalled that someone had come into the great hall.

Colm, Helen thought, her heart sinking. He’s come back to tell the family who I really am.

‘Hellooo,’ a young woman’s voice trilled. ‘Tarkie? Where are you? Is this any kind of a welcome home for your long-lost sister?’

Chapter 11

‘Oh, dear,’ Wren murmured, and went nearly as pale as Natalie. ‘Not that dreadful girl again... She’ll soon have the entire household at sixes and sevens!’

Without another word, she abandoned her guests and hurried out to the entrance hall.

‘Well,’ Helen mused as she raised a brow and set her drink aside, ‘what do you suppose that was all about?’

‘I don’t know,’ Gemma replied, and raised her brow, ‘but I say we go and see what’s going on. Are you with me, ladies?’

They rose and made their way out to the hall to find Tarquin already there. A young woman in tartan trews and a jaunty red duffle coat stood inside the door, her feet surrounded by luggage and Vuitton trunks. A tiny, biscuit-coloured dog regarded the Campbell wolfhounds from the safety of the girl’s arms; its expression could only be called smug. A young man stood next to her.

‘Caitlin!’ Tarquin exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’ He glanced at her companion. ‘And who is this?’

‘Oh, sorry.’ She turned to the silent young man beside her. ‘This is Jeremy MacDougal. He drove us up from Edinburgh. We had a bit of a hair-raising trip; thank God he’s got a Land Rover, or we’d never have made it through the snow. Jeremy, this is my brother, Tark.’

The two men exchanged wary glances and shook hands.

Tarquin returned his attention to his sister. ‘I thought you were still at school.’

‘Classes are over for the holidays,’ she said airily, and shrugged out of her coat. Natalie caught sight of the Pringle label before the girl tossed it aside as though it were made of cheap nylon and not costly Scottish wool. She removed her cap and shook a length of red-gold hair loose.

‘I also thought you were going to Ibiza with your friends for Christmas.’ Tarquin eyed the stack of luggage and Jeremy in turn, his expression unreadable.

‘Well, I was,’ Caitlin agreed, ‘but then I thought, with Mam and Dad gone off to Corfu, why not come home and enjoy the peace and quiet? Besides, I broke it off with Robert. I came home to nurse my broken heart.’

‘You don’t seem especially heartbroken to me,’ Tark observed.

‘I’m not,’ she said, and shrugged. ‘I’m only sorry I didn’t dump him sooner.’ She glanced at the women regarding her with undisguised curiosity from the drawing room doorway. ‘Where are your manners, Tarkie-poo?’ she scolded him. ‘You haven’t introduced me to your guests.’

After breakfast the next morning, Natalie felt much better. After howling all night, the winds abated and the snow had stopped; now the sun was out, sparkling on the windswept breast of the newly fallen snow.

‘Rhys, it’s a gorgeous day,’ she said as she knelt on the window seat in the drawing room and pressed her nose to the glass. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

‘A walk?’ he echoed. ‘Natalie, in case you hadn’t noticed, there’s two foot of snow out there.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘but Colm’s cleared the drive.’

Rhys leant next to her and peered out. Sure enough, the groundskeeper had cleared the snow from the length of the drive, as far as he could see – a not inconsiderable amount of work, even with the help of a snow plough.

‘He must’ve been up since the early hours,’ Rhys observed, impressed. ‘All right, then – let’s go. I wouldn’t mind a bit of fresh air and a leg stretch.’

‘Where are you off to?’ Caitlin enquired as she wandered in, coffee mug in hand and Jeremy trailing in her wake.

‘We’re going outside for a walk,’ Natalie answered. ‘Would you two like to come along?’

‘I’ve a better idea. Let’s go sledding!’ Caitlin exclaimed as she set her cup aside. ‘There’s a huge hill on one side of the castle; Tark and I slid down it all winter long when we were kids. I’m sure our old sleds are still around here somewhere. I’ll have Cook pack us up a lovely picnic feast.’

‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ Wren enthused as she and Tarquin joined them in the drawing room. ‘Don’t you think so, Gemma?’

Gemma, her face set in concentration as her fingers flew over her mobile phone, was far too busy with social media status updates to do more than give them a cursory shake of her head. ‘I’m planning my wedding,’ she said grimly, ‘and you wouldn’t believe what a nightmare of frustration and dashed hopes it is!’

‘“A nightmare of frustration and dashed hopes”?’ Dominic echoed as he entered the drawing room. ‘Sounds like my first marriage.’

‘This is serious, Dom!’ Gemma snapped. ‘I can’t get our wedding favour bags made up in tartan, only in primary colours! Have you ever heard of anything so bloody ridiculous? I can’t bear it if the favour bags clash with the bridesmaids’ gowns. Yellow netting and red plaid just do not go together! It’s doing my head in.’

‘Not as much as it’s doing mine in,’ Dominic muttered.

‘And the cake,’ she went on, outraged. ‘That’s the third baker who’s told me a wedding cake shaped like a giant Louboutin shoe can’t be done.’

‘I should think it entirely possible,’ Wren observed, and clucked in sympathy. ‘Why can’t they do it?’

‘Because they’re unreasonable bastards! And because it needs to feed 250 people,’ Gemma added with a scowl, ‘and it needs to be gluten free. And vegan.’

‘Oh, my,’ Wren murmured. ‘There’s your problem, dear. Perhaps your expectations are just a wee bit unreasonable—’

‘Unreasonable?’ Gemma shrilled. ‘Not giving a bride-to-be what she asks for, that’s unreasonable!’

‘Where’re you lot headed off to?’ Dominic asked Natalie in a low voice, a look of panic blooming on his face. ‘Mind if I come along?’

‘We’re going sledding, Dominic,’ Natalie answered as she moved past him to follow Rhys, Caitlin, and Jeremy out the door. ‘Since you’re not the outdoorsy type, you probably wouldn’t like it.’

He grabbed her arm and hissed, ‘I’ll like anything that gets me away from that wedding-obsessed harpy! Please, Nat ‒ I can’t listen to another word about Prada gowns or monogrammed silver bottle-openers or custom-dyed shoes!’

She nodded in sympathy, having been through the very same thing with her sister, Caro, not so long ago. ‘All right, Dom. You’re welcome to come along.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘But you’re going sledding, mind, you’re not standing round texting Max on your mobile the entire time.’

‘All right, all right,’ he grumbled, having planned to do just that. ‘But you’d better hope I don’t break my bloody arm. I need it to play guitar, you know.’

‘In that case,’ Rhys said dourly, ‘I hope you break both your arms.’

Chapter 12

Helen returned to her room after breakfast. She was far too preoccupied with thoughts of Colm – and how much he actually knew – to accompany the others on the sledding expedition.

She glanced out of her bedroom window, smiling momentarily at the sight of Natalie and Rhys, Caitlin and Wren, even Dominic, careening down the snow-covered slope, laughing and shouting like schoolchildren.

‘I know who you are.’

As she heard Colm’s words echoing in her head, Helen’s smile faded.

He’d overheard her call to Tom. What exactly had she said on the phone, just before Colm accosted her? Tarquin’s sister had arrived, thankfully saving Helen from further questions.

But she knew that the canny groundskeeper would bring the matter up again at the first opportunity.

Frowning, she tried to recall what she’d told Tom.

‘Oh, I imagine they’ll tie the knot within the next few weeks. Just as soon as this bloody snow stops falling. And you can bet your arse that when Dominic and Gemma leave this pile of mouldering Scottish stone, I’ll be right behind them.’

Oh well, Helen sighed as she turned away from the window, there was nothing to be done about it now. She’d do her best to stay out of the Scotsman’s way.

And if I make any more calls to Tom, she resolved grimly as she went downstairs in search of the library, I’ll make certain to do it in the privacy of my own bloody room.

Late that afternoon, the sledding party returned to the castle, red-cheeked and half-frozen.

‘How was the sledding expedition?’ Tark enquired as they shed their coats and hats and scarves and collapsed on the nearest sofas and chairs in the drawing room.

‘Brilliant,’ Caitlin declared, and grinned over at Dominic, ‘except for Mr Rock Star over there, who twisted his ankle and had to be pulled the whole way back on a sled, complaining like a wee girl all the while.’

‘It bloody hurts,’ Dom said through gritted teeth as he flung himself into a wing chair by the fire.

‘What’ve you done, Dominic?’ Gemma demanded as she strode into the room and came to a stop, a clipboard and a stack of bridal magazines in her arms. ‘Why is your face all screwed up like that?’

Rhys snorted. ‘His face is always screwed up, if you ask me.’

‘No one did,’ Dominic snapped. ‘So kindly shut it. I turned my ankle, Gem, that’s all.’

‘Wren’s gone to fetch some Epsom salts so you can soak your foot,’ Natalie told him.

‘And his head, while he’s at it,’ Rhys added.

‘I’m warning you, Gordon,’ Dominic snarled, ‘if you don’t shut your gob, I’ll—’

Caitlin’s dog Coco trotted into the drawing room just then and leapt up into her lap. The wolfhounds, incensed by this invasion of their territory by the tiny interloper, set up a chorus of barking.

With a sigh, Tarquin stood and led the dogs, still growling their displeasure, outside.

‘Really, Caitlin,’ Wren said mildly, ‘you know we have dogs here at Draemar. You might have thought to board Coco in a kennel for a couple of weeks.’

‘Why should I do that?’ Caitlin shot back. ‘I’m perfectly aware that there are dogs here, Wren. I grew up at Draemar, after all. It was my home long before it was yours. So why should I be required to board Coco in a kennel, when she belongs here, just as much as I do?’

The two women regarded each other in silent – and mutual – dislike. ‘I’m only saying,’ Wren said in measured tones, ‘that it might have been easier on all concerned if you hadn’t brought the dog along when you came home, that’s all.’

‘Easier on you, you mean.’ Scorn coloured her voice. ‘I’m sure you’d like it best if I never came home at all, wouldn’t you, Wren?’

‘That’s not true!’ Wren snapped. ‘There you go again, Caitlin, putting words in my mouth—’

‘No, I’m only putting the thoughts in your head into words, so that everyone might know how bloody jealous you are of me!’

‘What’s going on here? I heard the two of you shouting all the way across the hall.’

Tarquin, his face a study in anger, stood in the doorway. ‘Can’t I leave you alone with Wren for five minutes without starting trouble, Caitlin?’

His sister gathered Coco up and thrust herself to her feet. ‘Right, blame me, Tark, as you always do. But it was your wife who demanded I keep Coco in a bloody kennel!’

‘That little beast has done nothing but upset the entire household,’ Wren flung back. ‘Just like you!’

‘That’s enough.’ Although Tarquin’s words were calm, even quiet, his fury was unmistakable. ‘This isn’t the time or place for such behaviour,’ he said, eyeing both women with a flinty grey gaze. ‘We have guests to consider. Caitlin, kindly take yourself upstairs, please.’

‘What?’ she exclaimed. Hectic spots of colour rose on her cheeks. ‘Are you sending me to my room, like a...like a wayward child being packed off to bed without her supper?’

‘I’m simply asking you to remove yourself from the present company until you can behave appropriately.’

‘There’s no need for Caitlin to leave,’ Wren cut in, her voice unsteady. ‘I’ll go.’ Her gaze, bright with angry, unshed tears, swept over the assembled houseguests. ‘My apologies, everyone,’ she choked out, and left.

There was an awkward silence. No one moved or knew quite what to do or say.

Natalie got to her feet. ‘I’ll just go and check she’s all right,’ she said, and patted Tarquin’s shoulder as she hurried after her friend.

She caught up to her halfway down the long gallery. ‘Wren – wait, please.’

Wren stopped and turned around. Her face was damp and blotchy with tears. ‘Natalie.’ She groped in her pocket for a handkerchief. ‘You should be downstairs with the others.’

‘I wanted to make sure you’re all right,’ she said, and slipped a comforting arm around Wren’s shoulders. ‘That awful girl!’

With something between a sob and a laugh, Wren nodded. ‘She really is dreadful, isn’t she? Come in here, we can talk privately.’ So saying, she led Natalie into a small but charming morning room done up in shades of palest celadon and shut the door.

‘Have things always been so...strained, between you and Caitlin?’ Natalie asked hesitantly.

Wren dropped into a chair and nodded. ‘Yes. She resents my being here; she has done from the start. She’s terribly possessive of Tarquin. Things invariably go topsy-turvy whenever she’s here.’

‘Have you talked to Tark about it?’

‘Yes. But what can he do, Nat? Caitlin’s his sister. As long as he and I live here at Draemar, I have no choice but to put up with her.’ She reached out on the desk for a tissue and blew her nose. ‘At least she’s only here in the summer and during the school holidays.’

‘Have you tried talking to Caitlin?’

Wren sighed. ‘I’ve tried everything. I’ve talked to her, I’ve invited her shopping; I even helped Tarquin’s mother and father put a surprise birthday party together for her. Nothing works. She despises me. She’ll be the bane of my existence,’ she finished bitterly, ‘for all eternity.’

‘Oh, I hardly think so,’ Nat reassured her. ‘Caitlin’s young, and she’s in, what – her second year at university?’ When Wren nodded, she went on, ‘She’ll meet someone and fall madly in love eventually, mark my words. Then you won’t have to worry. It’ll be her turn to try and fit in with a whole new family – who’ll probably dislike her as much as you do.’

With a laugh, Wren stood and threw her arms around Natalie and hugged her fiercely. ‘It’s no wonder Tark counts you among his very best friends, Nat,’ she said as she drew back. ‘What would either of us do without you?’

Chapter 13

The sound of raised voices caught Helen’s attention. She uncurled herself from the window seat in the library and got to her feet. What in the world was going on? Putting her book aside – A History of Yellow Journalism – she left the library to investigate.

Halfway across the entrance hall, she ran straight into a solid, immovable wall...

‘Colm!’ she exclaimed, disconcerted.

He put his hands on her upper arms to steady her, then dropped them away like he’d been scalded. ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’

‘I heard shouting from the drawing room. I’ve been in the library, reading. What are you doing here?’

If he noticed the challenge in her words, he gave no sign. ‘One of the dogs got loose outside. I came to let laird Campbell know.’

They fell silent as the sound of Tarquin’s raised voice, uncharacteristically tight with anger, rang across the hall.

‘Perhaps it’s best if you go,’ Helen suggested in a low voice. ‘I’ll let Tark know what happened.’

He nodded. ‘The dog’s run off before; he’s a wanderer, but I reckon he’ll be back when he gets hungry enough.’

‘Like most strays.’ Helen smiled briefly and turned to go.

Colm caught her arm. ‘Wait. We didn’t finish our conversation last time, as I recall.’

Her heart quickened from a canter to a gallop. ‘No, we didn’t,’ she said tightly, and pulled away, ‘because there was nothing more to say.’

‘Aye, there’s plenty left to say. And plenty more explaining for you to do.’

‘Is that right? And if I remember correctly,’ Helen retorted, ‘the last time we spoke, you threatened me.’

‘Threatened you?’ His laugh was incredulous. ‘And how d’ye figure that?’

‘You said you knew who I was. That’s a threat, of a kind, isn’t it?’

‘Only if you’ve something to hide.’

‘I’ve nothing to hide. And how do you even know who I am? You went through my wallet, didn’t you?’ she said suddenly, answering her own question. ‘You went through it when you fetched my handbag and laptop from the car, that first night I spent at the gatehouse.’

He eyed her, his gaze unrepentant. ‘Your wallet was on the floor. It must’ve come out of your purse when you went down the embankment. I picked it up, and your photo ID fell out. I had a quick look afore I put it back.’

‘How dare you,’ Helen breathed, furious. ‘You’d no right to go through my bloody things!’

‘You’re a reporter, Ms Thomas, for that London rag, the Probe. Yet you’ve not told anyone. Why is that, I wonder?’

Helen opened her mouth to deny it. But what was the point? He already knew who she was; he’d seen her press ID. ‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘I work for the Probe. I’m after an exclusive story on Dominic and Gemma’s wedding.’

‘You’re writing a story on that twit of a rock star?’ he repeated, unconvinced. ‘And is that all you’re after?’

‘What else would I be looking for?’ she retorted.

He didn’t answer. But the guarded expression on his face, and the fact that he’d asked the question in the first place, piqued her curiosity.

Was there another story at Draemar Castle – a bigger story, perhaps? – one that she should be investigating?

Oh, well, it didn’t really matter, Helen reminded herself. Her hire car would be towed back to the village tomorrow, and she’d have to leave the castle. Unless, she mused, she could think of a good reason to stay...

‘What about money, for starters?’ he accused her. ‘You reporters are always chasing after a big payoff.’

‘There’s always the money, of course,’ Helen agreed, and shrugged. ‘There’s no denying that an exclusive look at Dominic and Gemma’s wedding – with photos ‒ would fetch a tidy sum. But it’s more than that. With a big enough story, I can quit this bloody job and do what I really want to do – write.’

He frowned. ‘But that’s what reporters do, isn’t it? Write news stories?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘We ask questions, we string facts together, we check names and conduct research. That isn’t writing, it’s reporting. I want to write. Worthwhile things like novels and short stories. Human interest pieces.’

For a moment, he said nothing, only regarded her with that inscrutable expression on his face. ‘Oh, aye. And I’m sure you will, given time. You strike me as a woman who always gets what she wants.’

Helen met his gaze. ‘Not always, Mr Mackenzie,’ she retorted. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me?’

And as she strode away across the entrance hall towards the drawing room, Colm called out, ‘Goodbye, Ms Thomas. And good luck to you on that story. I hope you find what you’re looking for.’

Caitlin and Jeremy did not come down for dinner that evening. If he noticed their absence, Tarquin gave no sign.

‘Any word on your hire car, Ms Thomas?’ he asked Helen midway through the main course.

She glanced up from her saffron-sauced finnan haddie with a polite smile. ‘Yes, actually. Someone’s coming out tomorrow morning to tow it away to the village. Then I’ll be out of your hair at last, and on my way.’

He paused, wine glass halfway to his lips. ‘I certainly didn’t mean to imply that you’re not welcome to stay on at Draemar for as long as you wish,’ he hastened to assure her, and reddened. ‘I simply wondered.’

‘I quite agree with Tarquin,’ Wren said. ‘We’ve loved having you here as part of our little house party, Ms Thomas. And you do realize, don’t you,’ she pointed out, ‘that even if they tow your car away, it may not run properly...and you’ll need to stay on until it’s repaired. In which case,’ she added briskly, ‘you must stay here, at Draemar. We shall be deeply insulted if you don’t.’

Tarquin raised his wine glass. ‘Hear, hear.’

Helen laughed. ‘Well, we can’t have that, can we?’ She laid her fork aside and added, ‘Thank you both, so much. You’ve been very patient. And very kind.’ And you’ve very neatly solved the problem of how I’ll manage to stay on here a bit longer...

‘How is your ankle, Dominic?’ Wren enquired as she turned to the rock star. ‘Any better?’

He shrugged. ‘It still hurts like a bast— er, quite a bit. But that groundskeeper chap found me a pair of crutches and brought ’em round.’

‘Oh, yes, Mr Mackenzie.’ Wren paused as a footman poured more wine in her glass. ‘He’s a treasure. He’s proven himself invaluable in the short time he’s been here. Hasn’t he, darling?’ she asked Tarquin.

‘Oh, yes, quite,’ he agreed, distracted.

‘What did he do, before he came here?’ Helen wondered. ‘Has he always been a groundskeeper?’

‘No,’ Tarquin answered. ‘No, I don’t believe so. When I interviewed him for the position, he said he’d worked in construction, and tended bar, and that he’d done a stint in the British Army...’

‘Interesting,’ she remarked. ‘He’s worn a great many hats, then.’

When everyone finished dinner and got up to go into the drawing room for after-dinner drinks, Natalie stayed behind. ‘Rhys,’ she murmured as he turned to follow the others, ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling very well. I think I’ll go upstairs and, and lie down for a bit.’

‘Again?’ A frown creased his brown. ‘But you’ve complained of not feeling well before. And you’re alarmingly pale. Perhaps being out in the cold all afternoon was too much.’

‘Probably,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll just go to bed early and I’m sure I’ll be fine in the morning.’

‘No.’ Rhys shook his head firmly and took her arm. ‘This time, I insist on fetching a doctor to have a look at you.’

She didn’t argue, but allowed him to lead her upstairs and settle her on the bed while he went back down to inform their hosts that she was ill.

Doctor MacTavish, the family physician and local GP, arrived forty minutes later with his medical bag in hand, and Rhys led him upstairs to their bedroom.

‘Well,’ MacTavish pronounced a short time later, after conducting a thorough examination of Natalie, ‘you’ve not got a fever, young lady, so it isn’t flu; and the fact that you’re keeping your food down tells me it’s not food poisoning, either.’

She exchanged a quick glance with Rhys, who hovered near the bed, and eyed Dr MacTavish in puzzlement. ‘If I haven’t flu or food poisoning, then what on earth is wrong with me, doctor?’

‘Well, nothing’s wrong with you, as such,’ he ventured as he returned his stethoscope to the bag. ‘I’ll need to run a urine test in my office to be sure, of course, but...’ he smiled ‘I think it’s safe to say, Mrs Gordon, that you might very well be pregnant.’

Chapter 14

‘Pregnant!’ Natalie echoed, stunned.

‘Pregnant?’ Rhys exclaimed.

‘Pregnant,’ Dr MacTavish said again, and nodded. ‘Mind you, it’s not certain until we do a test.’

‘Oh. Yes. Of course,’ Natalie said faintly.

‘You’ll need to schedule an appointment in the morning. Here’s my card.’ He handed it over. ‘I can see you late tomorrow afternoon for a urine test. That’ll give us the answer.’

‘The answer,’ Natalie repeated.

‘Yes. As to whether you’re pregnant or not.’ He smiled again and patted her briefly on the hand, then stood to leave. ‘In the meantime, stick to clear liquids and unsalted crackers if you begin to feel the least bit queasy. Good night.’

‘Good night. And thank you.’

Rhys stood up and opened the door. ‘Good night, Dr MacTavish. I’ll see you out.’

‘What do you think of this one?’ Gemma asked Dominic later that evening, after everyone had dispersed to their rooms for the night.

He lowered the television remote and looked up from his half-hearted perusal of the local channels – all three of them – to stare at the glossy bridal magazine his fiancée held aloft before him.

‘Well,’ he said cautiously, having learnt to tread carefully where all things bridal were concerned, ‘it looks like a plaid dress to me.’

‘It’s not just a plaid dress,’ she corrected him, ‘it’s a Lotte Ellis.’

‘A Lotte Ellis,’ he repeated, having no idea who (or what) a ‘Lotte Ellis’ was. He gave the full-length plaid dress with the red sash a cursory glance and nodded. ‘Nice.’

‘I thought it’d be perfect for the bridesmaid’s dresses,’ Gemma went on, ‘since they’re ready to wear and we can buy them off the rack in Aberdeen. I’ll need to round up the girls for a fitting, though.’

‘Have you chosen anyone yet?’

She nodded and tossed the magazine aside. ‘Natalie, of course,’ she said as she ticked the names off on her fingers, ‘and Wren, my half-sister Petra – not that I think she’ll do it ‒ my bezzie mate Sam, and Cara.’

‘Wren? You only just met her. And that’s only five,’ Dominic pointed out, and frowned. ‘I thought you wanted at least six.’

‘I do.’ She pouted. ‘But Lucy can’t make it as she’s already committed to be a bridesmaid for Sarah’s destination wedding in St Barts, so I’ll just have to ask someone else.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Dom mumbled, and suppressed a yawn. He wondered if he couldn’t sneak off to the screening room for a bit and see what was on offer on Sky...

‘...so I think I’ll ask Caitlin instead.’

Dominic blinked. ‘Caitlin Campbell? Tark’s sister?’

She raised her brow. ‘Why not?’

‘You hardly know her, for starters. And from what I’ve seen of her so far,’ he added darkly, ‘I don’t think I much want to know her.’

‘Oh, she’s actually quite nice,’ Gemma said airily, and picked up her mobile phone. ‘We had a lovely chat yesterday evening. She really is nursing a broken heart, you know.’

Dominic couldn’t imagine the red-haired ball-breaker having anything approximating a heart in the first place, but he wisely kept his opinions to himself. ‘Really? And what poor bloke did she tangle with?’

‘An older man, apparently. Very dashing, she said, and wealthy. But he turned out to be a complete shit. Caitlin says he used her and tossed her aside like a crumpled tissue.’

‘Imagine that.’ Privately Dom thought it must’ve been the other way round, but he said nothing.

It didn’t matter, at any rate, he noticed with a flicker of irritation, as Gemma wasn’t listening, anyway.

She was far too busy posting updates about her upcoming wedding and her silk, hand-beaded Prada gown to notice much of anything where he was concerned.

‘Pregnant,’ Rhys muttered after he’d shown the doctor out, and went into the library to pour himself a stiff drink.

‘What’s that, old boy?’ Tarquin asked affably as he entered the library in search of a good book.

Rhys looked up, startled. ‘What? Oh, nothing. Just...thinking out loud.’

‘I understand Doctor MacTavish was here earlier to see Natalie,’ he added. ‘I do hope she’s all right?’

‘Yes. Yes, she’s fine.’

‘Glad to hear it. Any idea what was wrong?’

‘He seemed to think it was a...reaction to something she ate. Prawns, possibly.’ Rhys disliked lying to their host; but until they could be certain, there was no point in saying anything. Besides, it wasn’t something he felt ready to share, just yet.

He needed to come to grips with the news himself, first.

When Natalie awoke the next morning, Rhys was already up and gone. She rolled on her back and stared up at the ceiling with her thoughts in a tangle.

So I’m pregnant, possibly...yet how could that be? I’ve taken my pill every day without fail. And those pills are 99.09 percent accurate, aren’t they?

Natalie sighed. It was that .01 percent that always got you...

She pushed the covers aside and got up. Her handbag sat on the armchair where she’d tossed it yesterday; she riffled through it now until she found her pill case and took out the instruction sheet tucked under the lid. With a frown, she skimmed it.

‘...pill must be taken at the same time every day...’

Well, I’ve done that! she thought indignantly.

‘…if a pill is missed, take two pills the following day…’

Well, I’ve done that, too, once or twice, she admitted.

‘...be advised that allergy medications may negate or lessen the effectiveness of the pill...’

Natalie stared at the words on the folded sheet of paper in her hands with dawning dismay.

Her allergies! Of course, that explained it. She’d taken a couple of allergy pills on the way here to Scotland to curb her sneezing fits. She lowered the bit of paper in her hands and bit her lip in consternation.

On the one hand, she was thrilled – elated! – to be pregnant. She’d longed for a baby of her own ever since she’d held her sister Caro’s little girl in her arms and smelt her sweet, baby scent. She couldn’t wait to do up the nursery and shop for strollers and cribs, and some of those darling little baby shoes and outfits...

On the other hand...there was Rhys to consider.

He hadn’t said much last night after Dr MacTavish left them – in fact, he hadn’t said anything apart from ‘goodnight’ and ‘we’ll talk about this in the morning’. But he’d looked decidedly shell-shocked as he’d got into bed.

Now he was gone off God-knew-where in this enormous castle, and she didn’t know quite what to do.

Natalie frowned. She couldn’t share her happy news with anyone just yet; it wasn’t certain, after all. The doctor had said most emphatically that he’d need to run a urine test first.

She brightened. That was it! All she needed was one of those at-home pregnancy test kits, and she could have a wee on the stick, and find out for herself whether she was really pregnant or not. She was beyond anxious to know if she was to be a mother.

She wanted to know the answer now.

Without wasting another moment, Natalie rummaged through the drawers and flung on a pair of jeans and a jumper and thrust her feet into a pair of wellies. Then she grabbed her handbag and headed out the door.

Chapter 15

As Natalie hurried down the hallway towards the stairs, Helen’s door opened.

‘Oh – hello,’ Natalie said, pausing in mid-flight to take in the other woman’s coat and boots. ‘Where are you off to this morning?’

Helen slid the strap of her purse over her shoulder. ‘I’m meeting the tow truck driver. He’s taking me – and my late, lamented hire car – into the village.’

‘I see,’ Nat said, disappointed. ‘Then I don’t expect you’d have room for one more.’

‘Did you need to go into Loch Draemar?’

‘Yes. Rhys has disappeared, and I need to buy,’ she paused ‘something, erm, personal...from the chemist’s.’

Helen smiled. ‘I quite understand. I’m sure we can make room for one more in the truck’s cab.’

Colm was waiting downstairs as they descended the stairs. ‘I’ve come to take you into the village, Miss Thomas.’

‘But...I arranged to ride along with the tow truck driver,’ Helen told him, puzzled. ‘He said I might. So there’s really no need for you to take me. Us,’ she amended as she glanced over at Natalie.

‘Well, you haven’t much choice, I’m afraid,’ Colm informed her. ‘Your car’s already been towed away. Now, ladies, if you don’t mind,’ he added brusquely as he reached for the door, ‘I’ve things to be doing. Let’s go.’

And so it was that Natalie arrived in Loch Draemar a short time later, after agreeing to meet Helen and Colm in an hour’s time. She made her way with trepidation into the chemist’s and winced as the bell jangled over the door.

But after the proprietor called out a pleasant ‘good morning’, no one bothered her, and she found herself alone, studying the assortment of pregnancy kits on offer with a frown of concentration.

She’d no idea there were so many brands available to tell you if you were pregnant or not. It did her head in. How was she to know which test kit was the most reliable?

Was it best to buy this famous one she’d seen advertised on TV? Or the one that claimed to be ‘easy to use’? Or this one over here, that screamed ‘doctor recommended’ in large blue letters?

In the end she went with the famous one. It cost the most...so that meant it was the best, surely?

Just before lunch they piled into the Range Rover and returned to Draemar.

‘It looks like I’ll be depending on the kindness of strangers for another week,’ Helen remarked as Colm turned up the drive that led to the castle.

‘What? Your car won’t be ready until then?’ Natalie asked.

She shook her head. ‘The mechanic says they have to send to Inverness for the parts. I really hate to impose on Tarquin and Wren any more than I already have.’

‘Oh, they don’t mind,’ Natalie assured her. ‘They love the company. But it’s a bit inconvenient for you, I imagine.’

‘A bit,’ Helen agreed, although secretly she was glad of the delay. It gave her time to wrangle an invitation to Northton Grange from Dominic and Gemma, and hopefully, to get the scoop – and photos – of their soon-to-be, not-so-secret wedding.

And while she remained at Draemar castle, she mused, she could do a bit more research into Andrew Campbell’s death, as well.

Natalie eyed her quizzically. ‘What brings you to Scotland, if you don’t mind my asking? Are you here visiting family?’

Colm slanted a glance at Helen in the rear-view mirror, but he made no comment.

‘No,’ Helen answered, ‘I’m a writer. Freelance. I write pieces on spec for women’s magazines.’

‘But that’s fabulous!’ Nat exclaimed. ‘I’d no idea you were a writer.’

Helen smiled briefly but was spared a further reply as they approached the castle. A salt-encrusted Jeep was parked before the entrance as Colm drew the Range Rover to a stop.

‘I wonder who that belongs to?’ Nat mused as she opened her door. ‘It looks as if it’s been through a war.’

‘It belongs to Archibald Campbell,’ Colm replied. ‘Tarquin’s father.’

‘But I thought Tark’s parents were in Corfu,’ Helen said in puzzlement.

He shrugged. ‘They must’ve cut their holiday short.’

‘How odd. I wonder why they’ve come back?’ she mused as she stepped out of the car.

‘Not really your business, is it?’ Colm said.

Before she could form a suitable response, he put the Range Rover in gear and drove away.

Low but charged voices reached Helen and Natalie’s ears as Dominic opened the front door and let them in.

‘What’s going on?’ Nat asked. She glanced across the entrance hall and was surprised to see that the drawing room doors were firmly shut.

‘Tark’s parents are back, that’s what’s going on,’ Dominic hissed. ‘I came down to see what the cook had on the menu for lunch – no haggis, thank God ‒ and I was headed back upstairs when all hell broke loose.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’ Helen asked.

‘I don’t know, exactly,’ Dom confided, ‘but it’s something to do with Tark’s sister Caitlin. I heard raised voices and shouting, then Tark came down the hall and herded everyone into the drawing room and shut the doors.’

Natalie frowned. ‘Why are they all shouting, if the Campbells have only just got home?’

Her question was answered when the drawing room doors flew open and Caitlin, her face red and her eyes swollen with tears, burst into the entrance hall and launched herself towards the stairs.

‘Caitlin Morag Campbell, don’t you dare walk out on this conversation!’ an equally red-faced man called out after her. ‘I’m your father, damn you, and I won’t bloody have it!’

With his ginger hair and beard bristling with anger, Tarquin’s father was an imposing figure.

‘Archie, please.’ A tall, attractive woman laid a hand on his sleeve as she glanced over at Natalie, Helen, and Dominic hovering uncertainly by the front door. ‘We have company.’

‘I’m sorry, Pen, but Caitlin and I didn’t finish this conversation.’ He shook off his wife’s hand and levelled a glare on his daughter.

‘It’s not a conversation,’ Caitlin hurled back as she whirled around to face him, ‘it’s an inquisition! I planned to tell you both everything...but Wren went and spoiled it, like she always does.’ She shot a venomous glance at Tarquin’s wife, who stood in the hallway next to her husband. ‘She couldn’t wait to land me in trouble.’

‘I think you’ve done that well enough on your own.’ Tarquin scowled. ‘Wren had nothing to do with this, Caitlin. I did. I was the one who called to inform Mum and Dad, so kindly vent your spleen at me, not my wife.’ He put his arm around Wren’s shoulders in a protective gesture.

‘You?’ Caitlin regarded him in outrage. ‘Why? How could you, Tark? How could you do that to me?’

‘You’ve been thrown out of university,’ he said evenly. ‘What else was I to do? Mum and Dad have a right to know. They’re paying your tuition, after all.’

‘How did you find out?’ she demanded. ‘I never said a word to you!’

‘I found out purely by accident when I went on the university website looking for information for a friend. Imagine my dismay when I discovered that the Christmas holidays don’t start until the end of next week. I made a discreet enquiry and learned you’d been expelled.’

Caitlin glared at him, then turned and stormed away up the stairs. The sound of her door slamming echoed down to the hallway.

Tarquin’s father let out a sigh and stepped forward, his hand outstretched to the newcomers.

‘It’s a poor welcome to Draemar you’ve had, to be sure,’ he said gruffly. ‘I do apologize for the drama. We’re normally a fairly tranquil lot. Archibald Campbell,’ he added as he shook their hands in turn, ‘the owner of this great pile of stone. Now, let’s all go into the drawing room to get acquainted and have a wee dram, shall we?’

‘I’d love to join you,’ Natalie demurred as his hand engulfed hers, ‘but I need to run up to my room for a few moments. If you’ll excuse me?’

‘Of course! We’ll see you at lunch, then, I hope?’ Archibald asked.

‘Oh, yes. I’ll find my husband Rhys and bring him along, as well.’

‘Splendid! I’ll look forward to it.’

Natalie excused herself and made her way upstairs to the en suite bathroom she shared with Rhys. She was anxious to do the test before he returned.

She had to know if she were pregnant or not.

As she opened the test kit, she wondered where her husband had disappeared to. With a quick glance at the directions – how difficult was it to wee on a stick, after all? – Natalie did what needed to be done, then went into the bedroom to wait for the results.

She prowled the room. She checked her email. She sat and stared out the window at the snow.

It was the longest three minutes of her life.

When she returned to the bathroom and reached out with an unsteady hand for the stick, she scarcely dared to breathe. She was almost afraid to look. Could it be? Could it possibly be?

She turned it over; two thin blue lines met her gaze. Natalie stared at it, scarcely able to comprehend the enormity of what she saw. She was really pregnant, then. There could be no question.

She left the bathroom and sank down on the end of the bed. There was no need to go and see Dr MacTavish; no need to schedule an appointment. She’d arrange to see an obstetrician just as soon as they returned to London.

Natalie’s thoughts whirled. She’d need prenatal vitamins, and an examination, and she’d need to start shopping straight away for lots of adorable little baby things...

...but she’d have to tell Rhys, of course. He’d want to go along with her to see the doctor, she knew he would.

First, she thought with a tiny flutter of uncertainty, she had to find her husband, and tell him that there could be no doubt.

She was definitely, unquestionably pregnant.

Chapter 16

As everyone assembled in the dining room for luncheon, Natalie took the chair Rhys held out for her.

She longed to tell him her news. But he’d only just walked in. Besides, she could hardly discuss something of such import with him in the middle of Draemar’s enormous dining room.

‘Where did you disappear to this morning, Rhys?’ she asked instead as she picked up her napkin and smoothed it over her lap.

‘I had a look around the castle.’ He took a sip of water and offered nothing further.

‘And what do you think of our wee castle, Mr Gordon?’ Archibald enquired. ‘Being that you’re a fellow Scotsman, I’m curious to know your opinion.’

‘I don’t know much about castles, I’m afraid. I grew up in a tower block in Edinburgh. It was nothing like this, I can assure you.’

‘That must’ve been difficult.’ Laird Campbell eyed him with interest. ‘Nevertheless...you made your way out of there and went on to become a highly regarded businessman.’ He raised his wine glass. ‘That’s a heroic accomplishment in my book.’

‘Thank you.’ Rhys took a sip of his wine and glanced around the table. ‘I found an interesting room during my explorations this morning, at the top of the west tower. There were books, and a desk, as well as some intriguing paraphernalia – Maori weapons, a didgeridoo, even a West African talking drum.’

Tarquin glanced up. ‘That was my brother Andrew’s study, Mr Gordon,’ he said quietly.

There was an awkward silence.

‘I see,’ Rhys murmured. ‘I apologize. I’d no idea. I shouldn’t have gone poking about like I did.’

‘Nonsense,’ Penelope Campbell reassured him, and smiled as the soup course arrived. ‘Andrew’s been gone for eighteen years, Mr Gordon. I keep meaning to clear his things away, but...’ her words trailed off. ‘I can’t quite bring myself to do it. By leaving everything exactly as it is, I can pretend that he might come back.’

‘Excuse me.’

They looked up to see Colm standing in the doorway, flat cap in hand. ‘I’ve brought in your luggage and left it in the entrance hall, Laird Campbell,’ he said.

‘Good man. Come in,’ Archibald invited him.

Helen sipped her wine and studied Colm over the rim of the glass as he took a couple of wary steps into the dining room. Although his face remained impassive, he looked a bit out of his element, like a thief at a policemen’s ball.

‘Join us for lunch, MacKenzie?’ Laird Campbell asked.

‘Thank you, no.’ Colm’s words were polite but firm. ‘I’ve work to be doing. If there’s nothing else?’

‘No, not a thing. Off you go, then, and thank you.’

And as he left, striding past Laird Campbell on his way out, Helen was suddenly struck by the resemblance between Colm MacKenzie and his employer. They were roughly the same height and build, with the same dark-ginger hair; they even shared the same long Campbell nose.

Why had she not noticed it before?

Was the resemblance merely coincidence? Or was it, perhaps, something more?

Before she could ponder the matter further, the main course arrived, carried in by Mrs Neeson, the housekeeper, who was lending a hand in the kitchen, and Helen had no choice but to put her curiosity aside and join in the conversation around the table.

‘We just got another of them odd phone calls,’ the housekeeper informed Mrs Campbell as she deposited the food and turned to go.

Penelope frowned. ‘Odd? How so?’

‘When I answer, they don’t say nary a word.’ Mrs Neeson shook her head in irritation. ‘But someone’s there all the same; I can hear ’em breathing.’

‘Perhaps it’s a naughty phone call,’ Gemma suggested with a smirk.

Mrs Neeson snorted. ‘If that’s what our mystery caller has in mind, he’s barking up the wrong tree, he is.’ She turned and sailed back out the door in high dudgeon.

‘How do you like Scotland so far?’ Mrs Campbell asked her assembled guests as she reached for her glass.

‘It’s lovely,’ Natalie enthused.

‘Gorgeous,’ Helen agreed. ‘So picturesque!’

‘So much bloody snow,’ Dominic grumbled.

Penelope smiled. ‘I quite understand how you feel. When I married Archie and he first brought me up here from London, I thought I’d never get used to it. It snowed constantly. The castle was terribly cold all that first winter. The boiler was temperamental; when it died, we had to stay in the drawing room and kitchen, huddled by the fireplace, until it was replaced. Every night, we slept under a massive pile of eiderdowns.’

‘It sounds very romantic,’ Gemma observed.

‘Oh, it was. Although at the time I didn’t think so. I didn’t know a shooting brake from a motor scooter, did I, darling?’ Penelope turned to Archie with a smile. ‘I was so incredibly stupid!’

‘My wee Sassenach,’ her husband said fondly, and reached out to cover her hand with his. ‘You were a Londoner, I dinnae expect you to know about such things. Did you know,’ he told the others, pride plain in his voice, ‘that my lovely wife was once a model?’

‘A model?’ Natalie echoed, and leant forward. ‘How exciting.’ She studied the woman’s dark-auburn hair and green eyes. ‘I thought your face looked familiar, somehow.’

She blushed. ‘I was no supermodel, mind, but I made a decent living at it.’

‘Oh, don’t listen to her,’ Archie scoffed. ‘She was quite the celebrity in her day! Had flings with a couple of film stars, she did, and then there was that chap – oh, what was his name, darling? I always said he was sweet on you...he almost ran for prime minister?’

‘Graeme Longworth.’ She spoke quietly.

‘Longworth! Yes, of course. He didn’t run, though. There were rumours of a scandal of some sort, and so he withdrew.’

The conversation moved on to other subjects, and there was much conjecture as to whether it would snow again; but although she joined in the discussion, Helen couldn’t help but notice that Penelope Campbell remained strangely silent for the rest of the meal.

‘How in God’s name could this happen, Natalie?’ Rhys demanded.

Natalie’s lower lip trembled as she met his eyes. They’d gone back to their room after lunch, and she told Rhys straight away that she was definitely pregnant. He listened without expression. Now, his face was hard and his eyes were dark with anger. She’d never seen him quite so furious.

‘This wasn’t what we planned,’ he ground out. ‘We agreed to wait! How could you let this happen?’

‘It’s not like I did it on purpose, Rhys!’ she protested. ‘I’ve been very careful! I haven’t missed a pill, so I honestly don’t know how it could have happened…’

‘But it did happen. You’re pregnant. And are you quite sure,’ he added, rounding on her suddenly, ‘that you didn’t do it on purpose? You’ve talked of nothing else but having a baby since the day we got married.’

‘Yes, I do want a baby! Is that so terrible? But you can’t really believe that I’d deliberately disregard your wishes, can you? Because if you do,’ Natalie added, her voice unsteady, ‘then you don’t know me at all.’

There was a small, charged silence.

‘I don’t know what the hell to think,’ Rhys snapped. ‘My God, Natalie – I’ve barely got Dashwood and James back on track. There’s still a lot of work to be done to strengthen the finances and stabilize the company. I’m just getting used to being married after so many years on my own! And now...this.’

Natalie blinked the tears from her eyelashes and glared at him. ‘Yes, Rhys ‒ this.’ She put a hand protectively over her stomach. ‘I’m sorry if our baby – our inconvenient baby – doesn’t fit in with your plans, and I’m sorry if our marriage has been such a difficult thing for you to come to terms with. I’d no idea you felt that way. Perhaps,’ she let out a tiny, hiccupping sob, ‘perhaps it’s best if we just end things now, and go our separate ways.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Rhys erupted. ‘Why must you turn every argument we have into an “all or nothing” drama? Having a baby doesn’t only affect you, you know. It affects me as well. And please don’t try to tell me how I feel. I don’t know how I feel right now.’

As he turned away and slammed out of the room, Natalie’s face crumpled, and she flung herself across the bed, and thought she might never stop crying.

Chapter 17

Helen returned to her room when lunch ended and shut the door. And just for good measure, she turned the lock.

Her thoughts whirled. She had plenty of questions, and she wanted answers...but she didn’t want Colm MacKenzie turning up in the midst of her research.

After unearthing her laptop bag from the closet, she took out her computer, flipped it open, and switched it on. A few taps of the keyboard brought up the search engine. She typed in ‘Andrew Campbell, drowning, Sierra Leone’ and waited impatiently until half a dozen URLs and several photographs popped up on the screen.

Curious, Helen clicked on the first photo. Andrew Campbell stood next to an upended surfboard. His wetsuit glistened with seawater, and he was laughing.

What a shame, she thought with a wash of real regret as she studied him. He was a handsome specimen of Scots manhood ‒ tall and well built, muscular, but not overly so. His smile was wide and engaging.

And it struck her quite suddenly that he bore more than a passing resemblance to Colm MacKenzie.

She clicked on a link to The Times article on his death and skimmed through it. Andrew was sailing from Freetown to the Banana Islands along with Michael McFarland, an Australian traveller he’d met in Freetown.

According to McFarland, the sea roughened when an unexpected late-afternoon squall kicked in, and the sloop capsized. Both men clung to the hull as the boat was carried further and further out from shore. When the worst of the storm passed, Andrew, a strong swimmer, decided to strike out and swim the twelve miles to shore. He never made it. Michael was rescued early the next morning.

Andrew was presumed drowned, his body carried out to sea. There was also speculation that perhaps he’d been attacked by a shark, a not uncommon occurrence along the Sierra Leone coast.

At any rate, his body was never recovered.

Helen gazed into the distance with a frown etched on her face. Some suggested that Campbell, who was well travelled and fascinated with West African tribal culture, had disappeared deliberately, unwilling to take on the responsibility of running his family’s Scotch distillery in his father Archibald’s stead.

Could it be true, she wondered? Had Andrew faked his own death in order to start a new life elsewhere? Her frown deepened. Could Colm actually be Andrew, the missing heir? He was thirty-eight, the same age Andrew would’ve been, had he lived; and they were the same height and build.

But she discarded the idea as soon as it occurred. It made no sense. Why would Andrew Lachlan Campbell suddenly come home to his family after turning his back on them for eighteen years? And if he did return, why keep his identity a secret? Surely his parents – his own mother – would recognize heir son the moment they laid eyes on him.

Still, Helen mused, eighteen years was nearly two decades. People could change a lot in that amount of time, physically and emotionally.

Her frown deepened. Perhaps Colm ‒ Andrew ‒ was back because he was in danger of some kind. Had he returned to Draemar to hide?

On impulse, she grabbed her mobile and tapped in a number. After two rings the call was picked up. ‘News desk, London Probe.’

‘Tom Bennett, please.’

Helen waited impatiently as the call was put through. When he answered she came straight to the point. ‘Tom, it’s Helen. I need a favour. Get me the police report for Andrew Campbell. Yes, Campbell. He drowned off the coast of Sierra Leone. Let me know what you find.’

‘All right,’ he said doubtfully, ‘but why? That was years ago ‒ I remember it. His sailboat capsized, his body was never found, and they thought he might’ve been finished off by a shark. Poor bugger.’ He paused. ‘Why the sudden interest in a rich toff who drowned nearly twenty years ago?’

‘I’ll explain later. Just get me that report, okay? I’ll owe you. Big time.’

‘You bet your arse you will,’ he grumbled, and rang off.

The knock on Caitlin’s door was quiet, but determined.

She sat up on her bed, where she’d thrown herself earlier in a torrent of angry tears, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Who is it?’ she asked, even though she already knew.

‘It’s Mum. Let me in, please.’

With an exaggerated sigh, Caitlin pushed herself to her feet and went to the door and cracked it open. ‘What do you want?’

‘I want answers, madam, and I want them now. You can either open this door,’ her mother said again, more firmly, ‘or you can explain yourself to your father. And I don’t think either of us wants that.’

Reluctantly Caitlin swung the door open and waited as her mother came inside and swung around to face her.

‘Why were asked to leave university?’ Penelope demanded. ‘What on earth did you do?’

‘It’s all a silly misunderstanding,’ Caitlin said, and closed the door. She crossed her arms against her chest. ‘It’s stupid, really.’

‘I hardly think you’d be dismissed on the basis of a “silly misunderstanding”. Tell me what happened.’

She shrugged. ‘I wasn’t keeping up with my studies, Mum, that’s all. My grades were poor.’

‘And?’ her mother prodded. ‘You wouldn’t be kicked out of school merely for poor grades, Cait.’ She sat down on the edge of the bed and levelled a shrewd gaze at her daughter. ‘There’s something more, isn’t there?’

She said nothing.

‘I’m waiting. I can wait all night, if necessary. And this time, my darling girl, I want the truth.’

Caitlin glared at her mother, and defiance darkened her grey eyes. ‘I missed some classes,’ she said, her expression still sullen. ‘I wasn’t turning in assignments. I just...couldn’t keep up any more, so I gave up trying.’

There was a moment of silence. ‘You graduated top of your class,’ Mrs Campbell said finally. ‘You’ve never once struggled with schoolwork, Caitlin, never! You expect me to believe this load of bollocks? Because I don’t – I’m not buying it for a minute.’

‘Believe what you want. It’s true. I’m just not cut out for university, Mum. I’m completely h-hopeless.’ Her lower lip began to wobble, and she tried – and failed – to blink back incipient tears.

‘Who is he?’ Penelope’s voice was soft in the stillness of the room.

Caitlin’s head shot up at the unexpectedness of the question. ‘Who is who? What are you talking about?’

‘Who is this man you’re so willing to throw your future away for? Is it Jeremy?’

‘Jeremy?’ She stared at her mother, nonplussed. ‘Lord, no! We’re friends. I only asked him to bring me here because he’s got the Land Rover and I was desperate to get home.’

‘And how did you manage to persuade him to do that? Doesn’t Jeremy have exams, finals to take? Unless he was expelled, too?’

‘No, of course he wasn’t!’ Caitlin snapped. ‘I told you, we’re friends. He agreed to bring me here after I told him I’d been expelled. He spoke with his professors and got permission to take his finals a week early.’

‘How lucky for you.’

‘Jeremy’s been wonderful. And he’s staying in a separate room down the hall, if you hadn’t noticed,’ she added.

‘There’s nothing to stop him sneaking into your room at night. Or you into his.’

‘You can’t be serious.’ Caitlin shook her head in disbelief. ‘I’m twenty, mum, not fifteen. I’ve been on my own for almost two years. I’ve even had sex.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ she replied, refusing to rise to her daughter’s bait. ‘But you’re home now, and there’s your father to consider. I won’t have you disrespecting him or his wishes while you’re here.’

‘Oh, crikey, Mum,’ Caitlin groaned, ‘don’t start with the clichés, like “as long as you’re living under our roof”, please?’

‘No clichés.’ Penelope rose to her feet. ‘But I expect you to behave with decorum whist you’re here. And I expect you to formulate a plan and tell me – and your father – exactly what you intend to do about this current state of affairs.’

She strode to Caitlin’s door and left, closing the door quietly but firmly behind her.

Caitlin flung herself back against the pillows and stared up at the canopy of pink silk over her head. What an unholy mess...and she’d no one but herself to blame. Tears leaked out and slid down the sides of her face, dampening her collar as thoughts chased themselves back and forth in her head.

She’d never finish school now...daddy was the angriest she’d ever seen him...what was she thinking, to do such a daft and irresponsible thing...

Gradually she became aware of the ringing of the phone in the upstairs hallway. She waited for someone – anyone – to pick it up, but no one did, and it continued to ring.

With a mutter of irritation, she flounced out of bed and flung the door open. ‘Hello!’ she snapped as she snatched the handset up.

There was no reply, only silence. But someone was definitely on the other end.

Her annoyance deepened. ‘Who is this, please?’

And although she waited, no one spoke; but Caitlin was certain someone was on the other end of the line. She was about to hang up in disgust when a sudden, crazy-hopeful but impossible thought occurred to her.

‘Niall?’ she asked in a low, intense voice. ‘Niall, is that you?’

Chapter 18

Rhys grabbed his coat and went downstairs, his face set and his thoughts churning. He needed to get away from the castle, and away from Natalie. He needed time alone to think.

Relieved that he ran into no one as he crossed the entrance hall on his way to the front door, Rhys let himself outside and thrust his hands deep in his pockets. Bloody hell, but it was cold. He’d forgotten how bone-chilling a Scottish winter could be.

And it was much worse if you were small and didn’t have a decent coat to keep you warm.

He strode down the drive, lost in black thoughts as he listened to the sound of his feet crunching over the hard-packed snow. His breath came out in plumes as he walked.

For some reason, his thoughts strayed to his one – and only – pony ride. His stepfather had taken him and his mum to a local fête when Rhys was five, or perhaps six. Pony rides were on offer in a fenced-off field, 50p for a couple of circles around the paddock on a knackered mare. As the attendant lifted Rhys up onto the horse’s back, he clutched the animal’s mane with white-tipped knuckles and tried hard not to cry.

‘Look at you, holdin’ on for dear life to that harmless creature!’ his stepfather exclaimed, and shook his head in disgust. ‘It’s just a wee bloody pony, Rhys! It’s a shame, a lad as big as you, blubbering like a girl. Good thing you’re no son of mine,’ he’d muttered under his breath.

But Rhys had heard him. And he’d had no use for horses – or his stepfather – ever since.

He remembered other things, too. How he’d cowered in fear, his stomach churning, as his stepfather beat his mother. How he hid under his bed, huddled with his adopted brother Jamie, dreading the sound of his father’s key turning in the lock in the evening.

I’ve plenty of experience with fatherhood, Rhys reflected grimly, and all of it bad.

How in hell could he ever hope to be a decent father to his own son or daughter when he knew nothing about it? He had no basis for comparison.

And how could he ever hope to make Natalie understand?

His footsteps slowed as he heard the distant, rhythmic thwacking of an axe echoing from somewhere within the woods nearby. He and the groundskeeper, Colm, spotted one another through the trees at the same instant. Rhys lifted a hand briefly and turned to go.

‘It’s a mite cold out to be walking,’ Colm called out as he shouldered his axe and approached Rhys.

‘I needed to get away. For all its size, the castle was beginning to close in on me.’ He glanced at the stack of freshly split logs piled nearby. ‘Need a hand?’

‘I wouldn’t say no.’

Rhys took the axe Colm handed him. He hefted a log onto the top of a stump, swung back the handle, and split it open with a single, satisfying crack. The scent of pine filled the air. Before long, an impressive stack of firewood piled up between the two men, and Rhys found that the physical effort calmed him and focused his thoughts.

When they finished, he helped the groundskeeper load a nearby truck bed with the cord of wood they’d just cut.

‘Thanks,’ Colm said. He glanced at a stone cottage a few yards away. ‘I’ve whisky inside, if you’ve time for a dram,’ he offered.

Rhys masked his surprise at the offer. He and the ginger-haired man hadn’t exchanged so much as a word before today. But he agreed. ‘I’d like that.’

He followed Colm’s broad back inside the cottage. The sitting room was small but cosy, with a fire burning in the great stone fireplace, and a sofa and chairs covered in faded chintz arranged around it. The smell of wood smoke permeated the room.

‘Nice,’ Rhys observed as he shrugged off his coat and tossed it across the back of a chair. ‘Does this place go along with the job?’

Colm nodded. ‘Aye. It’s one of the perks, if you will.’ He turned away to pour their drinks.

‘And what are the other perks?’

He shrugged and handed Rhys over a tumbler of whisky. ‘Solitude. Quiet. Being my own boss.’

‘Thanks.’ Colm’s life, Rhys realized, wasn’t that much different than his own. Oh, they were worlds apart in terms of their livelihoods; but they both held fast to their independence.

Yet more and more, Rhys’s old life – flying all over Europe on business travel, living out of a hotel, indulging in the occasional brief (and meaningless) relationship, the freedom to do as he damn well pleased – was slipping away. From the time he’d left home at sixteen, he’d been responsible for himself, and himself only. Soon he’d be responsible not only for his wife, Natalie, but for their yet-to-be-born son or daughter as well.

And he wasn’t sure he was ready for it.

Colm lowered himself to the sofa and Rhys followed suit, and the men lapsed into silence as they sipped their whiskies, content for the moment to mull over their thoughts as the fire spit and crackled before them. The warmth of the room and the whisky soon spread through Rhys.

‘My wife’s pregnant,’ he said after a moment, and frowned down into the amber depths of his glass. ‘I just found out this morning. I’m not sure how I feel about it.’

‘You’re not happy?’

‘Yes. No. Oh, hell...I don’t know.’ Rhys glanced up. ‘What about yourself? Do you have any kids?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Nor a wife, either.’

‘You never married?’

‘Once.’ The word was abrupt. ‘It was a long time ago. Why don’t you want a bairn, then?’

Rhys drained his glass. ‘The thought of a baby, helpless and dependent on me, scares the hell out of me. My stepfather...he beat my mum, and hurled abuse at me on a regular basis; he came home most nights in a drunken stupor. How can I hope to be a proper father, with him as my only example?’

Colm shrugged and reached out to pour them each another dram. ‘No man knows what he’s doing when he becomes a father, I reckon. You just muddle through it as you go. And the fact that yours was a bastard should show you what not to do with your own wee one.’

‘What about you?’ Rhys asked, emboldened by the whisky burning its way down his throat. ‘What was your father like?’

Colm gazed into the fire, his expression unreadable. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said finally. ‘I never knew him.’

‘Why not? What happened?’

Colm pushed himself to his feet. ‘The day’s getting on, Gordon, and I’ve plenty to be doing. If you’ll pardon me now, I’d best get back to it.’

Chapter 19

Natalie lifted her head from the pillow as someone knocked on the door.

‘Rhys?’ she asked hopefully, and sniffled.

There was a pause. ‘No, it’s Gemma. Can I come in?’

Disappointment swamped her. Gemma. Not Rhys. ‘Just a minute,’ she called out, and got up to peer into the dressing table mirror. Quickly, she added a flick of mascara to her lashes and ran a brush through her hair.

A moment later she opened the door. ‘Hello, Gemma. Come in.’

‘Nat, I need your help,’ Dom’s girlfriend said without preamble, and marched inside. A bridal magazine was tucked in the crook of her arm. ‘I’ve a million wedding details to take care of, such as whether to serve roast duck or beef en croute at the reception, and I’m in really desperate need of your advice—’

She broke off as she caught sight of Natalie’s face. ‘You’ve been crying,’ she exclaimed, and tossed the magazine aside to take her by the arm. ‘Come and sit down and tell me what’s wrong, right this instant!’

‘Are you quite sure you have time?’ Nat asked with a trace of bitterness. ‘We haven’t spoken in months, ever since you got engaged to Dominic.’

‘We haven’t?’ Gemma blinked in surprise. A guilty look flitted over her face. ‘Oh. No, I suppose we haven’t. Sorry – I’ve just been so consumed with wedding stuff. Never mind that,’ she added, ‘tell me what’s going on now. Why are you crying? Is it Rhys?’

Nat sniffled again. ‘Yes. No. Oh, it’s all such a mess!’ she choked out, and burst once again into tears.

Gemma leant forward and slipped an arm around her heaving shoulders. ‘Shh,’ she murmured as she patted Natalie awkwardly on the back. ‘It can’t be that bad.’

‘Th-thanks,’ Nat hiccupped. ‘But it is that bad.’

‘What’s Rhys done, then?’ she demanded as she drew back. ‘Shall I have a word? Give him a piece of my mind?’

‘No, Gemma. It’s not the sort of thing you can “have a word” about.’ Natalie pulled away and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

‘What sort of thing is it, then? Tell me! Whatever it is, it’s got you upset.’

‘It’s me.’ She lifted her tear-stained face to Gemma’s. ‘I...I’m pregnant.’

‘Pregnant?’ Gemma echoed, and squealed. ‘But that’s fabulous news!’ She engulfed Natalie in a lengthy, Prada-scented hug. ‘A baby – that’s what you’ve longed for, isn’t it?’ She leant back and regarded her with a frown. ‘Why the long face and tears, then?’

‘It’s Rhys,’ Nat admitted. ‘He’s furious. When we got married, we agreed to wait a year or two to have children, and enjoy being a couple first. And I was fine with that. Truly, I was. But now I’m pregnant, and he thinks-he th-thinks…’

‘He thinks you did it on purpose,’ Gemma finished grimly.

Natalie nodded miserably. ‘Yes. We had a huge row, and we shouted at each other, and he said awful things to me. And then he stormed off.’

‘Oh, Nat,’ Gemma reassured her, and reached out to take her hands, ‘you know Rhys. He’s got that temper, he always has done. He’ll calm down after a bit. And once he does, he’ll come back, and he’ll see that he was wrong, and apologize, and you’ll have spectacular make-up sex.’

‘Do you...do you really think so?’

‘I know so. Now, in the meantime,’ she reached for the bridal magazine she’d tossed aside earlier and began flicking through the pages ‘what do you think of this peau de soie for the bridesmaids’ gowns, instead of the silk...?’

With nothing else to do but read until dinner time, Helen threw her book aside and decided to go outside for a walk. She’d seen Rhys striding off down the drive earlier. He’d looked decidedly angry.

Probably had one of those silly, newly married arguments, she reflected with a wistful smile. Perhaps he hadn’t kissed Natalie good morning, or she’d neglected to pack his favourite sweater, or something equally ridiculous.

She’d been a new bride once, too. David had brought her burnt toast one morning before work, and she’d snapped at him. He’d snapped back and told her if she didn’t like it she could make her own damn toast.

Soon their words grew heated, and David picked up one of his grass-stained trainers from the floor and threw it at her. It whizzed by her ear and knocked over a lamp.

After the initial shock, she’d started laughing. They laughed until they could barely draw breath. Then they’d fallen into bed and made love until they were both ruinously late for work.

Her smile faded, and she thrust the memory away.

The thought of fresh Scottish air and a brisk, mind-clearing walk was a welcome one, and she reached for her coat. She could think, not about David and her long-ago life, but about Andrew, and Colm.

Perhaps the cold and the solitude would stimulate her mind and provide some answers to the questions that currently troubled her, Helen decided. She was beyond curious to see the police report from Freetown she’d asked Tom to get.

She left her room and went down the hall, and paused at the top of the stairs. Voices drifted up from below – Gemma and Dom’s – having a rather heated discussion about the wedding.

‘…need to leave soon!’ Gemma hissed. ‘If we’re to be married in Northton Grange in less than two weeks, I’ve got to be on hand to supervise. Otherwise, God knows what kind of wedding décor hell we’ll walk into.’

‘But we can’t possibly leave yet ‒ there’s still masses of snow on the ground,’ he hedged.

‘The main roads are clear. You’re not trying to postpone our wedding again,’ Gemma accused him, ‘are you?’

And as Dom assured her that no, he most definitely wasn’t, Helen took out her mobile and dashed off a quick email to Tom to update him on the rock star’s wedding plans.

When she was sure Gemma and Dominic were gone, she went downstairs and let herself out the front door. She was halfway down the drive when she saw a truck, its bed loaded with wood, and heard someone call her name. Colm.

‘Miss Thomas,’ he said as he rolled the window down. ‘What brings you out of doors today?’

‘I felt like a bit of fresh air. And it’s so lovely here – the scenery’s breathtaking.’

‘Oh, aye,’ he agreed. ‘You’ll get no argument from me there.’

‘Well, that’s a first.’ The words escaped Helen’s mouth before she could stop them. She bit her lip and waited for his smile to be replaced with its customary scowl.

But he only shrugged. ‘I have my moments.’ He glanced at her. ‘I’m on my way to the castle to unload some firewood. If you wait a few minutes, I’ll come back and take you for a look round the property – well, as much of it as I can show you with the snow still blocking some of our private roads.’

Helen eyed him in surprise. ‘I’d like that,’ she replied. ‘Shall I meet you in front of the house in ten minutes?’

‘Aye. I’ll see you then.’ He nodded, put the truck back in gear, and drove off towards the castle.

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ Helen muttered. ‘The man can not only talk in complete sentences, he can smile, too.’

And although she’d detected a trace of whisky on his breath, she chose to ignore it.

If it took a ‘wee dram’ to make Colm MacKenzie more sociable, and if a bit of whisky took away the scowl from his face, then she was all for it.

Chapter 20

Helen was just coming back up the drive after a brief walk when Colm drew the truck to a stop in front of the main entrance.

‘Are you ready for the grand tour?’ Colm called out as he leant out the window.

‘I am. And I hope you’ve got the heater going. It’s bloody freezing out here!’

He reached over and threw the door open, and Helen climbed, shivering, inside the truck cab. She was doing up her seat belt when Colm turned to her and held out a flask. ‘Have some. It’s whisky.’

She hesitated. ‘I shouldn’t...’

‘Go on,’ he invited. ‘It’ll warm you up.’ He lifted his brow. ‘Think of it as a before-dinner drink. If you were in the drawing room with the Campbells right now, I guarantee you’d be having a glass.’

That decided her, and she took the flask from him, tilted her head back, and took a swig.

Colm put the truck in gear and with a lurch, they were off. ‘I’ll show you the distillery first,’ he called out over the noise of the engine. ‘It’s what keeps the castle going.’

‘Whisky,’ Helen observed dryly, ‘is the lifeblood of the Campbells.’

‘Aye, and good stuff Draemar whisky is, too.’ He grinned and glanced at the flask. ‘You’re drinking it now.’

‘It’s very good,’ she agreed. ‘I don’t usually care much for the stuff, but this...well, I could learn to like it. A lot.’ She glanced at him. ‘What about you, Colm? Are you a whisky connoisseur?’

‘Hardly. I’m not much of a drinker, normally. But I do know good whisky from bad.’

‘You wouldn’t be much of a Scotsman if you didn’t.’

He laughed. ‘No, I suppose not.’ Returning his attention to the truck, he navigated down the sloping, snow-packed road that led to the Campbell distillery.

Like the castle, the building was made of stone and mortar and looked both impressive and invincible. Several dozen vehicles filled a nearby car park.

‘How many people does the distillery employ?’ Helen asked.

‘Eighty, at last count. Most are from the village.’

‘I see. So the Campbell family’s whisky makes for a booming local economy,’ she observed.

‘Aye, it keeps the village going. If the distillery ever went out, so would Loch Draemar.’ He threw the truck in reverse and headed back up the hill. ‘So tell me, Helen Thomas ‒ how’s that news story of yours getting on?’

She stared at him. Did Colm suspect that she was investigating Andrew’s death, that she was investigating him?

‘You know,’ he prodded as he saw her blank look, ‘the scoop you were after, the scoop on Dominic and Gemma’s secret wedding.’

‘Oh...yes.’ She managed a brief smile. ‘There’s nothing much going on at the moment, only Gemma driving us all mad with the wedding preparations, leaving stacks of bridal magazines everywhere, and subjecting everyone to shouty phone calls to caterers and florists and dressmakers—’

There was a quick flash of brown as a deer darted out of the surrounding woods and bounded in front of the truck. With a curse Colm wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right to avoid hitting the creature, and slammed on the brakes.

Helen, thrown hard against him, began to tremble. ‘Oh God,’ she breathed, ‘oh God...’

‘Are you all right?’ Colm asked as he turned to her. His face was ashen; fear tightened his throat. ‘Are you hurt?’

She straightened and managed to shake her head. ‘No. No, I’m fine.’

‘Sorry about that. I never saw the bastard coming. Damn, that’s your bag landed on the floor. I’ll get it.’

He reached down to retrieve it. A photograph and keys lay on the floorboard as well. ‘Here,’ Colm said, and glanced at the picture of a dark-haired man just before he handed it over with the keys. ‘Who’s this? Is he the bloke you were talking to on the phone the other day?’

She snatched it away. ‘None of your business,’ she snapped.

Colm’s jaw tightened and the closed expression settled back on his face. ‘Right, then. That’s me put in my place.’

For a moment there was silence, with only the ticking of the engine and the sound of Helen’s ragged breathing to mar the quiet.

‘He was my husband,’ she said finally. She gazed down at the photograph in her hands, and her expression was empty. ‘David. We were married for three years. We met at university – he was studying law, I was studying journalism. I loved him. Even though he drove me mad with his refusal to put his dirty clothes in the laundry hamper, and even though he took perverse pleasure in tracking mud across my newly cleaned kitchen floor, I...loved him.’

Colm was silent, his hand resting on the gearshift, waiting.

‘He often worked long hours – he was a solicitor for a big firm in Canary Wharf. He’d bring home Chinese, or curry, and we’d sit on the floor in front of the coffee table and watch telly. He tried to teach me to use chopsticks. But I never could manage them properly.’

‘I still can’t,’ Colm admitted.

‘When I found out I was pregnant,’ Helen went on, turning the photo round and round in her hands, ‘we were so excited. We wanted lots of children, at least four or five. Two boys, three girls.’ She smiled fondly. ‘The ultrasound showed a boy. David was ecstatic.’

‘I can imagine,’ he murmured.

‘I was seven months along when we went to David’s office Christmas party. It was raining. He didn’t want to go, nor did I; I couldn’t drink, and I was as big as a lorry. But I convinced him to go, to at least show his face and mingle with the higher-ups.’

Colm reached out and took her hand. It was cold, he noticed as he squeezed it. ‘You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, Helen,’ he said gently.

She shook her head and squeezed his hand back before she released it. ‘I want to,’ she whispered, her voice low but firm. ‘I need to. I’ve not talked about it properly to anyone since it happened, really.’

In a few, concise words – a journalist always kept to the facts, after all, the who, what, where, when, and why ‒ she told him about the ride home, David driving down the rain-slicked streets, the looming headlights of the lorry, the head-on collision, the implosion of glass as the windshield shattered.

‘David was killed instantly. I was thrown from the car; I was lucky to survive. Lucky,’ she added, her words bitter. ‘That’s what they told me later, the doctors. ‘Mrs Thomas, we’re so sorry, you’ve lost the baby and your husband is dead, but you’re so very lucky to be alive.’’ She looked at him. ‘I didn’t see it that way. I still don’t. In the space of a few seconds, I lost everything that mattered to me.’

Colm didn’t answer as she wept; instead, he reached out and took her hand and squeezed it once again. But the gesture, in its simplicity, comforted her in a way that all the words, sympathy cards, and elaborate floral bouquets she’d received never had.

‘I always wanted to be a writer,’ she said as she took the tissues he offered and blew her nose. ‘Of great novels, of course. But I ended up writing for the red tops instead. I’m a tabloid writer. A hack.’ She glanced over at Colm. ‘You don’t have any fags, do you?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t smoke, sorry.’

‘Shame...I could really do with one right now.’ She sighed and rested her forehead against the window, watching as her breath fogged the glass. ‘I was resigned to life as a paparazzo, staking out coffee shops and lurking in airport lounges in hopes of scoring an interview or a photo of Gwyneth or Madonna or Dominic, smoking too many fags, and waiting – for the interview that’d be my ticket out of hackdom, for a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

‘For a long time I felt dead inside. I still do. But I can function. I can eat, and sleep, and carry on a conversation, just like this ‒ but inside, I’ve nothing left. It was my fault, Colm.’ She looked at him with an anguished expression. ‘I insisted we go to that fucking Christmas party. If I hadn’t, the accident would never have happened, and David would still be alive. How do I live with that? How?’ And she began to weep again.

‘Listen to me, Helen,’ Colm said, his voice low but firm. ‘You can’t blame yourself. Would’ve, might’ve, could’ve...they’re useless words. It happened, and that’s unfortunate. It’s fucking sad, and I’m truly sorry you had to go through it. But it isn’t your fault. You were only doing what you thought was best for the man you loved.’

They drove back to the castle in silence. Words had become unnecessary between them. As she gazed out the window at the snow-covered fields, Helen was glad she’d ended up at Draemar, grateful for Colm’s silent but reassuring presence.

As the castle loomed into view, she leant forward. ‘Oh, look. We have a visitor.’

Colm glanced up and saw a battered grey Volvo estate car parked in the curve of the drive.

‘Do you recognize it?’ Helen asked.

‘I do.’ He drew the truck to a stop behind the Volvo and opened his door, but offered nothing further.

‘Well, tell me, then – whose is it?’ she demanded.

Before he could answer, the front door swung open, and a tall woman in a grey Chanel twinset and pearls fixed them both with a gimlet eye.

‘Young man,’ she said in imperious, Scottish-accented tones, ‘kindly remove that truck from the drive and park it elsewhere. There’s a service entrance behind the kitchen for that express purpose. And use the servants’ entrance when you come inside.’

Helen flicked a glance at Colm, half expecting him to give the woman a piece of his mind; but he only tightened his jaw, nodded curtly, and said, ‘I’ll take care of it straight away, Lady Campbell,’ and turned and got back in the truck.

With a slam of the door, he was off, leaving Helen alone to face the Chanel-clad gorgon awaiting her on the doorstep.

Chapter 21

‘And who might you be?’ the woman asked. Although her tone was polite, her glance as it raked briefly over Helen’s trousers, boots, and puffa jacket clearly indicated that she found the outfit wanting. She refrained from remarking on Helen’s red, puffy eyes.

‘Helen Thomas,’ she said as she made her way up the front steps and held out her hand. ‘I’m here at Tarquin and Wren’s invitation.’

‘Indeed?’ She reached out, and her fingers as they clasped Helen’s were long and knotty, but her grip was surprisingly firm. ‘Then I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Evelyn Campbell, Archibald’s mother. Come in, Miss Thomas.’

As Helen preceded the woman inside, a dun-coloured Labrador lumbered into sight, its tail wagging. She bent down to pat his head. ‘What a lovely dog! Is he yours?’

‘Yes. I take him everywhere I go. He’s my constant companion now that my husband’s gone.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Archie.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘It causes a wee bit of confusion round here whenever I call him.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘Grandmama!’

Helen looked up to see Caitlin bounding down the stairs, Coco trotting behind her. The moment the two dogs spotted one another they set up a chorus of barking and growling.

‘Oh, do be quiet, Coco,’ Caitlin admonished as she picked the tiny dog up and lifted her, still growling, to her chest. ‘It’s only Archie.’ She leant forward and gave her grandmother a dutiful peck on the cheek. ‘When did you get back, Gram? I thought you were still in Edinburgh.’

‘I finished my shopping and visited all of my friends...or what’s left of them. It’s most depressing to hold visits with one’s friends in a churchyard.’ She glanced at Helen, then back at her granddaughter. ‘I’d like a word with you, Caitlin Morag, if you please.’

Caitlin’s face fell. ‘Now? Only, I’m about to go for a walk outside with Jeremy...’

‘Your walk,’ Lady Campbell said firmly as Jeremy came down the stairs, ‘and your young man, can wait.’ She turned to Helen. ‘You’ll excuse us, I hope, Miss Thomas?’

‘Of course,’ Helen assured her. ‘I’ve work to be doing, at any rate. It was lovely to meet you, Lady Campbell.’

‘And you, my dear.’

‘Jeremy,’ Caitlin said as she turned to him, ‘will you be a lamb and wait outside for me? I need a quick word with Grandmama. I’ll be out soon, I promise.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll go and warm up the car.’ He gave her grandmother a polite nod and went across the hall to the door, and left.

‘He seems a nice enough young man,’ Lady Campbell observed doubtfully as she watched him depart.

‘He is. He’s a good friend.’

Without further comment the older woman made her way across the hall to the library. Caitlin trailed behind her with Coco in her arms.

‘Now, then,’ Lady Campbell announced as she closed the library doors behind them, ‘it’s time you and I talked plainly, young lady.’

Caitlin set the dog down and perched uneasily on the edge of a chair. ‘Have...have Mum and Dad spoken to you?’

‘Indeed they have. They told me all about your expulsion from university. What, exactly, is going on? I want the truth, mind, not the load of bollocks you told your parents.’

For a moment there was silence. Caitlin sighed. ‘The truth is, I got booted because I was...involved with someone.’

‘Involved? With whom?’ her grandmother demanded. ‘Since I’m aware that college girls these days have—’ she cleared her throat, ‘intimate relations, and on a fairly regular basis, I can’t help but wonder why your involvement with another student would cause such a fuss?’

Caitlin was silent.

Lady Campbell broke off as her confusion cleared. ‘Oh. Oh, I think perhaps I begin to see, now.’

Caitlin’s eyes widened. ‘You do?’

Her grandmother sat down across from her and reached out to take her hands. ‘Are you – are you one of those...lesbians, my dear?’ she whispered, scandalized.

‘What? No!’ Caitlin exclaimed. ‘My God, Gram! How do you even know about such things?’

‘I’m elderly, my dear, not stupid. I know more about all manner of things than you can begin to imagine. So,’ she mused, ‘if you weren’t involved with another woman, then you must have been seeing someone else unsuitable. One of the professors, perhaps?’

A dull flush crept across Caitlin’s face. ‘Yes.’

‘And is this professor married?’

Miserably, Caitlin nodded. ‘Niall. His name is Niall, and yes. He’s married. But he’s getting a divorce.’

Lady Campbell snorted. ‘So they all say. Has he been relieved of his teaching position?’

‘No.’

‘That’s outrageous. I shall see to it that he’s sacked at once.’

Caitlin sat up, alarmed. ‘No, Gram, you can’t do that! Please!’

‘Whyever not? If a professor ‒ and a married one, at that ‒ is having relations with a student, then it’s my duty to report him and ensure that he’s sacked!’

‘You can’t, Gram,’ Caitlin said firmly, ‘and you won’t, because, you see,’ she lowered her voice, even though the doors were closed ‘Niall is Jeremy’s father.’

Lady Campbell regarded her granddaughter in shock. ‘Do you mean to tell me that this professor of yours, this married man, this...this person you slept with at university...is that nice young man’s father?’

Caitlin didn’t respond. But her silence spoke volumes.

Her grandmother groped behind her for a chair and lowered herself onto the cushion with a dazed expression.

‘Gram, are you all right?’ she asked, her expression anxious. ‘Can I...can I get you something?’

‘I really don’t know,’ Lady Campbell said faintly. ‘I’d ask for smelling salts if such things still existed. Since they don’t, kindly pour me a wee dram, if you would. Neat.’

‘Of course.’ Caitlin went to the drinks table and poured a healthy measure of whisky into a tumbler, then carried it to her grandmother and handed it over.

The older woman nodded her thanks and took a lengthy sip. ‘A vast improvement,’ she murmured a moment later, and set the glass aside. ‘Now I shall be much better equipped to handle this mess.’

‘Mum figured it out,’ Caitlin admitted. ‘Or she very nearly did. She thinks I’m sleeping with Jeremy.’

‘You’re not, are you?’

Caitlin bristled. ‘No, of course I’m not! What kind of girl do you think I am?’

‘You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?’ Lady Campbell retorted. ‘Whatever were you thinking, Caitlin Morag, sleeping with that young man’s father?’

‘I didn’t know Niall was his father! I borrowed Jeremy’s notes in economics class, and afterwards he bought me a coffee at The Grind, and we talked a bit, and became friends. It wasn’t until,’ she blushed ‘until later that I realized he was Niall’s son. And by then, it was too late.’

Her grandmother pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘Well, it’s a fine kettle of fish you’ve landed yourself in, young lady. Have you broken it off?’

‘Yes. I’ve told Niall we’re through, and that I never want to see him again.’

‘And did you mean it?’

‘Yes, Gram, of course I meant it!’ Caitlin said indignantly. ‘Getting involved with Niall MacDougal was the stupidest thing I ever did. I never, ever want to see him again.’

‘Hmph.’

‘Don’t you believe me?’

‘My dear girl,’ Lady Campbell announced as she pushed herself to her feet, ‘I do believe you. But I also remember from my own footloose and fancy-free days that a young woman’s mind is a very, very changeable thing.’

Natalie came down the stairs just as Rhys returned. She stopped halfway down, one hand resting atop the banister. ‘Oh. Rhys. You’re back.’

He glanced up. ‘Natalie.’

‘Where have you been? I was worried…’

‘Sorry. I went for a walk. I needed to clear my head.’ He took off his gloves and thrust them in his pocket.

‘And did you? Clear your head, I mean.’

‘Yes. The walk helped, and having time alone to think. But it was Colm who set me straight.’

Natalie blinked. ‘Colm? You can’t mean it! What could Colm possibly know about being a father?’

‘Nothing,’ Rhys said equitably, ‘which was exactly his point. None of us know anything about being a parent until we become one.’ He frowned. ‘I didn’t exactly have a stellar example to follow, you know. My stepfather was a nightmare.’

‘Yes. But he wasn’t your real father, Rhys,’ Natalie pointed out, ‘Alastair was ‒ is. And even though Alastair didn’t know about you until you were grown – which wasn’t his fault – he’s a wonderful man.’ She paused and added, ‘So...you’re not still angry with me?’

He looked up at her, startled. ‘I was never angry with you. Annoyed, perhaps, and thrown off balance by the news – but not angry, no.’

Relief made her knees wobbly. ‘Good. I thought...oh, never mind what I thought.’

‘You thought I didn’t want the baby.’

She caught her lip between her teeth and nodded. ‘I cried for ages.’ She felt tears welling up even as she said it. ‘Sorry.’ She dashed the tears away with the back of her hand. ‘My hormones...they’re all over the place at the moment.’

‘No, I’m the one who’s sorry.’ Rhys let out a pent-up breath. ‘I shouldn’t have shouted at you, I shouldn’t have run out on you like I did. I was wrong, and I acted like an arse.’

Natalie sniffled. ‘It’s all right. It was a shock. For both of us.’

‘It scares the hell out of me,’ he admitted. ‘Imagining myself as a father? It’s inconceivable. But after thinking it over, I realized that we’ll figure it out together, you and me.’

‘Of course we will,’ Natalie agreed. ‘Just imagine a little Natalie or Rhys running around in a few years’ time. It’ll be fun!’

‘Dear God,’ he muttered. ‘Baby clothes. Prams and cribs. Nappies.’

‘Rhys!’

‘Never mind all that, I’m sure we’ll manage very well with little Natalie or Rhys. More importantly ‒ how are you feeling, darling?’ he asked as he came up the stairs and drew her into his arms, his face etched with concern.

‘Much better,’ she answered truthfully, and smiled as she relaxed into his embrace, ‘now.’

Chapter 22

‘Would you look at this!’

Gemma flung herself into a seat next to Dominic at breakfast the next morning and held up her mobile phone in disgust.

With a scowl – he hadn’t yet had his coffee and was in a foul mood – Dominic let out an audible sigh. ‘What is it now, Gems? If it’s anything to do with all this wedding crap, I can tell you right now ‒ I’m not bloody interested.’

‘Yes, it’s to do with “all this wedding crap”, as you so rudely put it,’ Gemma snapped. ‘The London Probe’s just posted about our wedding – to 165,000 followers.’

‘Isn’t that what you want?’

‘No! Not when it spoils our secret. Go on, look!’

Grumbling, he snatched the mobile she waved at him and squinted at the screen. ‘Will Christmas wedding bells be ringing soon for randy rocker Dominic Heath & his fiancée, Gemma?’’

He shrugged and handed the phone back. ‘So? I’ve been called worse things than a “randy rocker” before.’

‘Not that, you idiot ‒ the wedding! Now everyone in London will know we’re getting married at Christmas! They already know we’re here in Scotland. It’s only a matter of time before the paps show up at Northton Grange and ruin everything!’

‘Nah, they’ll never make it up there. There’s too much snow on the ground,’ he scoffed. ‘And more snow’s coming in this afternoon.’

‘Did I hear you say there’s more snow on the way?’ Helen enquired as she entered the dining room.

‘Another foot,’ Dominic confirmed. ‘No wonder I never come up here in winter. Not only is it bloody cold – it never stops snowing. Fucking Scotland.’

‘How did the Probe find out about our wedding?’ Gemma fumed. ‘That’s what I want to know.’

Helen, who’d gone to get herself a cup of coffee from the urn on the sideboard, froze. ‘The Probe, did you say? Not that awful tabloid?’

‘Yes, the bastards. They’ve just posted our plans for a Christmas wedding!’

‘Oh, dear,’ Helen murmured, her thoughts racing. ‘How could they possibly have known?’

Tom. It had to be Tom. He must’ve leaked word to one of the IT chaps. But why would he do that? He knew this was my shot at an exclusive story.

‘Exactly what I want to know,’ Gemma agreed. ‘I certainly didn’t tell them.’

‘They didn’t mention where the wedding’s to take place, did they?’ Helen asked.

If they did, she thought, my scoop will be a scoop no longer. Every entertainment reporter and pap in the UK will make their way to Northton Grange.

‘No. But it won’t take them long to work it out,’ Gemma grumbled. ‘The press already know we’re in Scotland, and they know Dom has a place in Northton Grange. They’ll put two and two together, and our secret wedding will be ruined!’

‘Perhaps not,’ Helen said, and a thoughtful expression settled on her face as she returned to her seat and set her cup down.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t have the wedding at Northton Grange,’ she suggested. ‘Have it here at Draemar instead.’

‘Here?’ Gemma said doubtfully. ‘At the castle? But my gown’s already been shipped to Northton G. And I don’t think the Campbells will want the bother of a wedding. After all, I’m not family.’

‘I’m sure they won’t mind. Draemar will make a truly romantic setting, don’t you think?’ she added, warming to the subject. ‘And if the weather forecast holds, and we get another foot of snow before Christmas, you might have no choice but to have your wedding here.’

Besides which, Helen mused, having the wedding at Draemar would ensure she was here for the nuptials and the exclusive photographs – and would scupper anyone else’s plans to snatch the story away from her.

‘Good morning, everyone!’

Natalie, her face wreathed in smiles, entered the dining room with Rhys.

‘Why are you so bloody cheery?’ Dom asked as he glanced up and scowled. ‘It’s annoying.’

‘Should we tell everyone why I’m so happy, Rhys?’ Natalie enquired as she took the seat he held out for her.

‘Tell everyone what?’ Wren asked with interest as she and Tarquin came in behind them.

‘Yes, what is it?’ Gemma asked as she set her mobile phone aside.

‘What’s up, Natalie?’ Dominic demanded. ‘You’re practically glowing, you’re so happy, and—’ He broke off and his jaw slackened. ‘Shit. Don’t tell me—’

‘Right, then,’ Natalie laughed, ‘I won’t tell you. I won’t tell you,’ she took a deep breath and smiled over at her husband ‘that I’m pregnant. Rhys and I are expecting a baby.’

‘Oh, Nat – that’s wonderful!’ Gemma exclaimed, playing along as if she didn’t already know. She thrust her chair back and threw her arms around her friend. ‘I’m so incredibly happy for you!’ She turned to Rhys. ‘And for you too, Rhys.’

He lifted a brow. ‘Thanks. I’m still adjusting to the idea.’

Amid the squeals of the women and the general furore of excitement that Natalie’s news had unleashed, Wren stood up suddenly. ‘I’m so very pleased for you, Natalie,’ she murmured. ‘So very pleased…’

With a small cry of anguish, she burst into tears and ran, sobbing, out of the dining room, leaving a circle of shocked faces behind.

Chapter 23

‘Oh, poor Wren,’ Natalie said in dismay, and pushed herself to her feet. ‘How thoughtless of me. I’ll just go upstairs and see if she’s all right—’

‘No.’ Tarquin was already halfway to the door. Although his face was a study in turmoil, he spoke firmly. ‘I know you mean well, Natalie, but I think it best if you just...leave things, for the moment.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ she murmured, and sank back down in her seat, abashed. ‘I’m so sorry...’

But Tarquin didn’t hear her. He was already gone.

‘I feel awful,’ Natalie confided to Rhys that evening, as she sat with a troubled expression in front of the dressing table in their room. ‘I know Wren’s been trying to get pregnant, she told us so. It was inconsiderate and selfish of me, blurting out my news in front of her like that—’

‘No, it wasn’t,’ Rhys said firmly. ‘You did nothing wrong. You were excited and you wanted to share our news. You meant no harm. Tark knows that. And Wren did ask you.’

‘I know, but I still feel terrible.’ Her voice wobbled in remembered pain at Wren’s anguished expression. ‘She wants a baby so badly.’

‘Well, Mrs Gordon,’ Rhys said as he came up behind her at the dressing table and leant down to encircle her in his arms, ‘I can think of something that might make you feel marginally better. Take your mind off things.’

‘Oh? And what’s that?’ she asked, and frowned. ‘A rousing game of draughts? A cup of tea and a tin of chocolates? A television programme?’

‘Well, you could call what I have in mind rousing, I suppose.’ He nuzzled the sensitive skin behind her ear. ‘Or we could take our time, and make it last.’ His lips made their slow way down her neck to the slope of her shoulder.

She closed her eyes and leant her head back as his mouth warmed her skin, inch by delicious inch, and her breath quickened. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr Gordon,’ she murmured.

He pulled Natalie to her feet and into his arms. ‘Let me give you a demonstration, then.’ He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, very thoroughly, and Natalie soon forgot everything but the irascible, aggravating, and decidedly sexy Scotsman in her arms.

‘Did you leak my story, Tom?’ Helen demanded as she grabbed the pack of cigarettes on the dresser – she had two left ‒ and thrust one between her lips.

At the other end of her mobile phone, there was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Leak your story? No, damn your eyes, I most certainly did not! Why would I do that?’

‘Then tell me how the news of Dom and Gemma’s upcoming wedding ended up in the Probe’s Tweeper feed this morning!’

‘I’ve no bloody idea. Someone else up there in the land of kilts and cold weather must’ve found out. It’s not inconceivable, you know. Someone probably overheard you in the pub, or on the street, blathering away into your mobile phone.’

‘I haven’t been to the pub,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘because we’re still housebound by the snow. And we haven’t seen the Tarmac in a week. And I don’t blather.’

‘Then it’s someone at the castle. Who else knows about this wedding?’

‘Who doesn’t?’ Helen retorted. She took a deep drag on the cigarette to calm herself and went over the list in her mind. Tarquin, Wren, Nat and Rhys, Caitlin, Colm—

Her eyes narrowed. Colm. Of course! She’d told him about her desire to score an exclusive story on Dominic and Gemma’s wedding. She’d admitted how important it was to her, how badly she wanted to quit being a hack and become a real writer.

She’d told him she wanted to look in the mirror without despising herself.

And she thought he’d understood. She’d confided in him. She’d bared her innermost soul to him. She’d trusted him. And he’d betrayed her at the first opportunity.

She exhaled a plume of smoke and crushed the cigarette out.

The ginger-haired, conniving bastard.

The next morning, snow greeted Colm as he got out of bed and cast a glance outside. Flakes still fell thickly; overnight, at least another half-foot had blanketed the sloping hills and frosted the roof and turrets of the castle.

It’d be beautiful, he thought dourly, if it wasn’t so much of a bloody nuisance to clear away.

He was about to turn aside when he saw a figure in a woollen cap and a puffa jacket sliding and slipping down the snow-covered drive.

‘Helen! What in God’s name?’ he muttered, and flung on some clothes and a coat and thundered downstairs. Was the woman touched in the head, going for a walk in weather like this?

‘What the devil are you doing?’ he shouted as he stormed outside and confronted her halfway up the drive. ‘Have ye lost your mind? It’s a proper blizzard out here! It’s nae a day to be out for a walk!’

She catapulted herself at him, her face contorted with anger, arms cartwheeling as she pummelled him mercilessly with her fists. ‘You backstabbing bastard! How could you! After I trusted you, you couldn’t wait to run to the phone and call the news desk and – and screw me over!’

Colm muttered an expletive as she kicked him – hard ‒ in the shins. Only the fact that her feet were encased in wellies saved him from significant pain. He reached out and grabbed her by the wrists, not easy to do given her whirling, flailing limbs, and dragged her towards him as he snapped, ‘What the hell are you on about, woman? Have you lost what little sense God gave you?’

‘I have sense enough to know you leaked my story to the Probe,’ she gasped, struggling furiously to free her hands from his.

He stared at her. ‘What? What story? What are you talking about?’

‘You called and told them all about Dom and Gemma’s secret Christmas wedding, didn’t you? How could you do that, Colm? I trusted you! I trusted you enough to tell you,’ she let out a harsh sound between a laugh and a sob ‘everything about myself. I told you about David. About our baby. About our life...our life together, the life we n-never got to have, all because of a fucking lorry driver who f-fell asleep at the wheel...’

She collapsed against him and wept.

His arms came around her after a moment, circling her as she sobbed and pummelled her hands ineffectually against his chest.

‘It’s not fair,’ she railed. ‘I lost everything that mattered to me that night, and it was my own damned fault! If only I’d stayed home, if only I’d refused to go, David would still be here, and I’d be shouting at him for tracking mud over the kitchen f-floor yet again, and we’d have our l-little b-boy. He’d be nearly two by now.’

Colm held her tightly and let her weep. He waited, patting her awkwardly now and then on the back as great, jagged sobs escaped from her, and he felt his own throat tighten.

‘I ken, lassie,’ he muttered into her woollen cap. ‘I ken more than you know.’

She lifted her blotchy, tear-swollen face to stare at him. ‘Do you? How can you possibly understand?’ Scorn laced her words. ‘You’ve never had a child. You’re not even married.’

‘I was married, once. When I was younger.’

Surprise stilled her tears, and Helen let out her breath with a hitch. ‘You were? Really?’ She wiped her nose with the back of a gloved hand. ‘What happened ‒ did your wife fail to measure up to your high standards? Did she talk too much? Or did she use all of the hot water?’

‘She died.’ His words were abrupt. ‘Her name was Alanna. She died giving birth to our son.’

Helen blinked, shocked. ‘She? Oh, Colm...my God -‒I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t know.’

He shrugged and let her go, and his face closed. ‘How could you possibly know, when I never told you?’

‘So you have a son. What’s his name?’ she ventured after an awkward silence.

‘He didn’t make it. The midwife discovered the babe was in breech, with the umbilical cord wrapped around its neck. The doctors did everything they could, but I lost Alanna. And I lost my son. The two people I loved most in this world,’ he snapped his fingers ‘gone, like that.’

Helen opened her mouth to offer him words of comfort, words of apology and understanding; but before she could find the words to speak, Colm turned on one booted heel and made his way through the snow and back to the cottage.

Chapter 24

Helen stared after Colm in consternation, then struck out after him. It wasn’t easy going, with two foot of snow on the ground and more coming down. But it was bloody cold, and she’d no intention of standing here and freezing to death on the grounds of Draemar castle.

‘Colm!’ she called out a moment later, out of breath as she struggled through the snow. ‘Wait, damn you.’

He stopped and turned around, scowling. ‘Why in hell did you ever leave the castle? You should’ve stayed there. You’ll never get back up the hill now. You’ll lose your way in this whiteout, and they won’t find your body until spring.’

‘Then I suppose you’ll have to force yourself to be hospitable,’ she snapped, ‘if you can manage it, and invite me inside until the snow lets up, won’t you?’

He didn’t answer, but turned away, still scowling, and made his way to the front door of the cottage. He disappeared inside, leaving the door open, and didn’t look back to see if she followed.

Helen, half-frozen and teeth chattering, was nearly to the door when he reappeared.

‘Taking your time, aren’t you?’ he accused. ‘I just threw some logs on the fire, so if you’ll kindly stop dallying and get inside, I can close the bloody door.’

She bit back a sharp retort – she really couldn’t speak, at any rate, her teeth were chattering too badly – and brushed past him into the cottage. True to his word, a fire burned in the fireplace and threw out a heavenly wall of heat. Helen pulled off her gloves. As she reached up and struggled to unbutton her jacket, her frozen fingers made her efforts clumsy.

‘Here, let me,’ he grumbled, and pushed her hands out of the way. ‘You’re useless.’ Swiftly, he unbuttoned her jacket and turned her around to tug it off, then removed her cap and tossed in atop her coat on a chair by the fire.

‘Th-thanks,’ she managed to say, clutching her elbows and hugging herself in an attempt to get warm. ‘I’m sure you’re quite g-good at removing women’s clothes.’

‘Expert,’ he agreed dourly. ‘I’ve so very much opportunity, living out here in the middle of nowhere.’ He eyed her. ‘Your clothes are damp, it’s no wonder you’re shivering. Take ’em off.’

‘No! I’m most certainly not taking my clothes off!’ Helen sputtered.

‘Suit yourself.’ He shrugged and turned away. ‘Then I’ll just go and run a hot bath for myself, instead.’

He was halfway to the stairs when she gritted her (chattering) teeth and grimly began undoing the top buttons of her blouse. ‘Hold up. I’ll have that bath, if you don’t mind. If you’re going so far as to allow me to use your precious hot water, you can be sure I’m taking advantage of it.’

Colm raised a brow. ‘At last, you’re showing a wee bit of common sense.’ He started up the stairs and called back over his shoulder, ‘There’s a terrycloth robe hanging on the back of the door. I’ll put your things in the dryer while you’re taking your bath.’

‘Thanks.’ Helen hovered uncertainly at the foot of the stairs, listening to the sound of the water running from the taps into the tub. ‘This is the second time you’ve saved me from freezing to death, you know,’ she called up.

‘Aye,’ he said as he reappeared at the top of the stairs. ‘You’re a daft Sassenach, and no mistake.’

Helen bristled. ‘Let’s get you in London, and see how you manage there.’

‘You’ll not find me in London,’ he shot back, ‘because I like it here at Draemar, and I’ve no intention of leaving. Now,’ he commanded as he came down the steps and brushed past her, ‘go up afore the water overflows the tub and ruins the flooring. Throw your clothes outside the door when you’re ready.’

The thought of being naked, with Colm standing just on the other side of the bathroom door, fully clothed, made her blush. ‘All right,’ she mumbled, and made her way up the stairs. ‘But no peeking,’ she warned.

‘I’ll try and contain myself,’ he retorted, and followed her.

She turned away and bit back a smile. It was rather a funny situation, in an awkward sort of way.

She closed the door on him and began, with trembling fingers, to remove her clothes. Blouse, jeans, boots, bra, knickers – she took them off and threw the lot into a pile on the floor.

Just as Colm had said, there was a white terrycloth robe hanging from a peg on the back of the door. She grabbed it and thrust her arms inside the sleeves, not caring that it was miles too big, and knotted the belt securely around her waist. Then she grabbed the damp pile of clothing and cracked the door open.

‘Here,’ she said without preamble, and thrust her things through and into his outstretched hands. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll go and put this stuff in the dryer.’

Her eyes met his, just for an instant, and she bit her lip. ‘Thanks, Colm, for...everything.’

‘You’re welcome.’ With a glimmer in his eye he added, ‘Just be sure you don’t use up all the hot water.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ she shot back, and slammed the door.

But as she made her way over to the claw-footed tub and gingerly eased herself in, Helen couldn’t quite keep a smile from her lips.

At the sound of a quiet knock on the morning room door later that afternoon, Wren glanced up from her desk. She’d been writing out cheques and welcomed the interruption. ‘Come in.’

Natalie opened the door a crack and peered inside. ‘Hello, Wren. I hoped I might find you here.’ She lifted up a mug of hot tea. ‘I brought you a cup of tea, and ‒’ she patted her pocket with her free hand ‘‒a packet of Hobnobs.’

Wren stood up and held the door wider. ‘Oh, Natalie – how very thoughtful. Thank you! Come in and have a sit.’

After settling themselves on the loveseat angled in front of the fire, Natalie set the mug of tea aside and leant forward to take Wren’s hands in hers. ‘I wanted to apologize. I’m so sorry for blurting out my news about the baby like that, with never a thought for how it might affect you and Tark—’

‘Oh, nonsense.’ Wren squeezed her hands. ‘It’s I who should apologize, acting like such an overwrought ninny. I’m happy for you, Natalie, truly. For both you and Rhys. I want you to know that.’

‘I know you are. Still – I feel badly. I know how much you and Tark want a baby.’

‘Yes, well, if it’s meant to be, it’ll happen. If not—’ she shrugged and reached for the mug of tea. ‘Then I expect we’ll adopt.’

‘Have you tried IVF?’ Nat ventured.

She nodded. ‘Yes. It didn’t take. The doctors say there’s no reason we can’t have a child. We’re both healthy. And yet...here we are, still trying. Still childless. It’s just so bloody discouraging, sometimes.’

‘Well, if it’s any consolation at all,’ Natalie said hesitantly, ‘Rhys and I would love it if you and Tark would agree to be our baby’s godparents. It’d mean the world to us if you would. Truly.’

Wren’s eyes welled. ‘Oh, Nat – we’d be honoured! Of course we will. Consider it done.’

‘Good! Then it’s settled. Now,’ Natalie added as she reached for the packet of Hobnobs and held them out to Wren, ‘let’s gorge ourselves on biccies and have a nice long gossip.’

Chapter 25

‘Where are you going?’ Penelope asked her daughter as she came down the stairs late that afternoon. She eyed Caitlin’s woollen cap and the coat she was buttoning up. ‘You can’t mean to go outside in this weather.’

Caitlin shrugged. ‘Why can’t I? It’s only snow, after all, and I’m in desperate need of a walk. I’m going stir crazy inside this place.’

‘It’s nearly time for dinner,’ her mother pointed out. ‘Stay in, and have a drink with me. I’ve barely had a chance to talk to you since you got home.’

But you had plenty of time to lecture me, Caitlin thought uncharitably. ‘That’s hardly my fault.’

‘Please, darling. I don’t want to argue, I haven’t the energy for it. Come into the drawing room and tell me what you’ve been up to.’

What shall we talk about first? Caitlin wondered. Will I confess that I’ve slept with my married lit professor? Or admit I got booted from uni because of him?

‘All right, Mum,’ she sighed, and shed her coat with bad grace. ‘I’ll stay and have a drink with you.’

‘Don’t sound so enthused. Where’s Jeremy, by the way?’

‘Studying. Or reading. That’s all he ever does.’

They were just going into the sitting room when Lady Campbell breezed through the baize door that led to the kitchen. ‘Oh, there you are, Caitlin. I’ve been looking for you. You have a telephone call.’

‘I do? Who’d be calling me here?’ Caitlin wondered, puzzled. ‘All my friends have my mobile number.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know. Mrs Neeson took the call. You can pick it up in the hall.’

‘Thanks, Gram. Sorry, Mum,’ she apologized, secretly relieved by the interruption. ‘I’ll be right back.’

She hurried across the entrance hall as her mother disappeared into the drawing room and went to the phone on the hallway table. ‘Hello? This is Caitlin Campbell.’

‘Caitlin?’ a familiar male voice enquired. ‘I’m glad I caught you at home.’

Her fingers tightened on the receiver. She couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe his nerve. ‘Niall! Why did you call me here?’

‘Well, I must say, that’s not exactly the response I was hoping for,’ he replied. ‘I called because we need to talk.’

‘We said everything we needed to say before I left Edinburgh. I lost my place at university because of you,. My parents are still furious.’

He hesitated. ‘You didn’t tell them about us, did you?’

‘No! Of course I didn’t. But Gram knows,’ she added. ‘She’s very smart, my gram. She figured it out. She wanted to have you sacked, but I talked her out of it.’

‘Thank you for that.’ He let out a pent-up breath. ‘I’m sorry for the whole mess, truly. More sorry than you know. I’ve had a word with a couple of key people, and I’m reasonably certain I can get you reinstated...provided we agree not to see one another other again.’

‘Oh, trust me ‒ that won’t be a problem.’

‘Cait, darling,’ he chided, ‘don’t be like that. I miss you terribly…’

‘Yes, I’m sure you do.’ Her words were acid. ‘You miss having me at your beck and call. You miss having someone to make your tea and toast. You miss having me in your bed…’

‘I do miss that,’ he admitted, unperturbed by her accusations. ‘All of it. I won’t lie. But more importantly, I miss you. I’ve left Miriam, you know.’

There was a brief, charged silence as Caitlin absorbed this bit of information. ‘That doesn’t mean anything. Married people separate and get back together all the time.’

‘I’ve also filed for divorce.’

She sank down onto the cushioned bench in the hallway. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I’ll show you the paperwork if you like. But to do that, I’d have to see you again.’

‘That’s impossible.’ Although she spoke firmly, the certainty had left her voice. ‘I’m back home, at Draemar. And I don’t want to see you again. I...I can’t.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it hurts too much, Niall!’

She thought of all the times he’d promised to take her to dinner, or away for the weekend, and called at the last minute to cancel. She thought of the meals she’d cooked for him in her tiny Chalmers Street kitchen, roast beef or chicken with lashings of gravy from a packet, grown cold and unappetizing by the time he finally slipped away from his wife.

He was always sorry, so very sorry; and she’d relent, and forgive him, and let him in. They’d have the most amazing sex, and she’d lie in his arms afterwards and think that really, she was very lucky, and she should be happy to settle for whatever scraps of his life he gave her.

‘I’m tired of sneaking around,’ she said now. ‘I’m tired of the broken promises and the last-minute cancellations. I just,’ she paused to blink back tears ‘I just can’t do it any longer.’

And before he could protest, or persuade her to give him another chance, she choked out a goodbye, and rang off.

‘Caitlin!’ Her mother stood waiting in the drawing room doorway. ‘Are you coming in?’

Caitlin blinked back her tears and stood up. ‘Yes. Sorry, I just finished my call. It took a bit longer than I thought.’

‘Who was it?’ Penelope enquired as her daughter crossed the hall to join her. ‘One of your university friends?’

‘Yes,’ Caitlin said, and managed a smile. ‘No one important.’

Chapter 26

Helen emerged from her bath half an hour later, warm and flushed and wrapped in Colm’s robe. It was amazing what a tub of hot water and bubbles could do for a girl.

‘Feel better?’ Colm enquired as she padded, barefoot, downstairs and into the sitting room.

‘Much, thanks.’ She eyed the whisk in his hand curiously. ‘And what are you doing?’

‘I’ve put your clothes in the dryer. They’ll be ready soon. In the meantime, I called the castle to let them know you’re here. And I thought you might be hungry,’ he held up the whisk ‘so I’m making a wee bite to eat.’

‘You needn’t have done that.’ Helen, despite herself and despite Colm’s scowl, was touched. ‘But I’m glad you did – I’m starving. What are you making us? Can I help?’

‘You can butter the toast, if you like. It’s only eggs and bacon, nothing fancy.’

‘That sounds gorgeous,’ Helen said, and meant it. She followed him into the kitchen – tiny, even by the most generous of standards – and busied herself spreading butter onto the thick slices of toasted brown bread. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea.’

They bumped elbows or brushed against each other more than once in the close confines of the kitchen. Other than a glance from Colm or a muttered ‘sorry’ from Helen, neither of them acknowledged their physical proximity.

When at last the toast was buttered and the tea was brewed, Colm piled scrambled eggs and a rasher of bacon onto a platter, and they sat down to eat at the scarred wooden table.

‘Sorry it’s only eggs,’ Colm ventured as he poured milk into his tea. ‘I need to do a shop, but I haven’t had the time.’

‘It’s perfect,’ Helen assured him, and bit into a slice of crisped bacon. ‘What do you need? I can ask Mrs Neeson to add your things to the weekly grocery order if you like.’

‘Oh, aye, that’d save me a trip. This place keeps me busy. I haven’t time for much else.’

‘What do you do, exactly?’ Helen asked as she picked up her cup and sipped her tea. ‘If you don’t mind my asking,’ she added.

He shrugged. ‘I look after the grounds, mostly. I make sure the roads are cleared, deliver packages up to the castle, run any errands the Campbells might have...and in the autumn,’ he grimaced ‘I take the toffs grouse hunting.’

Helen wrinkled her nose. ‘That must be fun.’

‘Mostly I just haul the guns round. The Campbells have a proper gamekeeper.’

‘What did you do before you came here to Draemar?’

His expression grew guarded. ‘This and that. I did a stint in the army. Tended bar. Worked as a short-order cook for a bit.’

She was treading on dangerous ground, she knew it; but Helen couldn’t resist one more question. ‘Did you ever do any traveling? To...oh, I don’t know – to Africa, for instance?’

‘Why d’ye ask?’ he said evenly.

‘Just curious, I suppose. All that talk of Andrew and his travels to Australia and the Sierra Leone made me wonder if you’d ever ventured anywhere interesting.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve never been outside the UK, Miss Thomas. Travel requires money.’ He reached for the platter of eggs. ‘And that’s something I’ve never had.’

‘So you weren’t born with a silver spoon in your mouth, then?’ she asked lightly. She hadn’t failed to notice he’d returned to calling her ‘Miss Thomas’ once again.

He levelled his gaze on hers. ‘No. Far from it. Why so many questions? You just can’t stop prying for ten minutes, can ye?’

‘Look, Colm,’ Helen said, trying – and failing ‒ to hold on to her temper, ‘I know you don’t trust me. I get that. You know I’m a reporter, and so everything I do or say is suspect. But honestly, all I want is to get to know you a bit better. That’s all I’m guilty of...whether you believe it or not.’ She stood up and took her plate to the sink and dumped it in. ‘I’ll do the washing up.’

He was silent as she turned on the tap and reached for the dishwashing soap. With a vicious squeeze, Helen squirted the liquid into the sink and scrubbed at her plate with barely contained anger. Of all the stubborn, paranoid people she’d ever known, Colm MacKenzie took the bloody cake.

‘Here, let me.’

She looked up a moment later to see Colm, plate in hand, standing beside her at the sink. ‘No. I’ve got it.’ Her words were stiff as she thrust her plate with a savage motion into the dish rack. ‘I don’t need your help.’

‘I know ye don’t,’ he retorted, ‘but I’m fond of my dishes and I’ve no wish to see you break ’em into a million bits. Now, move over, woman, and let me rinse.’

‘Where on earth is Helen?’ Wren observed as she unfolded her napkin at dinner that evening. ‘I’ve not seen her all afternoon.’

Caitlin shrugged. ‘She said she was going out for a walk earlier. But that was hours ago.’

‘Perhaps we should send someone out to look for her?’ Wren suggested anxiously to Tarquin.

‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ he replied, ‘but if you think we should, Rhys and I can go out and search for her.’

Mrs Neeson thrust her grey-permed head around the dining room door. ‘Pardon the interruption, but I’ve just had a call from Colm. Miss Thomas is with himself down at the gatehouse. He said not to worry, and don’t wait dinner.’

‘Now that’s an interesting turn up,’ Rhys observed thoughtfully as Mrs Neeson departed.

‘What is, darling?’ Natalie inquired.

‘I’m surprised that Helen ‒ who’s made it quite plain she detests Colm ‒ has evidently just spent the afternoon and a good part of the evening in his company.’

‘Well, you know what they say,’ Lady Campbell observed.

‘What’s that?’ Natalie asked her.

‘Sometimes, my dear, there’s no accounting for taste.’ She lifted her brow. ‘Or for attraction.’

Chapter 27

When the dishes were washed and dried and put away in the cupboards, Colm excused himself to go and fetch Helen’s clothes. ‘They should be just about dry now, and you can get dressed and be on your way.’

‘Yes,’ she muttered, stung. ‘I’m sure you’ll be only too glad of that.’

He eyed her in surprise. ‘What?’

‘I said, I’ll be glad to have my clothes back,’ she replied tartly. ‘Then I can leave you to yourself.’

‘I don’t mind the company.’

‘You might’ve fooled me.’

His eyes darkened. ‘Sorry, Miss Thomas, but I’m used to being alone. I’ve been alone for a great many years now, ever since Alanna died.’ He scowled. ‘I’m not much good at...social situations. I never was. If I made you feel unwelcome, I’m sorry. I dinnae mean to.’

Helen was taken off guard by his apology. She really thought the man despised her. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, and shrugged. ‘I understand.’

‘No, it’s not all right.’ His scowl deepened. ‘I’m a miserable sod. Alanna told me so often enough.’

She was silent, absorbing this titbit of information, holding it greedily to herself like a rare jewel. ‘What was she like?’ she asked a moment later, curious. ‘Your wife.’

He didn’t answer right away, and Helen thought perhaps she’d gone too far, and he’d closed himself off again.

‘She was beautiful,’ he said finally. ‘She wore her hair in a plait down her back, and she had the devil of a temper. She didn’t have much patience with my moods. After she and the baby died, I just...shut down.’

‘I felt the same way after David died.’ Helen fiddled with the belt of her robe. ‘I couldn’t bear anyone’s company. I still can’t, really.’

‘And what about my company, Miss Thomas?’ Colm asked gruffly, and came closer. ‘Can ye bear to be around the likes of me?’

She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his. They were a lovely green-gold. ‘Sometimes,’ she murmured, right before his arms came around her waist and his mouth found hers.

His lips, tentative at first, grew bolder, and her hands slid up and over his shoulders. Helen made a sound low in her throat as he deepened their kiss and explored her mouth with his tongue.

Colm dragged his mouth from hers and met her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, lass, I shouldna be doing this—’

In answer, she took his face – his angular, dark-ginger-stubbled, perfect face – in her hands and pressed her lips hungrily to his. His arms tightened around her and they clung together, kissing and muttering low, incomprehensible words. She loved the feel of his stubbled jaw beneath her fingers and the firm, sure warmth of his lips against hers.

She wanted him with a desperation that shocked her.

They grappled together, clawing and yanking at one another’s clothing in their mutual impatience to remove any and all barriers between them. Colm pressed her hard against the wall, his mouth devouring her lips and neck as he pinned her wrists above her head.

They didn’t speak; there was no need. Somehow – Helen couldn’t have said how, exactly – they ended up in Colm’s bedroom, sprawled together atop his bed, their clothes strewn everywhere, naked and desperate to consummate their need for one another.

Everything became a blur of arms, legs, mouths, and skin as they rolled together, limbs entangled. Helen threw back her head and gasped with pleasure as Colm plunged inside her. It felt good. It felt right. It felt like coming home again, after a long absence.

All too soon it was over. Sweaty, breathless, and spent, Helen raised her head from Colm’s chest and regarded him with a quizzical expression.

‘Well, Mr MacKenzie, it seems you’ve been holding out on me. I’d no idea you had this side to you.’

‘What side is that, Miss Thomas?’ he asked, his words husky as he met her gaze.

‘This.’ She drew her finger in slow, lazy circles along his chest. ‘I never imagined you had it in you to be so...amazing. And you haven’t scowled once.’

‘I’ve had no reason to scowl.’

‘True,’ she agreed, and snuggled against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. She hadn’t been with a man, not really, since her husband died. She’d had no desire to be touched, or to touch anyone else.

Until Colm.

‘Promise me you won’t,’ she murmured, and yawned.

‘I won’t what?’

‘You won’t scowl.’

‘I can’t promise I’ll never scowl again,’ he protested. ‘We both know I will.’

‘Then at least promise me you won’t scowl again tonight.’

‘Now, that,’ he said as he stroked the hair gently from her face, ‘I can probably manage.’

‘That’s the last phone call,’ Gemma announced with satisfaction as she rang off and tossed her mobile aside on the bedside table the next morning. ‘All of the wedding details have been sorted. It’s settled ‒ we’re officially having the ceremony and reception here at Draemar.’

Dominic muttered something incomprehensible and drew the pillow more securely over his head.

‘Now, I’ll just send out a mass email to notify everyone on my list of the change of venue, and—’ She reached for her laptop with smug satisfaction, ‘I’m done.’

‘Did you happen to ask Tarquin and Wren and Mr and Mrs C about having the wedding here at the castle?’ Dom grumbled as he sat up.

‘Of course I did! They’re thrilled. Lady Campbell’s offered me full use of the staff, and Mrs Neeson’s had lots of lovely suggestions as to food. The only one who seems to have any doubts,’ Gemma added pointedly, ‘is you.’

‘I don’t have any doubts.’ Dominic flung the covers aside and got out of bed. ‘I have no doubt whatsoever.’ He turned to glare at her. ‘I absolutely, positively don’t want to get married. Not to you. Not ever.’

Gemma lifted her gaze from the laptop and fixed him with a deceptively calm expression. ‘What did you say, Dominic?’

‘I said, I don’t want to get married, Gemma! You’ve turned into a crazed, wedding-obsessed cow, and I can’t take it any more.’

‘Is that right?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Is it wrong to want my wedding day to be perfect? No, it bloody well isn’t! A girl only gets married once—’

‘Some get married a bit more often than that,’ Dom snapped.

‘‒ and I want every detail to be exactly right! Is it my fault this horrid Scottish weather’s conspired against me from the bloody start? Is it my fault your stupid agent didn’t book us a hire car to get us here, or a hotel room? No, it fucking well isn’t!’

‘I don’t care whose fault it is.’ Dominic found his jeans on the floor and thrust one leg in. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t like what my life’s become, and I don’t like who you’ve become, ever since we got engaged. Why can’t you make do with a regular wedding gown? Why does it have to be Prada? You’re demanding and unreasonable, and I’m sick of it. You spend more time with that little blue Tweep bird than you do with me! You’re constantly posting and texting and updating your status, and all of it about the bloody fucking wedding. Well – here’s a status update for you. The wedding is off.’

She stared at him. ‘Social media is very important! Don’t you want our wedding to be the talk of the Internet?’

‘No. I don’t. But you never bothered to find out what I wanted, did you?’ He zipped up his trousers and glared at her. ‘No, you bloody well didn’t, because you don’t care. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to marry you, Gemma. I’m done.’

If Dominic thought she’d crumble, or collapse into a fit of tears, or plead with him to go through with the wedding, he was mistaken.

‘Fine,’ she replied, and put her laptop aside. She got up and swept past him to gather up her collection of bridal magazines. ‘Your loss. Just be advised – the £5,000 deposit on the horse-drawn sleigh is non-refundable. As is the £2,000 rental fee for the matched team of horses to pull the sleigh. Not to mention the £6,000 for my Prada gown.’

‘So?’ he enquired, indifferent. ‘Your dad’s paying for all that crap.’

‘No,’ she said with satisfaction, ‘you are. Milo couldn’t afford to help out financially; he really wanted to, but he’s still getting back on his feet. So I charged everything to your AmEx card instead. Even if we don’t get married,’ she finished, ‘you’ll still have to pay for most of the expenses, because they’re—’

‘‒ non-refundable,’ Dominic groaned. ‘Oh, fucking hell.’

Chapter 28

After lunch, Caitlin made her way upstairs to Gemma’s bedroom and knocked on the door.

‘Come in,’ Gemma called out.

‘Hello,’ Caitlin said hesitantly as she hovered in the doorway. ‘You said you wanted to see me?’

‘Yes! Your bridesmaid’s dress arrived in the post, and I want you to try it on.’

‘But the seamstress fitted me in the store,’ she pointed out. ‘There’s no need to try it on again.’

‘Of course there is,’ Gemma said, her tone brisk as she took the plaid dress from the parcel and shook it out. ‘That was nearly a month ago. You might’ve gained – or lost – a bit of weight since then.’ She held the dress up.

‘Oh,’ Caitlin admitted as she stepped forward, ‘it’s lovely.’ And it was. It was simple, with a long, bias-cut skirt and bodice fashioned out of deep-green plaid. A sash of black velvet tied at the waist, ending in a bow at the back.

‘And it’ll be even lovelier on you,’ Gemma observed. ‘Go on, take it into the dressing room and try it on. You needn’t worry – Dom’s gone.’

‘Is everything all right with you two?’ Caitlin asked as she took the dress and draped it over her arm. ‘I thought I heard shouting this morning.’

‘Oh, no, everything’s fine,’ Gemma assured her. ‘Dominic just needed a bit of...persuading.’

And a Louboutin up his arse to remind him who’s boss, she reflected darkly.

A few minutes later, Caitlin’s muffled voice drifted out. ‘Can you come in here and help me do up the zip? I can’t seem to manage it.’

‘No problem.’ Gemma opened the door. ‘All right,’ she said as she entered the dressing room, ‘let’s just get you zipped in and then we’ll have a look at you.’

But although she tugged, and pulled, and tugged again, the zipper would go no further than it already had – midway up Caitlin’s back.

‘Oh, shit,’ Gemma said in dismay. ‘You’ve gained weight! Quite a bit, too, it seems.’

‘Could it be let out, do you think?’

‘I don’t think so.’ She leant forward and examined the seams with a frown. ‘There’s nothing much left to let out, I’m afraid. Perhaps if we drape a dark-green pashmina round your shoulders...’

‘Perhaps,’ Caitlin said, doubt plain on her face.

Gemma studied the younger girl critically. ‘Crikey! You’ve definitely gained weight. Even your boobs have got bigger.’ She raised a brow. ‘One would almost think you’re pregnant.’

Her half-joking words were met with an ominous silence. ‘Actually,’ Caitlin said after a moment, and lifted a frightened gaze to Gemma, ‘I am. Pregnant, that is. And I don’t know wh-what to do about it.’

And she burst into tears.

Gemma was at a loss as the girl stumbled, weeping, into her arms. ‘You’re...pregnant? Are you sure? Does your mum know?’

Still sobbing, Caitlin shook her head. ‘No. No one knows. Only you.’

‘What about the baby’s father? Does he know?’

Caitlin broke away and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘No,’ she said, and shuddered. ‘He can’t ever know.’

‘Why on earth not? He deserves to know,’ Gemma said, and added tartly, ‘not to mention, he needs to help you figure this out. He’s partly responsible for putting you in this situation, after all.’

‘He can’t know,’ Caitlin cut in, her expression teary but determined, ‘he can’t ever know, because he’s married. And because his son is staying here as a guest at Draemar.’

‘Not...Jeremy?’ Gemma asked, her eyes wide.

‘Yes – Jeremy!’ she cried. ‘He’s Niall’s son. I didn’t know he was, until it was too late...now Niall will never leave his wife, he’ll think I’m trying to trap him... Oh, it’s all such a bloody, bloody mess!’

‘That,’ Gemma muttered as Caitlin sobbed into her shoulder, ‘is the understatement of the year.’

It took the better part of the afternoon, but Gemma finally persuaded Caitlin to go downstairs and tell her mother the truth.

‘Well, Mum?’ Caitlin asked anxiously a short time later. She’d found her mother in the drawing room, flicking through a magazine. After closing the doors and blurting out her story, her rush of words were met with silence. ‘Haven’t you anything to say?’

Mrs Campbell stood by one of the windows, staring out, her eyes unfocused.

‘Oh, I have plenty to say.’ She turned to face her daughter. ‘First of all – what do you plan to do about this?’

Caitlin chewed on her lip. ‘I – I don’t know. I can’t go through with it, obviously... I can’t take care of a baby and go to university, after all—’

‘So you’re having an abortion?’

She flinched at her mother’s plain speaking. ‘Well, I don’t know. I suppose I might—’

‘Have you discussed the situation with the child’s father? Who is the child’s father?’ Penelope demanded, turning round to study her daughter.

A tear slid down Caitlin’s cheek, then another. ‘He’s – Niall is...he’s one of my professors. Or he was. He’s the reason I g-got booted out of uni.’

Her mother let out a tiny, disbelieving laugh. ‘He’s a professor! Well, isn’t that lovely. So he’s older than you, obviously. And well educated. But not, it seems, smart enough to stay away from you.’

‘Mum!’ she exclaimed, shocked.

‘Let me ask you this – is he married?’

Miserably, Caitlin nodded. ‘He says he’s leaving his wife, though.’

‘You stupid girl.’ Penelope spoke with contempt. ‘All married men say that when they take a woman to bed for the first time. They make all manner of extravagant promises, none of which they intend to keep. They turn a woman’s life completely upside-down – not to mention the poor child’s ‒ but suffer little consequence to their own. I thought you were so much smarter than this. I’m so very, very disappointed in you.’

Without further discussion, she swept out of the room, leaving her daughter trembling and weeping into her hands, and closed the door quietly but firmly behind her.

Chapter 29

As Wren made her way across the great hall to the stairs, passing Jeremy on his way up, the sound of weeping reached her ears. She paused.

Someone was in the drawing room, crying.

After a moment’s hesitation, Wren made her way across the hall and knocked on the door, then edged it open. Caitlin lay across one of the sofas, sobbing into a cushion as though her heart might break.

‘Caitlin!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you all right?’

The girl shook her head and lifted red, tear-swollen eyes to Wren’s. ‘I’m fine. Please, just g-go away.’

Quietly Wren shut the door and stood just inside the room. ‘You know I can’t do that,’ she said, her words gentle but firm. ‘You’re obviously upset. Is there anything I can do?’

‘No,’ Caitlin croaked, and dragged in a ragged breath as she sat up. ‘There’s n-nothing anyone can do. Not unless you can tell me how to fix my m-mess of a life, that is.’

‘Surely it’s not as bad as all that.’ She sat down next to the girl and touched her knee reassuringly. She hesitated. ‘I know we don’t get on very well, and I know we haven’t much use for each other, but...perhaps it would help if you talked about whatever it is that’s got you so upset.’

Caitlin lifted her head. ‘Perhaps it would,’ she said dully. ‘It couldn’t hurt.’

And as Wren listened, Caitlin spilled out the messy details of her story, from her affair with Niall, the married professor, to her friendship with his son, and now her unexpected – and unwanted ‒ pregnancy.

‘So I find myself pregnant,’ she finished, frowning down at the slight swell of her stomach, ‘with no idea what to do. I mean, I can’t go through with it – can you see me with a baby? – but I can’t imagine having an abortion, either.’

‘There’s always adoption.’

Caitlin nodded. ‘I’ve thought about that. I could disappear somewhere for awhile – somewhere far away and warm, like Corfu, or Tuscany. I haven’t started to show yet. I could have the baby, and put it up for adoption.’ But even as she spoke, her eyes swam with tears.

‘There’s another solution,’ Wren offered cautiously.

‘Really? What’s that?’

She leant forward and fixed her gaze on Caitlin’s. ‘You could have the baby here, at Draemar. And Tarquin and I could adopt it, and raise it as our own.’

‘No.’ Caitlin surged to her feet. ‘It would never work.’

‘Why not? We’d do everything legally and properly, I can assure you. Only think about it, Caitlin. This child is a Campbell, and as such, he or she is Tark’s flesh and blood! Why give the baby away to strangers? You know how badly we want a child of our own.’

‘Yes, I do know that. But how will we explain the situation when the child gets older? How will we explain that I’m not his aunt, but his mother? And what if you change your mind in a few years’ time?’

‘I’d never change my mind, nor would Tarquin.’ Wren’s words left no room for doubt.

‘What if...what if I change mine?’ Caitlin asked quietly. ‘What if I decide, in a year, or two, or ten, that I want my child back? What then?’

‘It’s a risk I’m willing to take.’

Slowly, her expression troubled, Caitlin stood up. ‘I’ve got a lot to think about. Thanks for listening to me, Wren. Please...please don’t say anything to anyone about this?’

‘Of course I won’t. It’ll be our little secret.’

Caitlin gave her a hesitant smile, and left.

‘I’ve a package for you, Miss Thomas.’

Helen, just coming down the stairs that afternoon, paused on the last tread as Colm came towards her across the entrance hall. A flush of heat warmed her cheeks as she reached out to take the slim cardboard envelope from his outstretched hand.

‘Thank you, Mr MacKenzie,’ she murmured. ‘I’m much obliged.’

He raised his brow but said nothing, only nodded and turned away. She and Colm had agreed to keep their relationship a secret, so as not to raise any unwanted questions.

How could they explain what had happened last night at the gatehouse to anyone else, when they didn’t fully understand it themselves?

Halfway to the door, he turned back. ‘I’m cooking dinner on Sunday, if you fancy joining me. I’ve a leg of lamb on offer. And plenty of roasted veg.’

‘You made it to the grocery store, then?’ The sun was out for the first time in days, and the distant sound of a snow plough echoed up the hill from the main road.

‘Nae. I raided Mrs Neeson’s pantry.’

Helen smiled. ‘What time shall I be there?’

‘One o’clock-ish. No need to bring anything,’ he added before she could ask. ‘Just yourself.’

‘I’ll be there.’ Still smiling as Colm departed, Helen glanced down at the envelope in her hand. It was postmarked from London but the return address was unfamiliar.

Curious, she slipped a finger under the flap and slid out several stapled pages. It was a report...the Freetown police report on Andrew Campbell’s death. A note from Tom was clipped to the top.

Quickly, before anyone might see her, Helen took the document and went into the library, relieved to see it was empty. She shut the doors behind her and sat down to read.

Helen – Took their bloody time to get this report to me, but I reckon the law, like everything else in Freetown, moves slowly... Campbell’s death was ruled ‘death by misadventure’ – fancy term for an accident. Drowning, no evidence of foul play. All pretty cut and dried.

When are you back in London? Are you coming back, or staying on permanently in the land of sporrans and haggis? Tom

Helen unclipped the note and began to read. Andrew Campbell and a recent acquaintance, Michael McFarlane, had rented a sloop and snorkelling equipment and headed out to the Banana Islands to spend the afternoon swimming and diving.

A squall kicked up unexpectedly, overturning the boat and pitching the two men overboard. Although McFarlane clung to the hull and was eventually rescued, Andrew decided to strike out and swim the twelve miles to shore.

He never made it.

Helen lowered the pages to her lap with a frown. Campbell was an excellent swimmer, it was true; but even an athlete would’ve been daunted by the storm conditions that day. The swells were enormous, the sea wild and unpredictable for several hours. Surely Andrew wouldn’t have risked striking out on his own in such conditions.

Why didn’t he stay with the boat, like McFarlane? Why did he decide to swim to shore instead?

Had something happened on that boat? Something that made Andrew feel the need to leave?

As she returned the pages to the envelope, Helen’s expression was troubled. The police report, although full of useful information, raised far more questions about Andrew Campbell’s death than it answered.

Chapter 30

Wren couldn’t help it. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t seem to stop smiling.

‘You’re looking very happy today, darling,’ Tarquin observed as he joined her in the morning room and kissed her. ‘Any particular reason?’

She wanted to tell him about the possibility of adopting Caitlin’s baby, but she’d promised not to breathe a word of the pregnancy to anyone, particularly not to Tarquin. ‘I’m just happy to see the sun back out, I suppose. All this snow we’ve had of late, and the dreary grey skies...’

He went to the windows and observed the softening blanket of snow with satisfaction. ‘A few more days of this, and we might even see the ground again.’

‘Just think how fun it’ll be, once we have a child of our own, Tark,’ she said as she joined him and slipped her arm around his waist. ‘We can go sledding, and we’ll build a snowman; and in the summer we’ll go on walks, and pick wild berries, and go sailing on the loch, and...oh, I can hardly wait.’

He glanced at her in surprise. ‘You make it sound as if we’ll have a child very soon. Do you know something I don’t?’

She smiled at him, longing to tell him. But, ‘Of course not,’ she said lightly. ‘Wishful thinking, that’s all. Now – would you like a cup of tea with your toast this morning, or would you prefer coffee?’

Colm let himself outside and paused to study his surroundings in satisfaction. The sky was a clean-swept, clear blue, with nary a cloud – or a flake of snow – to be seen. A few more sunny days like this, and within a week or so, all of the snow would be a distant, melted memory.

He was just about to head down the hill to the gatehouse when the growl of an engine reached his ears. A low-slung sports car crested the drive and proceeded cautiously towards the castle, then slowed to a stop.

Colm frowned. Who in the world?

He watched as a tall, well-dressed man emerged from behind the wheel and stood, resting one arm on the roof. Although his dark hair was peppered at the temples with grey, it did nothing to lessen his attractiveness. He fixed Colm with a pleasant yet quizzical expression.

‘Can you tell me, please,’ he called out, ‘if this is Draemar Castle?’

‘Aye, it is,’ Colm answered. ‘Are you looking for someone in particular?’

‘Yes.’ He glanced at the castle in interest, then returned his attention to Colm. ‘My name is Niall, Niall MacDougal. I’m looking for Miss Caitlin Campbell.’

‘I can’t believe you came here,’ Caitlin hissed ten minutes later, ‘to my parents’ home!’ She glanced back over her shoulder at the face of the castle. ‘Thank God it was only Colm you spoke to ‒ what if my father should see you, what if he or my mother find out you’re here?’

‘They won’t. I’m not planning to stay. Does anyone else besides your grandmother know about us?’ he added.

‘No – but they all will, if they see you out here! And it’s bad enough that grandmamma knows. She’ll have you arrested if she sees you here and finds out who you are…’

‘I had to see you.’ He stepped closer, and his dark eyes searched hers. ‘I came all this way, braved a lot of messy roads in a car that really isn’t made for snowy conditions, to tell you I miss you, Cait. Come back. Come back to Edinburgh. I’ll get you reinstated.’

She shook her head firmly. ‘I can’t come back. It’s impossible.’

‘I’ve started divorce proceedings. I told you I would.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You’re all I’ve thought about.’

‘What about Jeremy?’ she snapped. ‘He’s my friend, Niall, and he’s your son! He’ll be devastated to find out that you and I...’

‘I’m sure he already knows.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides, my son is a grown man. Even if he feels something for you – which you’ve assured me yourself that he doesn’t – he’ll have to come to terms with the situation.’

She turned away. ‘I’m sorry, Niall, but I told you, I can’t do this any more.’

‘Caitlin, wait.’ He caught hold of her arm. ‘Our relationship has nothing to do with Jeremy. He won’t care about you and I.’

‘I think he will. He won’t fancy being the butt of his friends’ jokes, once they find out he’s spending the Christmas holidays in Scotland with his father’s mistress—’

‘Caitlin?

She whirled around, guilt written on her face. ‘Jeremy! What are you doing out here?’

He didn’t answer, but regarded her and his father without expression. ‘I think the better question,’ he said to Caitlin even as his eyes remained on Niall’s, ‘is to ask what he’s doing here?’

The three of them got into the Jaguar at Niall’s suggestion and sped off to the village to find a pub, and lunch.

‘So tell me ‒ why did you come here?’ Jeremy asked his father bluntly after the barmaid had deposited their ploughman’s lunches and a trio of pints.

‘I came,’ Niall said as he picked up his pint, ‘to see Caitlin. And to see you.’

‘Mum says you’ve filed for divorce.’

‘Yes, it’s true. I wanted to tell you the news in person but, as usual, your mother beat me to it.’

‘You didn’t come here to tell me in person,’ Jeremy scoffed. ‘You came to tell Caitlin about the divorce. You couldn’t wait to tell her the happy news.’

Caitlin stared at him. ‘Jeremy, that’s not true.’

‘Of course it’s true. Oh, I heard the rumours at uni,’ he added, ‘but I didn’t believe them. Not until Mum called this morning to tell me herself, that is.’ He threw his napkin down. ‘How could you do it, Caitlin? How could you carry on with my father all this time, and never say a word to me about it, and completely trash my parents’ marriage into the bargain?’

She reached out and laid a hand on his arm. ‘It wasn’t like that, Jeremy, it wasn’t—’

He shook her off. ‘Don’t waste your breath. You two deserve each other.’ He stood up with a loud scrape of his chair.

‘Jeremy,’ Niall commanded in a low but determined voice, ‘sit down.’

‘No, Dad, I won’t, thank you very much. I’ll get a taxi back to the castle; then I’m going home, to Edinburgh. To Mum.’

‘You needn’t leave,’ Caitlin objected.

‘I won’t stay.’ He turned to fix his father with a sardonic smile. ‘I wager I know something you don’t, Dad. Something that even Caitlin doesn’t know that I know about. I overheard her talking with her mum behind closed doors earlier this afternoon.’

Her heart accelerated. ‘What are you talking about?’

His eyes met hers, and he smiled. ‘Will you tell him, or shall I?’

‘Tell me what?’ Niall demanded, glancing at each of them in turn. ‘Will one of you please tell me what’s going on, this instant!’

‘It seems Caitlin’s pregnant, Dad. And you’re the father. Congratulations.’

And with a last, contemptuous glare at the both of them, Jeremy left.

When they returned to Draemar late that afternoon, Jeremy and his Land Rover were gone.

‘When did you plan to tell me, Caitlin?’ Niall asked as he switched off the ignition in front of the castle and turned to look at her. ‘Did you plan to tell me?’

She fiddled with the latch of her seat belt. ‘No, I didn’t. I’m having the baby, but I’m giving it up for adoption.’

‘The hell you are.’

Startled by the resolve in his words, Caitlin lifted her face to his. ‘How can you say that? You have no right to tell me what to do. This is my child—’

‘Our child.’

‘‒and I can’t possibly have this baby! I have my education still to finish. And you’re a bit old to start another family—’

‘Well, thanks for that.’ He leant back against the seat and stared, unseeing, through the windscreen. ‘Is that how you see me? A man who’s past it?’ Anger – and hurt – darkened his eyes as he turned to face her. ‘Shouldn’t the decision to have another family ‒ or not ‒ be mine to make, as well as yours? Who the hell do you think you are?’

‘No – I think the real question is, who do you think you are?’ she snapped. ‘You slept with me, which got me kicked out of uni, and now you’ve gotten me pregnant to boot, and all you’re worried about is your...your male pride? Is that how you see me? As proof of your virility?’

‘No, of course not.’ He let out a short breath. ‘I love you, Caitlin, whether you believe it or not. This isn’t just some passing fling for me. Oh, I’ll admit it – it may have started out that way. But you...you made me fall in love with you. I’ve thrown away my marriage, and I’ve possibly ruined my relationship with my son – but I won’t let you throw us away.’

He reached out and took her hands, and his eyes searched hers. ‘I love you. I love this baby. I want you – both of you. Only say that you’ll marry me, Caitlin Campbell, and come back to Edinburgh, and be my wife.’

Chapter 31

Caitlin snatched her hands back. ‘Have you lost your mind, Niall? You and me, married? It would never work!’

‘Why not?’

She shook her head in mingled bewilderment and fury. ‘Because we’d never be accepted as a couple, that’s why! Your Edinburgh friends, and especially your wife’s friends – they’ll hate the very idea of me and you. And they’ll like the idea of me and you and a baby even less!’

‘I don’t care what other people think.’ Scorn sharpened his words. ‘I never have. All I know is that I’m happy when I’m with you, Cait. You’ve brought colour back into my grey existence.’

‘You always did have a pretty way with words, Niall.’ Caitlin crossed her arms beneath her breasts and glared at him. ‘But I have to be practical. Do you really want to throw your married life away, to be frozen out socially from your friends and faculty, in exchange for dirty nappies and two o’clock feedings and hostile Scottish in-laws?’

‘If giving up my old life means I that can be with you,’ he said earnestly, his gaze unwavering on her own, ‘then yes. I am. I’m more than ready to throw everything aside to be with you, and,’ he reached out a tentative hand and laid it atop her stomach as he affected a thick (and very bad) Scottish accent ‘our wee little baby.’

Natalie couldn’t believe it.

As the familiar, cramp-y feeling took hold in her stomach, she bit her lip and told herself it couldn’t possibly be true. After all these weeks, to find out that she’d been mistaken, that she wasn’t really pregnant...

...it was almost more than she could bear.

After weeks of cajoling, she’d finally brought Rhys around to share her excitement about the baby. He’d agreed to help her plan the nursery and suggested colours, and he’d even helped her pick out a few baby outfits online.

How to tell him now that there would be no baby? He’d be every bit as disappointed as she was.

But the pregnancy test kit definitely showed a blue line! she reflected indignantly. It said there was no mistake. So much for bloody technology.

Then she burst into noisy, hiccupping sobs.

Caitlin let herself back into the castle as quietly as possible and sagged back against the door.

At least Niall had agreed not to tell her mother and father about their plans to get married. Instead, she sent him back to Edinburgh and promised to call him once she’d smoothed the way with her parents.

While she knew her family would be relieved to know that Niall intended to do right by her, she also knew her father, and she had no doubt he’d have plenty of condemnation to heap on her future husband.

When dinner was over and everyone went into the library for drinks and conversation, Caitlin asked her parents to remain behind.

‘There’s something I need to tell you both,’ she said. ‘Something important.’

Penelope shook her head imperceptibly at Caitlin as her glance strayed to her husband. ‘Perhaps now isn’t the best time.’

‘No time will ever be “the best time”,’ Caitlin said firmly. ‘And Dad deserves to know.’

‘Know what?’ he growled. ‘What are you talking about, lassie?’

She took a deep breath, and as quickly and plainly as possible, Caitlin told her parents that she was pregnant, and that the baby’s father was a university professor who was married to someone else. ‘Mum already knows I’m pregnant.’

Archie turned to her. ‘You knew about this, Pen?’ he asked, his voice deceptively calm. ‘And you said nothing?’

‘Caitlin wanted to tell you herself.’

‘Niall’s getting a divorce,’ Caitlin said quickly, ‘and he’s asked me to marry him.’

There was silence after her pronouncement...just before all hell broke loose.

Her father thrust his chair back, overturning it in his anger. ‘D’ye mean to tell me this bastard who’s been carrying on with you – this man who’s got you pregnant - he’s married? And he’s getting rid of his wife for you, a girl half his age, and one of his bloody students, to boot?’ he thundered. ‘Have I got the right of it?’

With the words caught in her throat, Caitlin managed to nod. ‘You make it sound so bad! It’s really not—’

‘Get out.’

Caitlin stared at him. ‘What?’

‘Do ye not ken what I said? Get out of my sight this instant, lass,’ he warned her, his voice low but charged, ‘afore I lose my temper altogether, and throw you out of my house and into the snow on your arse!’

Without another word, Caitlin turned and ran, weeping, from the room.

‘Really, Archie,’ Penelope said evenly, anger plain on her face, ‘was that necessary?’

‘Aye, there’s much worse I might’ve said to her, believe me. The daft girl! Has everyone in this house taken leave of their bloody senses?’

He returned his chair to its rightful place at the table and stalked out.

‘Archie, wait!’ Pen strode after him, determined to finish the conversation, when the phone in the hallway rang.

She hesitated, then picked up the receiver. ‘Hello, Draemar Castle.’

Silence.

‘Who’s there, please?’ she asked with a trace of impatience. ‘Hello?’

There was no answer, just the crackle of a long-distance connection.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘Why do you keep calling here? What is it you want?’

She was about to ring off but something made her stop. A myriad of emotions skimmed her face – hope, doubt, disbelief – as she pressed the phone closer to her ear.

Could it be? After all this time, was it possible...?

‘Is it you?’ Pen whispered, the words catching in her throat. ‘My darling, dearest boy, is that you, Andrew?’

‘So we’re not having a baby, after all.’

In their room that evening, Rhys took Natalie’s news with remarkable calm.

‘No. I’m not pregnant.’

He turned to face her. ‘But how can that be? You took one of those tests, Natalie. It said you were pregnant. You showed me the stick yourself, and the blue line.’

‘I-I don’t know.’ She fidgeted with her collar. ‘I must’ve done something wrong.’

His expression was sardonic. ‘Imagine that.’ He went to the foot of the bed and sat down.

‘Well?’ Natalie asked as she dropped down beside him and eyed him anxiously. ‘Haven’t you anything to say, Rhys?’

‘What is there to say, Natalie? You thought you were pregnant but it was a mistake, and you’re not. End of story.’

‘But how do you...feel, about it? Are you disappointed?’

‘Of course I am. I know I wasn’t very keen in the beginning, but once I got used to the idea of you...of us...having a baby, I liked it. So yes, I’m a bit disappointed.’

‘I’ll make an appointment with Dr MacTavish tomorrow, just to be sure. Oh, Rhys...I was so looking forward to us having this baby.’ She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as tears began to leak out.

He reached an arm out and drew her close against him. ‘It’s not the end of the world. There’s no rush, after all. We’ll just let nature take its course for the next few weeks and see what happens.’

‘You mean – no pills? Whatever happens...happens?’

‘Exactly.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Now that I’ve got used to it, I like the idea of having a son, someone to take the reins and run Dashwood and James one day.’

‘What about a daughter?’ Natalie demanded, and lifted her face to his. ‘I could just as easily have a girl, you know.’

‘Yes, you could. And I’ll love her every bit as much as our son. We could have one of each,’ he pointed out, and leant forward to kiss her. ‘Nothing’s stopping us, Mrs Dashwood-Gordon.’

Natalie kissed him back. ‘No,’ she said huskily as she drew him down beside her, ‘nothing’s stopping us at all, Mr Gordon.’

Chapter 32

On Saturday, Helen got a call from the mechanic’s shop. ‘Your car’s ready,’ the male voice on the other end of the phone informed her. ‘We close in ten minutes, and we won’t open again until Monday morning. Can someone bring you in to pick it up then?’

Her heart sank. ‘Yes,’ she managed. ‘Thank you. How much do I owe you?’

He paused, and named a sum nearly as large as a third world country’s budget.

‘Thanks,’ Helen said faintly. ‘I’ll see you on Monday.’

She rang off, and her expression was troubled. She didn’t want to leave Draemar yet. She hadn’t filed her exclusive on Dominic and Gemma’s wedding, nor had she gotten the answers she sought in Andrew’s death...and she still wanted to understand why Colm MacKenzie shared a more-than-coincidental resemblance to the Campbell family.

More importantly, she didn’t want to leave Colm.

The thought of returning to London – all she’d wanted when she’d first arrived at the castle – filled her now with melancholy. She dreaded going back to her old, empty life, back to the constant, heartbreaking reminders of David and their baby, back to a job she’d grown to hate.

Scotland, and Colm, were a part of her now.

Which reminds me, she thought as she headed downstairs to ask Pen if she might borrow a car, I need to go to the store and buy a tin of shortbread or a bottle of wine to take to Colm’s...it wouldn’t do to show up for Sunday dinner at the gatehouse empty-handed.

And she had to tell him she was leaving soon.

Would he even care? she wondered as she went into the drawing room in search of Mrs Campbell. He probably wouldn’t spare her another thought once she was gone.

There was no sign of Pen. She’d been here recently, though; a half-empty cup of tea with her red lipstick on the rim sat on one of the end tables, next to a basket piled with fashion magazines. Curious, Helen picked one of the magazines up. Surely, she thought as she flicked rapidly through the pages, Tom would want her to stay here until the wedding story was photographed and filed.

Her page-flicking slowed. The fashions were from the Seventies, and the models wore things like crocheted vests, bucket hats, wedge heels, and wide-legged trousers.

‘Shades of Studio 54,’ Helen murmured, and quirked her brow. Why on earth did the Campbells keep a basket of Seventies fashion magazines to hand?

Then she saw it. Pen Campbell, or Pen Park as she was known then, strode across the glossy page in a pair of wide-legged white slacks and a black crocheted crop-top, laughing. It was an ad for a women’s cologne, Insouciant.

Pen was attractive, with her green eyes and auburn hair, and she was the picture of youth and health.

Her interest piqued, Helen flipped through a few more magazines. Pen was everywhere – on a cover here, in a cosmetics ad there, gracing dozens of photo shoots and spreads – proving that she’d once been very sought after in the fashion world.

But one photo in particular caught her eye. Pen and another model were posing for a picture in Annabel’s, the fashionable London nightclub, with Graeme Longworth, candidate for prime minister. He was smiling, amused by something Pen had just said.

Helen remembered the first time she and the others had dined with Archie Campbell and his wife. He’d proudly made mention of Pen’s quasi-celebrity past.

‘Had flings with a couple of film stars, she did, and then there was that chap – oh, what was his name, darling? I always said he was sweet on you...he almost ran for prime minister?’

‘Graeme Longworth.’

Then Pen had changed the subject.

Her thoughts racing, Helen returned the magazines to the basket.

She went up to her room and shut the door, then pulled out her laptop. She typed Longworth’s name into the search engine, but nothing of interest came up, aside from a few old photos and news of his sudden withdrawal from the election for PM in the mid-seventies. There was plenty of speculation as to why, but nothing more.

Archie’s voice echoed in her head. ‘There were rumours of a scandal of some sort, and so he withdrew.’

She typed in Pen Park’s name next; again, she found little of import, only photos from her days as a model, news of her marriage to Archie Campbell, and later, articles about the drowning death of her eldest son, Andrew.

On impulse, Helen picked up her mobile and rang Tom. ‘What do you know about a chap named Graeme Longworth?’ she asked when he picked up.

There was a long pause. ‘Why do you ask?’ A note of wariness crept into his voice.

‘Well, it’s purely conjecture on my part,’ she mused as she scrolled through the list of links on her screen, ‘but I think I might know why Longworth abandoned his bid for PM. And I think her name was Pen Park.’

Instead of scoffing, or dismissing her idea out of hand, Tom let out a short breath. ‘Give me directions to Draemar.’

‘What? Why, are you coming up here to the Highlands?’ she asked, and blinked. ‘But you despise Scotland.’

‘I do. But we need to talk. Is there somewhere in the local village where we can meet? Somewhere private?’

‘Well, yes,’ she said, frowning, ‘the pub, if I can borrow someone’s car, but—’

‘Right, I’m coming straight up. I’ll be there late this afternoon. Book me a room somewhere. In the meantime,’ he added, ‘do me a favour.’

‘Of course.’

‘Keep your gob shut about this. And don’t tell anyone I’m coming up there.’

Helen entered the Draemar Arms pub late that afternoon and slid into a seat at a booth in the back. Unable to locate Mrs Campbell to ask to borrow a car, she’d offered to do the grocery shop for Colm in exchange for the use of his Range Rover, and he’d agreed.

She took off her hat and gloves and shrugged off her coat – the snow might’ve stopped, but it was still bloody cold ‒ and glanced around the dim interior.

At this hour of the day, the place was nearly empty. Tom hadn’t arrived yet.

She got up to order two pints from the bar and returned with them to the booth, then took a sip of her lager and settled in to wait.

Colm took out the carrots and potatoes and rinsed them under the tap. He skinned the carrots with long, sure strokes of the peeling knife. He set the frothy tops and peels aside to flavour the broth for a future lamb stew. Waste not, want not, wasn’t that the old saying?

A lifetime of scrimping and saving and getting by meant he was no stranger to making do with very little. He left school at fifteen, and in the intervening years he’d washed dishes, been a waiter, run delivery routes, crewed on a couple of freighters, and tended bar. It was good, honest work; and some of it had paid well. He worked hard and kept to himself.

The years following Alanna’s death had been bleak and unending. He got up, he worked, he came home and drank himself into oblivion, and passed out.

He liked it here at Draemar. The Campbells were decent people who paid well and left him to run things without interfering. For the first time in a long time, he felt a cautious hope.

He looked forward to Sunday dinner with Helen tomorrow. It surprised him, this anticipation; after all, what did he, a dour widower with a murky past and no future to speak of, have in common with a street-savvy London tabloid reporter?

Absolutely nothing, that much was sure.

And yet...he couldn’t stop thinking about her, wondering what she was doing, if she thought about him as he sometimes thought about her. He enjoyed sparring with her. She was quick, and clever.

And she’d looked a hell of a lot more fetching in that terrycloth robe than he ever had...

He flung a dish towel over his shoulder and stared, unseeing, out the window at the snow-covered tree branches. Sex with Helen had been amazing. Oh, he’d been with his share of women over the years; but none of them had meant anything. He’d forgotten them by the next day.

Helen was different.

She was the first woman – the only woman – he’d felt something for since losing his beloved Alanna.

And that fact, more than anything else, scared the hell out of him.

Chapter 33

‘I’m here.’

Helen looked up from her beer to see Tom sliding into the booth across from her. ‘I got you a pint.’ She nudged his glass over.

‘Thanks.’ He shrugged off his jacket and laid it aside. ‘No one knows you’re here, I take it?’

‘No. Archie and Pen went out for dinner and a film,’ she said. ‘And the rest of us…well, let’s just say we’re all going a bit bonkers, stuck in that castle for the last few weeks. Everyone’s escaped for the evening.’ She leant forward. ‘So tell me what this is all about.’

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a photo and laid it on the table, then slid it across to her. ‘Have a look.’

Helen picked it up. The photograph showed Pen Park and Graeme Longworth coming out of a mansion flat in Marylebone. Judging from Pen’s crocheted mini-dress and Longworth’s sideburns, it was taken around the same time as the snap at Annabel’s, in the mid-seventies.

The pair shared an umbrella, and they both looked straight into the camera, their expressions startled, and more than a little guilty.

‘So I was right,’ Helen said softly. ‘They were having an affair.’ She lowered the photo and gazed at him. ‘Why wasn’t this picture published?’

‘I’m getting to that,’ Tom grumbled as he took the photograph back and tucked it in his pocket once again. ‘When I took that snap, I was young, barely twenty. I was desperate for a big, splashy story to make my name. One day, I got a tipoff over the phone about Longworth and his dolly bird, and I got my story, all right – with bells on.’

‘So it seems,’ Helen murmured.

‘This man – he said he was connected to a senior member of the coalition – wanted a story, with photos, that would implicate Longworth in an affair with a certain up-and-coming British model.’

‘Longworth was married, I take it?’

‘Yes. So the next day, I staked out the front of the mansion flat in Marylebone where Miss Park lived, and I waited. I waited outside ‒ in the rain ‒ for fucking hours. But I got the goods. I messengered the photos to this bloke, as agreed. He called to say he’d got ’em and asked me not to file the story for twenty-four hours.

‘So I waited. The next day, he sent the pictures back and told me to kill the story.’ Tom scowled. ‘I was furious! Longworth’s affair would’ve been the making of me. But he offered me plenty of dosh to keep it out of the paper, so I did, and I took the money. I locked the photos away in my safe, where they’ve been ever since.’

‘But if the story never ran,’ Helen asked, puzzled, ‘then why did Longworth withdraw from the election?’

Tom shrugged. ‘Someone showed him the photographs, I reckon. He was made to understand that if he didn’t withdraw, the photo – and the story of the affair ‒ would run in the next day’s papers.’

‘So that’s how you came by the infamous Aston Martin,’ Helen remarked, and quirked her brow. ‘I always wondered.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘How’d you know about that? I sold the Aston years ago.’

‘Are you kidding? That car is a newsroom legend! We all thought you must’ve been shagging the owner’s wife.’

He nearly spit out his lager. ‘I’ve never been that desperate for a car,’ he retorted. ‘Or a shag.’

‘So who was he?’ Helen asked as she leant forward, her eyes intent on his. ‘Who tipped you off about Pen and Longworth and paid you to keep the story quiet?’

He shrugged. ‘I never knew the bloke’s name. I saved Pen Park from a world of trouble, though, and no mistake. If that story had run...’ his words trailed off.

Helen traced a finger around the rim of her glass. ‘Someone obviously wanted to force Longworth to stand down.’

‘It happens all the time, love. Politics is a dirty business. That fling with Pen ruined Longworth’s career. Hope she was worth it. It put paid to her career, too.’

‘It did? How so?’ Helen asked curiously.

‘She gave up modelling, didn’t she? At the top of her game, she was, and then she just...disappeared.’

‘Poor Pen. She had to give up Graeme Longworth...and her modelling career.’

‘Oh, don’t feel too sorry for Miss Park. She married into the Campbell family a year or two later, after all. Filthy rich, the Campbells, as you’ve no doubt seen for yourself, with a castle, and that distillery fortune of theirs. She didn’t need to model any more.’

‘No,’ Helen said, a thoughtful expression on her face. ‘No, I suppose she didn’t.’

They were just sliding out of the booth to leave when Archie Campbell and his wife entered the pub.

‘Shit,’ Helen muttered. ‘Speak of the devil…the Campbells just walked in. Put your happy face on, Tom.’

‘I don’t have a bloody happy face,’ he grumbled as he reached for his wallet.

‘Helen!’ Penelope Campbell called out as she spotted them, and gave a little wiggle of her gloved fingers. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’ She cast a curious glance at Tom. ‘And who is this?’ she enquired as they arrived at the booth.

Before Helen could respond, Archie thrust out his hand. ‘Archie Campbell. Pleased to meet you.’

Tom, momentarily nonplussed, regained his equilibrium and shook hands with Campbell and Pen in turn. ‘Tom Bennett. Pleasure.’ He added, ‘Sorry, but I’ve got to run, it’s been a long day. I’m off to check into my hotel. It was great seeing you again, Helen.’ He gave her a meaningful glance. ‘We’ll talk soon.’

‘Bye, Tom.’ She lifted her hand and watched as he beat a hasty retreat out the door.

‘Well!’ Pen said brightly as she unwound her scarf. ‘Is Mr Bennett a particular friend of yours?’

‘No. He...we used to work together. In London.’ Eager to change the subject, Helen said, ‘Why don’t you take our booth? We’re just leaving, and the place is heaving.’

It was true. In the hour or so that she and Tom had spent talking in the back corner, the Draemar Arms had gotten busy, crowded now with locals anxious to escape for an evening of drink and darts and conversation.

‘Won’t you join us?’ Archie invited her as he shrugged off his coat. ‘You’re more than welcome.’

‘Thank you, no. I need to go and buy a tin of shortbread to take to Colm’s tomorrow.’ Instantly she regretted the words. Why in hell had she said that?

‘Oh?’ Pen arched her brow. ‘Are you invited to the gatehouse for tea, Miss Thomas?’

Helen managed a polite smile. ‘No. Colm’s invited me to Sunday dinner, actually. Nothing fancy. But I do hate to show up empty-handed,’ she added. ‘So if you’ll excuse me, I really should be going.’

Her mobile rang just then. With a glance down at the screen – it was Tom’s number – she hurriedly said her goodbyes, and left.

‘What is it, Tom?’ Helen said into the phone as she walked back to her rental car. ‘Didn’t you just leave?’

‘Thank God he didn’t remember me.’

She scrabbled in her purse for the key and unlocked the door. ‘Who? What are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about Archie Campbell.’

‘Oh...had you two met before?’

‘You could say that. Although we never actually met.’

‘Tom,’ Helen said impatiently as she slid behind the wheel, ‘stop being so bloody cryptic and tell me what the hell you’re on about.’

‘He’s the one, Helen. He’s the bloke who called me all those years ago and tipped me off about Longworth.’

She blinked. ‘Archie? No, you must be mistaken.’

‘I never forget a voice,’ Tom said firmly. ‘And it was definitely him I spoke to on the phone.’ He paused. ‘It was Archibald Campbell who put paid to Graeme Longworth’s career. And you can take that to the bank.’

Chapter 34

Caitlin remained in her room all day Saturday.

Fear of her father’s volatile temper kept her out of the dining room, as well. She’d never seen him so furious, not even when she accidentally broke one of the mullioned glass windows in the library with a croquet ball.

She asked Mrs Neeson to have the cook send up a tray, and although the housekeeper grumbled, she agreed.

As Caitlin looked down at her luncheon tray of cream of mushroom soup and toast points, she felt a wave of nausea overtake her, and barely set the tray aside in time to rush to the bathroom sink.

A few minutes later, she pushed her hair back from her forehead and laid her face down against the cool marble countertop. She hated Niall for doing this to her.

Gradually she realized her mobile was ringing, and she stumbled to her bedside table and picked it up.

‘Hello, Cait. How’s my favourite girl?’

‘Puking my guts up,’ she answered crossly. ‘It was the mushroom soup that did it this time. Everything makes me ill lately, no thanks to you.’

‘I’m sorry, darling. Truly. If you were here with me right now, I’d pamper you, and give you sponge baths, and spoil you outrageously. I miss you.’

‘I miss you, too.’

He paused. ‘Have you spoken with your father yet? Have you told him about us...about the baby?’

‘Yes, on both counts. Oh, Niall – I’ve never seen him so furious! It’s a good thing you weren’t here, or he’d have torn you limb from limb and fed you to the lions.’

‘I should’ve been there to support you.’ His words were bitter. ‘I feel like a complete coward, leaving you to deal with the fallout on your own.’

‘Oh, Dad will calm down eventually. Mum will bring him round.’ She chewed on her lower lip and added, ‘I’m sorry about Jeremy. I hope he’ll come round eventually, too.’

‘He will. And if he doesn’t...’ Niall paused ‘too bad. He’ll have to accept you, Caitlin, and our marriage, too.’

‘I just hope it doesn’t cause a permanent rift between you. I don’t want to be the cause of,’ she let out a shaky breath, ‘of breaking up your family, Niall...but that’s exactly what I’ve done, isn’t it? My father’s right.’

‘My marriage to Miriam was over years ago,’ he told her firmly. ‘She’s been seeing someone else for some time now. In any event, it doesn’t matter; we grew apart long ago. You made me see that there was nothing left to salvage from our marriage, and so I finally did something about it.’

‘I hope you don’t end up regretting it, someday,’ Caitlin said with a sniffle. ‘I hope you don’t end up regretting...us.’

‘The only thing I regret,’ Niall said, his words leaving no doubt, ‘is the time I’ve wasted without you.’

Helen returned to the gatehouse just before eight that evening, her arms laden with bags. ‘I’ve brought lamb shanks, tomatoes and wine,’ she said as Colm swung the door open and reached out to take a couple of bags from her ‘and I bought a tin of shortbread for afters. You Scots do like your shortbread, don’t you?’

‘We do,’ he agreed, amused. ‘But you needn’t have bothered. I’ve made us a lemon tart.’

Helen followed him into the kitchen and dropped the groceries onto the table. She turned to face him in mock astonishment. ‘What? You can bake, Mr MacKenzie, in addition to your many other talents?’

His arms came round her waist and he nuzzled her neck. ‘What talents would you be speaking of, Miss Thomas?’ he murmured against her skin. ‘My cooking? My conversational skills? Or...’ he took her earlobe gently between his teeth ‘something else, perhaps?’

‘Something else,’ she breathed, just before his mouth took hers and made conversation impossible. For several minutes she gave in to the bliss of snogging him like a lust-ridden teenager, then reluctantly, she broke away.

‘There’s cream in those bags, and eggs. I should put the perishables away.’

‘Put ’em away later,’ Colm told her, and pulled her against him. ‘They’ll keep for a bit longer...but I might not.’ He covered her mouth once again with his, and his tongue found hers, and they made their way upstairs to Colm’s bed, leaving the groceries forgotten on the table.

Later, as they clung together in a sweaty tangle in his bed, Colm kissed the top of her head. ‘I missed you, lass,’ he said simply.

‘I missed you, too.’ And it was true. She’d thought of little else but him since they’d first slept together.

‘You were gone for quite a while,’ he remarked as he reached over and stroked the hair back from her face.

Shit. Nothing escaped Colm, including her lengthy absence. ‘The shop in the village was closed,’ Helen improvised, ‘so I had to go all the way into Northton Grange. I should’ve called to let you know,’ she apologized. ‘Sorry.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s no matter. I was a wee bit worried, that’s all.’

‘How sweet! But you needn’t worry about me.” She hesitated. “Colm,’ she ventured as she nestled closer to him and rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart, ‘can I ask you a question?’

‘Aye, I reckon so. I can’t say as I’ll answer it, though.’ He glanced down at her with a smile.

She hesitated. ‘Tell me about your family. Do you have any brothers? Sisters? Do they live hereabouts? I know so little about you.’

His smile faded. ‘I have no family to speak of. No brothers, no sisters.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’ Helen rested her head back on his chest, hardly daring to look at him. ‘So your mother and father are dead?’

There was a lengthy silence, and she feared she’d pushed him too far. He was so damned prickly when it came to any mention of his past...

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I was adopted. The McRoberts were good, decent people, and they gave me a roof and fed me. But when my adoptive mother died suddenly, Mr McRoberts was shattered, and so was I. I acted out, got in with a bad lot, and he couldn’t cope with me. I was placed in a series of foster homes, each one worst than the last, until I ran away at fifteen.’

Helen clasped him tightly. ‘Oh, how awful. I’m so sorry you went through all that. But at least your adoptive parents were kind. At least you had that.’

‘Aye, but no matter how kind they were,’ he said as he stared up at the rough beams of the ceiling, ‘I couldn’t help but wonder about my real family sometimes.’

‘Do you know anything about them?’ Helen asked as she propped herself up on one elbow. ‘Anything at all?’

‘Nae, nothing,’ he said, and reached for his shirt and pulled it back on, ‘and I don’t care. They didn’t want me, that was plain enough; so I’ve no use for them now.’

‘But don’t you ever wonder who your real mother was?’

‘No,’ Colm said again, firmly. ‘I don’t.’

He thrust his leg into his jeans, and as he did, she noticed a long, puckered scar running up the length of his thigh. She let out a soft gasp and lifted her eyes to his.

‘Colm,’ she whispered, ‘that scar! My God...what happened?’

He glanced down, his expression unreadable. ‘This? It happened on one of the freighters I crewed. Twenty-seven stitches.’ He shrugged. ‘It looks worse than it is.’ He zipped up and lifted his brow. ‘Now, lass,’ he said as he leant over to kiss her again, ‘get up and help me put those groceries away, afore the perishables perish.’

Not wanting to bring a scowl back to that angular, ginger-stubbled face, Helen kissed him back, and got dressed.

Chapter 35

Dr McTavish looked up from his desk on Monday morning as Natalie and Rhys entered his office and invited them to sit down. He held a folder in his hand.

‘You were absolutely right, Mrs Gordon,’ he told Natalie as he opened the folder and flicked through the pages. ‘You’re not pregnant. The urine test you took on Friday confirms it.’

‘I knew it,’ she said in a small voice. Rhys reached over and took her hand, and squeezed it reassuringly.

‘Why didn’t you schedule a proper test and come into my office a few weeks ago?’ he asked as he eyed her over the top of his half-moon glasses. ‘If you’d done that, we could’ve cleared this up straight away. You went and took one of those over-the-counter pregnancy tests instead, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she said with a trace of defensiveness. ‘And why not ‒ they’re generally very reliable! And the test definitely showed I was pregnant. There was a blue line, and everything.’

‘Did you follow the directions? With some of these kits, you have to wait at least a week after your last missed menstrual period before you take the test, you know.’

Natalie stared at him in dismay. ‘Oh. Well, no, it hadn’t been a week. More like, erm, a couple of days. And I didn’t bother reading the directions. I thought all one did was wee on a stick.’

McTavish smiled at her. ‘Well, it’s no matter. You’re not pregnant this time. But there’s no reason to think you won’t be ‒ whenever you and your husband are ready to have a child, that is.’

‘I hope so,’ she said wistfully. ‘I want a baby so badly.’

‘At least now we’ll have a bit of time to prepare for it,’ Rhys observed as he stood up.

‘I want to do up the nursery when we get back to London. I was thinking yellow – but a pale, buttery yellow, not a bright, sunny yellow,’ Natalie decided. ‘And white trim for the chair rails...and what do you think about some lovely Jessie Wilcox Smith prints for the wall over the baby’s dressing table?’

‘I think,’ Rhys said as he placed his hand at the small of her back and ushered her towards the door, ‘that perhaps we should wait until we know we’re actually having a baby before we start making all these plans.’

‘But that’s ridiculous,’ she protested. ‘Why leave everything until the last moment? We can at least get the nursery sorted. Pale yellow is a nice, neutral colour, perfect for a boy or a girl, don’t you think?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but glanced back at the doctor and waggled her fingers. ‘Goodbye, Dr McTavish. Thank you.’

‘Goodbye, Mrs Gordon,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Good luck to you, Mr Gordon.’

‘Thanks,’ Rhys replied as Natalie went ahead of him and out the door. ‘I think I’m going to need it.’

‘What do you think, Tark,’ Wren mused later that morning as she eyed the tower room, ‘about turning Andrew’s study into a nursery?’

Tarquin paused by the narrow window and turned to look at her. ‘A nursery?’ he echoed. ‘Well, we’d need to talk to my mother about the possibility first,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘She’s very...possessive of this room. Andrew spent a great deal of time here, and his books and travel souvenirs are all she has left of him. That’s why everything’s remained untouched.’

‘I know that,’ Wren said, ‘but life does go on, Tark. Even Pen admitted at dinner not long ago that after eighteen years, it was time to move on. This room is perfect for a baby – it’s small, but not too small, and quiet...and it’s not that far from our own room, it’s just round the corner and up a quick flight of stairs.’

‘But wouldn’t you prefer a room on the same floor, one a bit closer to us? Think of all those midnight feedings, stumbling up and down the stairs. Besides, the tower room is too isolated for my liking.’

‘I don’t agree.’ Wren crossed her arms against her chest. ‘We’ll get a baby monitor, Tark. That way, we can hear every sound the baby makes, and be upstairs in an instant, if necessary.’

‘It isn’t only the room that’s got me concerned.’ He frowned. ‘It’s my sister.’

‘Caitlin? Why? What on earth do you mean?’

‘I mean,’ Tarquin said firmly, ‘that I don’t think we should hang our hopes too much on her. This adoption is only a possibility, after all, not a certainty. We haven’t signed any legal paperwork. And Caitlin – well, she’s changeable, she always has been. I love my sister, but I don’t trust her.’

‘You’re not being fair.’

He crossed the room and stopped before Wren. ‘I don’t want to see you hurt if this adoption doesn’t go through, darling, that’s all.’

‘Caitlin doesn’t want the baby. She told me so. She won’t change her mind about this, Tark, I’m sure of it. So you needn’t worry.’ Wren smiled and kissed him on the mouth. ‘But it’s so sweet that you do worry. And I absolutely love you for it.’

Dinner at Draemar that evening was fraught with tension. Gemma excused herself several times to go and pace the hallway outside and shout on her mobile phone as she dealt – rudely ‒ with florists and caterers and bridal assistants.

‘Honestly,’ she grumbled as she returned to her seat after a run-in with the wedding-cake maker, ‘what’s so difficult about making a black-and-white chequerboard pattern in the cake? A white cake, alternated with chocolate, with white frosting...what could be simpler? Topped off with a pair of Louboutin shoes made out of white icing sugar, with red-dyed bottoms, that’s all I want. Is that so much to ask?’

‘Have you got your wedding gown yet?’ Natalie asked. ‘I’m dying to see it.’

‘No. It’s gone to Northton Grange, to Dominic’s house.’

‘Oh, no,’ Nat said in dismay. ‘What’ll you do?’

Gemma shrugged. ‘I’ll have one of the staff send it here, I suppose.’

‘There is no staff at Northton G just now,’ Dominic informed her. ‘I sent everyone home for the hols when you decided to have the wedding here. Couldn’t see the point of having them all hanging round for no reason.’

‘What?’ she sputtered. ‘If there’s no one at your house, how am I to get my wedding gown sent here?’

It was Dominic’s turn to shrug. ‘Dunno.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’ll just have to go and fetch it, then.’

‘In case you forgot, Gems,’ he pointed out, ‘I haven’t got a car. And the forecast says we’re getting a shedload of snow soon.’ He scowled. ‘There’s a surprise.’

‘I don’t believe this,’ Gemma wailed as she rose to her feet. ‘I’m getting married in just a few days’ time, my wedding gown’s in Northton Grange, and there’s a bloody snowstorm on the way!’ She turned on Dominic. ‘And you don’t even care.’

Dominic stared morosely into his whisky and didn’t bother to answer. He and Gemma barely spoke to each other these days. He avoided her as much as possible, and spent his time in the castle hiding out in one of the dozens of unused rooms, or closeted himself in the television room at the top of the east tower. Thankfully, Draemar offered up plenty of excellent hiding places.

What the hell had he got himself into?

‘Babes,’ he began, ‘don’t worry, we’ll figure something out.’

‘Don’t worry? Don’t worry?’ she snapped. ‘I have no wedding gown, you knob! What am I supposed to do now – make a gown out of a pair of drapes, like Scarlett bloody O’Hara?’ She shoved her chair back and strode to the door. ‘Never mind. I’ve already figured out a solution.’

‘You – you have?’ he asked hopefully. ‘What’s that?’

‘Let’s just cancel the entire bloody wedding.’

‘Oh, shit,’ Dominic grumbled, and stood up. ‘Sorry, everyone. Brideasaurus is on the loose,’ and he hurried off after his furious fiancée.

‘Rhys and I have some news,’ Nat said in an effort to fill the sudden, awkward silence.

‘Oh? What’s that?’ Tarquin asked. ‘Good news, I hope?’

‘Well...no, it’s not good, not exactly. It’s a bit disappointing.’ Natalie took a deep breath and reached out to take Rhys’ hand in hers. ‘I’m sorry to say, I’m not actually pregnant after all.’

‘What?’ Wren exclaimed, dismayed. ‘Oh, dear! But – how can that be? Nothing’s wrong, I hope?’

‘No. It’s my own fault,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t follow the instructions on the test kit. I’m sometimes a bit impatient…’

‘Only a bit?’ Rhys interjected. ‘And only sometimes?’

‘But the good news,’ she added, ignoring him, ‘is that we’ve decided to – erm – carry on trying until I really am pregnant.’

‘Ah. So the next time you come to visit us at Draemar,’ Tarquin observed, ‘you’ll no doubt be encumbered with a stroller and nappy bags and all manner of baby paraphernalia.’

‘It’s called a “travel system” now,’ Natalie informed him, ‘not a stroller. It turns into a baby carrier and a car seat, so you needn’t buy them all separately.’

‘What a marvellous idea,’ Pen remarked. ‘Things have certainly changed since my day. When I was a new mother, one brought the baby home from hospital in an infant carrier, and a pram was a great, cumbersome thing.’ She glanced over at Caitlin. ‘I remember pushing you around in that pram like it was yesterday.’

Caitlin stared at her plate and made no reply.

‘Excuse me.’ Archie stood up abruptly. ‘I’ve just remembered a call I need to make. I’ll see you all tomorrow. Enjoy your evening.’ And he turned to go.

Pen laid her napkin aside. ‘But...what about your dinner, darling? Shall I have cook send up a tray?’

‘No,’ he flung back over his shoulder as he made for the door. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘What on earth is going on?’ Natalie asked later as she and Rhys excused themselves and went to have an after-dinner drink in the drawing room. ‘The tension at that table was unbearable. Everyone seems to be unhappy tonight, in one way or another.’

‘You’re right,’ Rhys agreed. ‘The only happy one in the lot is Helen.’

‘Do you suppose...?’ Natalie began, as she and Rhys took seats by the fire and sipped their wine.

‘Do I suppose what?’ he asked.

She glanced up at Helen, who’d just come in to the drawing room with Tarquin and was laughing at something he’d said. ‘Do you suppose Helen’s seeing someone?’ she murmured. ‘She seems a bit...different, lately. Lighter. Less gloomy.’

‘And who do you imagine she’s seeing?’ Rhys scoffed. ‘There aren’t any spare men round here, Natalie, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Yes, there is. There’s one.’

‘Oh? And who’s that?’

‘Colm MacKenzie.’

Rhys set his glass of wine down abruptly. ‘Colm?’ he echoed. ‘I can’t think of anyone less likely to get involved with Helen than him. The two of them are nothing alike.’

‘Maybe not...but opposites attract. And I couldn’t help but notice that Helen wasn’t here for breakfast this morning.’

He shrugged. ‘She probably had a tray in her room. Or she wasn’t hungry.’

‘Or,’ Natalie said, her voice low but firm as she leant forward, ‘she wasn’t here, in the castle.’

‘Not here? And how would you know that?’ He regarded her with scepticism. ‘Where else would she be?’

‘I was going upstairs after breakfast this morning when Helen slipped in the front door. She had the same clothes on as yesterday,’ Natalie added, ‘I remember because I noticed her Christmas jumper. And,’ she added, if there was any doubt remaining, ‘she looked a bit guilty when she twigged that I saw her.’

‘She might’ve gone out to the store, or for a walk.’

‘She hasn’t a car,’ Natalie said triumphantly, ‘and none of the cars were gone from the drive. And she had her handbag with her. You don’t take your handbag with you on a walk...unless it’s the walk of shame. Rhys – she was at Colm’s! They spent the night together. Obviously.’

‘Well, Sherlock,’ Rhys warned her, ‘whether they did or they didn’t, it’s none of your concern.’

‘But it’s terribly romantic!’ Nat observed, and sipped her wine as she eyed Helen across the room. ‘She’s just what Colm needs – someone worldly and clever to draw him out a bit, someone to nurse his wounded soul.’

‘“Wounded soul?”’ Rhys echoed. ‘That’s ridiculous. He’s a groundskeeper, Nat, not...not Heathcliff!’

‘Someone,’ she went on dreamily, ‘to show him how to live, and put aside that awful Scottish dourness, and have a bit of fun.’

‘Hmm.’ He eyed Helen doubtfully. ‘Well if that’s what she means to do for Colm, then Helen’s certainly got her work cut out for her.’

Chapter 36

The summons from her father came that evening, as she’d known it would.

Caitlin gathered her resolve and left her room. She made her way down the hall to her father’s private study and knocked on the door.

‘Come in,’ he called out gruffly.

He glanced up as she came inside the room. A fire burned in the grate, casting a burnished glow over the leather chairs and tartan rug and the great mahogany desk he sat behind.

‘If this is about Niall,’ she began, ‘there’s nothing more to say.’

‘It isn’t about him. It’s about what he’s done to you, and what he intends to do about it.’

‘I told you, we’re getting married—’

‘His divorce has to come through first, Caitlin. That takes time. What happens while you wait? Are you having this baby? And if so, who’ll take care of it? Will he help out financially? Have you given a single thought to the practicalities?’

‘Yes, I’m having the baby,’ she said defiantly, ‘and of course I’m keeping it! Why wouldn’t I?’

He leant back in his chair. ‘Wren is under the impression that you’re giving the child up for adoption – to her, and Tarquin.’

Caitlin shifted on her feet. ‘Well, before I talked to Niall, that was the plan, yes. But he wants the baby. He’s over the moon with excitement.’

‘Is he, now?’ Archie’s expression was dark. ‘I’m sure he must feel quite chuffed to know he’s impregnated a girl who’s half his age—’

‘You make him sound ancient! He isn’t. He’s barely thirty-eight. And he wants this baby. Our baby. I thought you’d be pleased that he wants to marry me.’

‘Pleased?’ The word, when he spoke, came out deceptively low. ‘You think I’m pleased that my only daughter has gotten herself pregnant ‒ by a married man, no less – and thrown her education away in exchange for nappies and two o’clock feedings?’

‘I’ll go back to university. When the baby’s older,’ she replied, but the words sounded hollow, even to herself.

‘What about his wife? Have you given a thought to her? He’s breaking up a marriage! And what about Wren? You have to tell her that you’ve changed your mind, and you’re not giving the baby up for adoption. She’ll be devastated.’

Caitlin hung her head. ‘I know she will,’ she admitted. ‘And I’m truly sorry for that. I know how much she and Tark want a baby. But...it can’t be helped. She’ll just have to understand.’

‘Well, lassie,’ Archie said as he thrust back his chair and stood up abruptly, ‘I hope she does. Because I can tell you this much – I damned sure don’t.’

Later that evening, Dominic crept upstairs and came to a stop outside the door to Archibald Campbell’s study. He listened, but heard nothing.

‘Dominic!’ Gemma shrilled from somewhere downstairs. ‘Dominic, where are you?’

Shit. With no time to waste, Dom edged the door open and ducked inside. He needed a place to hide. The room was dark, sunk in shadows, with the only light coming from the flicker of flames in the fireplace.

Once again, his fiancé had a bee up her arse, insisting he go into Aberdeen the next day to see if his morning suit was ready. Morning suit, he thought darkly. More like a bloody mourning suit, marking the loss of his bachelor existence—

‘And what the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Archie growled behind him.

Dominic nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled around and saw his host sitting in a wing chair in the shadows by the fire, a glass in hand.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, ‘I thought no one was in here,’ and he turned to leave.

‘Wait.’

Warily, Dominic paused with his hand on the doorknob. ‘I didn’t mean to barge in, mate, truly.’

‘Stay,’ Archie ordered, and lifted his glass. ‘Join me for a drink, Dominic. I’d welcome your company.’

‘Not to be rude,’ the rock star observed as he made his cautious way towards Archie, ‘but you don’t look so good. Are you all right?’

‘Aye, I’m fine. Just having a wee dram and a think. I’ve a lot on my mind.’ He got up and went to a table where a decanter of whisky and matching glasses waited and poured Dominic a drink. His hand was a bit unsteady.

‘Thanks.’ Dominic took the glass. ‘What’s got you in a black mood, if you don’t mind my asking?’

Archie indicated the wing chair across from his, and the two men sat down. ‘It’s my daughter,’ he said after a moment. ‘She’s gone and done something incredibly stupid.’

‘Caitlin? What’s she done?’

‘Where to begin?’ Archie muttered, and scowled. ‘It all started when she was kicked out of university.’

‘Kicked out!’ Dom exclaimed, confused. ‘But...I thought she came home for the holidays.’

‘That’s what she told everyone. But it’s a lie.’ He took a longish sip of his whisky. ‘She was booted out for having an affair...with a professor. A married professor.’

‘Shit.’ Dominic knocked back half of his glass. ‘Well, it could be worse. At least she’s not up the duff.’

‘Ah,’ Archie said grimly, ‘that’s just it. She is indeed, as you term it, “up the duff”. She’s pregnant with this married bloke’s baby.’ He finished his whisky and held out the glass. ‘I’ll have another.’

As the first glass of whisky took hold, Dominic got to his feet and took Campbell’s glass, then made his way to the drinks table. ‘So what do you plan to do?’ he asked over his shoulder as he poured them each a fresh glass. He was proud of himself. He only spilled a tiny bit.

‘What can I do, short of throwing Caitlin out into the snow? And I could never do that.’ His scowl deepened. ‘She says he wants to marry her. He’s getting a divorce from his wife.’

‘That’s good, at least.’

‘Good? My daughter’s breaking up a marriage, Dominic, and she’s about to tie herself for life to the lying, cheating, unfaithful sod who made it happen. There’s nothing good about it. Any of it.’

‘Well, mate,’ Dom said, and gestured expansively, slopping whisky down the front of his shirt as he did, ‘it couldn’t have been much of a marriage, then, could it? I mean, it might seem like the end of the world right now. But look on the bright side ‒ by this time next year? You’ll be a grandfather!’

Archie glared at him and drained his whisky. ‘You’re nae making me feel any better, Dominic. Kindly shut up and pour us another dram.’

As a quiet knock sounded on her bedroom door that evening, Gemma blew her nose and snapped, ‘Go away, Dom. I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

‘It’s Pen. Might I come in for a moment?’

‘Of course.’ Surprised, Gemma tossed aside her bridal magazine and got up to let Mrs Campbell in. ‘Sorry,’ she apologised as she opened the door, ‘I look a mess. I’ve been crying.’

‘That’s to be expected, isn’t it, after finding out you have no wedding gown,’ the older woman sympathised. She indicated the dress bag draped over her arm. ‘I thought this might solve the problem.’

Gemma’s eyes widened. ‘What…what is it?’

‘My wedding dress. It’s an Ossie Clark, made for me when I was still a model.’ She smiled. ‘And much thinner.’

‘An Ossie Clark?’ Gemma blinked. ‘But he designed clothes for Mick and Bianca Jagger, and for all manner of celebrities in the sixties and seventies! That dress must be worth a fortune.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ Pen said briskly as she unzipped the bag, ‘but I’d never part with it, even so. I wore it when I married Archie. Of course,’ she added, ‘I’m a bit taller than you. But a pair of heels should take care of that.’

As she withdrew the dress, a length of cream chiffon with a satin halter-neck bodice, Gemma gasped. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said reverently as she fingered the length of chiffon. ‘I’ve never seen such a gorgeous dress.’

‘Let’s try it on, shall we?’

With a nod, Gemma took off her pyjamas and woolly socks and slid the dress over her head. It fell in a soft, floaty column to the floor. She stared at herself in the cheval mirror, mesmerized. ‘Oh…I love it.’

‘It’s a bit long, but as I said, a nice set of heels should solve it.’ Pen regarded her with satisfaction. ‘It suits you. You look radiant.’

‘Thank you. But…why?’ she asked, turning to the woman in bewilderment. ‘This was your wedding dress. I can’t possibly wear it. You’ve been so kind to us – all of us – letting us stay here for weeks on end, feeding us, putting up with Dominic. I’m not even family! I can’t allow you do this.’

‘Of course you can,’ Pen said firmly. ‘You can’t get married without a wedding gown, after all.’ She smiled, and picked up the empty dress bag and turned to go.

Tears filled Gemma’s eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she cried, and flung her arms impulsively around Archie’s wife. ‘I can’t ever repay you for all that you’ve done.’

Pen arched her brow. ‘Oh, but you most certainly can.’

‘Anything,’ Gemma agreed, her expression fervent. ‘Just name it.’

‘Marry your young man,’ Pen said, and reached up to catch Gemma’s hand in hers. ‘And be happy. That’s what you can do for me.’

And with another smile, she left.

Chapter 37

Caitlin came downstairs the next morning to find the front door open as Wren, Helen and Colm carried in pots of poinsettia plants and set them down in the entrance hall.

‘That’s the last of the lot,’ Colm announced, and deposited two more plants by the door. ‘I’ll go out to the woods this morning and fetch some greens.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ Helen offered.

‘Mind you bring back plenty,’ Penelope called out as she came down the stairs. ‘We’ll need to drape them along the mantels and the balustrade, and we’ll need extra to make wreaths. And bring plenty of holly.’

Colm nodded. ‘We’ll load up the back of the truck with as much greenery as we can.’

‘Ooh, I love the smell of pine,’ Helen enthused. ‘It’s so Christmassy.’

‘Wait until we’ve finished decorating,’ Pen informed her. ‘The entire place will reek of pine and evergreens and the scent of Mrs Neeson’s Dundee cake and shortbread baking in the ovens.’

‘I can’t wait. My mouth is watering already.’

Pen moved one of the potted plants away from the doorframe, then straightened and brushed her hands together. ‘It was lovely to see you and Mr Bennett in the pub last night, Helen.’

Colm, one hand resting on the doorknob as he made to leave, paused. ‘In the pub, was she?’ Although he addressed the question to Mrs Campbell, he fixed Helen with a level gaze. ‘Fancy that.’

‘Yes, she was having a chat with one of her co-workers from London,’ Pen said, and smiled. ‘He seemed a lovely man, Helen. A pity he couldn’t stay.’

‘He had to get back,’ Helen said, flustered, ‘back to London. And I had...errands to run.’ Her eyes slanted guiltily to Colm’s, but their dark-hazel depths gave nothing away.

‘What on earth is all that?’ Caitlin asked as she eyed the plants crowding the floor.

‘Poinsettias,’ Wren replied. ‘It’s Christmas in less than a week, and these just arrived from the greenhouse in Aberdeen. We’ve to decorate the castle, not only for the holidays, but for the wedding, too. Why don’t you run along and get some breakfast? Then you can come back and help us fashion wreaths for the front door.’

‘Don’t we have servants for that?’

‘We do,’ Wren said, exasperated, ‘but I prefer to do a bit of decorating myself. We’d love it if you’d help.’

Caitlin opened her mouth to refuse, as draping swags of evergreen and wiring wreaths and ribbons was the last thing she felt like doing, but refrained. She really needed to make an effort to be nicer to Wren. Besides which, she reminded herself guiltily, she had to tell her sister-in-law the unwelcome news that she and Niall had decided to keep their baby.

And she had to tell her today.

‘Oh, very well,’ Caitlin grumbled, and made her way towards the baize door, and the kitchen. ‘I’ll help you. Just let me have my tea and toast first, while I can still keep it down.’

‘Are you coming, Miss Thomas?’ Colm asked from the doorway. ‘I’ve no time to dilly-dally.’

Helen hesitated. She knew he’d question her about her meeting with Tom the minute they got in the truck, and he’d want to know why she hadn’t mentioned it to him.

And she really didn’t have any answers to give him.

‘I won’t, thank you.’ Her gaze slanted away from his. ‘I think I’ll stay here and help decorate.’

‘Suit yourself.’

With a curt nod, he thrust his flat cap back on his head, and left.

Gemma took delivery of the big white box and carried it upstairs. Thank God it was here! With the wedding only days away, she’d worried it wouldn’t arrive in time.

She set the box down on the bed and lifted the lid.

There it was, she reflected with satisfaction, Dominic’s morning suit...the suit he’d wear in just a few more days, when they got married.

She picked up the jacket by the shoulders and lifted it out, admiring the dark-grey cashmere wool with white pinstripes and the excellent tailoring. Dom would look divine – dashing, and every inch the future Lord Locksley. A pity she hadn’t convinced him to wear a kilt.

Oh, well, this would do. All it needed was...a top hat.

A frown marred her perfect brows as her search came up empty. Where was it? It was imperative that Dominic wear a proper top hat. Grooms at all the smart weddings wore one. Yet there was no hat box in sight.

Swearing under her breath, Gemma stalked out of the room in search of Dominic. What if he hadn’t gone to the hatter’s to get fitted, as she’d asked him to do weeks ago? What if he had no hat to wear at their nuptials?

Her eyes narrowed. First, she’d find him.

Then she’d kill him.

There was no place Dominic could hide that she wouldn’t search, Gemma vowed as she marched down the hallway to the stairs. And when she did find him, she’d tell him in no uncertain terms to get his arse to the nearest hat maker’s to be fitted for a top hat, pronto.

The trouble was, she reflected as she descended the staircase, she’d no idea where to find him. The sneaky little sod had made himself scarce of late, no doubt avoiding the wedding preparations.

Gemma decided to begin a room-by-room search, starting with the drawing room. She’d find her wayward fiancé if she had to look in every room in the castle – all one hundred and bloody fifty of them.

Although she checked in the kitchen, dining room, drawing room, and library, she had no luck. She pushed her way thought the baize door and paused in the middle of the entrance hall. There was no sign of Dom anywhere.

She stalked up the stairs, determined to visit each and every bedroom, study, morning room, and tower in Draemar Castle if need be, until she ran the little bastard to ground.

‘Gemma?’

She looked up, still scowling, to see Tarquin coming down the stairs towards her. ‘Oh. Hello, Tark.’

‘Is everything all right? You look a bit upset.’

‘It’s Dominic,’ she said bitterly, ‘same as it always is. I need to find him, but he’s disappeared.’

‘Are you sure he hasn’t left the castle? Gone into the village, perhaps?’

‘No, I’m certain he’s here. He hasn’t a car, after all, so he can’t have gone anywhere.’

‘He might have called a taxi,’ Tarquin pointed out reasonably. ‘Was there somewhere in particular he needed to go?’

‘Not that I know of. His morning suit’s just arrived and I need him to try it on, and there’s no top hat with it, but there should have been, and now I c-can’t even find D-Dominic to ask him about it!’ she wailed, and burst into tears. ‘What if he’s scarpered? I’ll be one of those s-saddo brides left standing at the altar! I’ll be an object of p-pity and s-scorn, just like Miss H-havisham!’

‘Oh, surely not,’ he reassured her, and patted her – somewhat awkwardly – on her arm. ‘I’ve no doubt Dominic will turn up. Would you like me to help you look? I know this castle like the back of my hand, after all.’

Through sniffles and sobs, Gemma nodded. ‘It’ll take me a week to find him by myself. Thanks, Tark.’

‘Always happy to help a lady in distress,’ he murmured, and held out his arm. ‘Shall we begin?’

Together, she and Tarquin ascended the stairs, and began their search for the elusive Dominic Heath.

Chapter 38

Helen took her cup of coffee after breakfast and went to the library to have a quiet moment and a think.

She sat on the window seat and stared outside at the sun glinting off the snow, and found herself once again wondering how Colm had gotten that faint white scar on his thigh. He said it happened on one of the freighters he’d crewed on. Twenty-seven stitches... She shuddered. That was one hell of an accident.

Despite herself, she still had a few lingering questions about Colm...questions he’d thus far avoided answering. Why?

What was he hiding? Was he hiding something?

She didn’t want to dig into his past, truly she didn’t; it felt like the worst kind of betrayal. But she needed to know more about the man she was falling in love with before things between them went any further. A bit of due diligence was called for before her relationship with Colm went any further, if only to protect herself.

Clutching her coffee cup, Helen returned to her room and switched on her laptop.

She logged on and typed ‘Colm MacKenzie’ into the search engine. Nothing came up, save for links to a few other, different Colms – a writer, a doctor, a plumber.

Why was there no mention of her Colm?

She frowned. Was Colm MacKenzie even his real name? Had he changed it for some reason? She stared at the screen as she recalled what he’d said to her on Sunday night, the night they’d spent together.

The McRoberts were good, decent people...they gave me a roof and fed me.

On impulse, she typed in ‘Colm McRoberts.’

Immediately the screen displayed several results. Her eyes widened as she scanned the links. ‘Accident on the A96, Serious Injuries,’ she read out loud. ‘Pregnant Woman Airlifted to Hospital Following Deadly Wreck.’ ‘McRoberts to be Charged in Accident Fatality?’

Late yesterday afternoon Colm McRoberts, 24, lost control of his car and plunged several feet down a steep embankment. Also in the car was his pregnant wife, Alanna.

While being airlifted from the wreck, Mrs McRoberts went into premature labour. The baby did not survive. Alanna McRoberts died shortly afterwards of internal haemorrhaging sustained by the crash.

Although Colm McRoberts suffered serious injuries, he is expected to live. The cause of the accident is still under investigation.

There was a knock on the door, and Helen looked up, startled out of her troubled thoughts.

‘Miss Thomas?’ Mrs Neeson inquired from the hallway outside. ‘Are you there? You’ve a phone call downstairs.’

Helen got up and opened the door. ‘Thank you. Why wouldn’t I be here?’ she added, curious.

‘Well,’ Mrs Neeson said with a lift of her brow, ‘I’m not one to tell tales, so you’ve no need to worry, Miss Thomas. Your secret’s safe with me.’

‘My secret?’ she echoed as her heart accelerated. ‘What secret?’

The housekeeper’s smile widened. ‘Let’s just say I noticed there was one less person at the breakfast table yesterday morning. And,’ she added with a smile, ‘I saw you sneak in the front door later on.’

‘Oh.’ Helen blushed and found she didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t think of a single reasonable excuse to explain away her absence.

‘I’m that happy for you,’ Mrs Neeson went on, ‘and for Mr MacKenzie. He’s a good man, for all that he’s as prickly as a thorn bush—’

‘You said that I have a phone call?’ Helen interjected, beyond anxious to change the subject. ‘I don’t suppose you know who it is?’

‘I do. It’s the mechanic’s shop, about your car.’

‘My car!’ Helen’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, shit – I was supposed to pick it up yesterday, and I completely forgot.’

‘Well,’ the housekeeper said as she preceded Helen out the door, ‘if you need a ride to the shop, let me know. One of the girls can take you into the village.’

‘I will. And thanks.’ Helen grabbed up her handbag and coat and followed Mrs Neeson down to the kitchen.

‘Can you help us, Mr MacKenzie?’

Colm, who’d just come inside the castle in search of Archie, looked up to see Tarquin and Gemma Astley coming down the stairs.

‘Of course I will, if I can,’ he replied. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Gemma’s fiancé’s gone missing,’ Tarquin told him. ‘We’ve looked everywhere, but it’s nearly lunch time, and we still haven’t found him. Miss Astley is understandably upset.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Colm said, although personally, he shared Rhys Gordon’s opinion that Dominic Heath was a bolshie, over-pampered rock star. ‘Are you sure he didn’t leave the premises?’

‘Positive,’ Gemma said firmly. ‘Unless...’ Her face crumpled. ‘Unless he’s done a runner before the wedding!’

Tarquin patted her ineffectually on the shoulder and met Colm’s eyes. ‘There’s nothing else to do but continue searching downstairs.’

‘Downstairs?’ Colm’s expression plainly showed that he thought Tarquin had taken leave of his senses. ‘But there’s nothing down there but the dungeons.’

‘We’ve exhausted every other possibility. Could you have another look upstairs, please? You might check the guest wing again.’

Colm nodded doubtfully. ‘Aye. I’ll go and have a look now.’

Chapter 39

As he began searching the guest bedrooms, knocking on each door before he entered to have a look around, Colm found no sign of Dominic. He arrived at the last room on the left and lifted his hand to knock. The door was open.

‘Hello?’

He thrust his head cautiously around the doorjamb and glanced inside. ‘Hello...is anyone here?’

There was no answer.

Judging from the silk nightgown thrown across a chair, and the clutter of cosmetics and perfume bottles on the dresser, this was a woman’s room. He had a cursory glance round, then turned to go.

He had his own bloody work to be doing, after all.

Colm turned, impatient to be gone, and bumped into an antique desk by the window. He muttered a curse as a pencil rolled off onto the floor.

As he knelt to retrieve it, he noticed a laptop open in the middle of the desk. It was Helen’s laptop.

When he’d bumped into the desk, the movement must have jarred the screen to life.

Colm laid the pencil down, and as he did he saw a search engine on the laptop screen. He smiled. That was his Helen, always working, probably researching a new story for that editor chap, Tom...

Then he saw the links, and his smile froze.

‘Accident on the A96, Serious Injuries.’ ‘Pregnant Woman Airlifted to Hospital Following Deadly Wreck.’ ‘McRoberts to be Charged in Accident Fatality?’

A black rage gripped him as he realized she’d been up here, investigating him, delving into his background as if he were a bloody job applicant, or worse still – as if he were some kind of a common criminal.

Evidently not content with his own version of the past, she’d gone looking online to search on his adoptive name, McRoberts, to find...what? Something a bit more titillating than what he’d told her? Something more damning?

Something more...newsworthy?

He slammed his fist down hard on the desk, sending papers fluttering into the air, and the pencil skittered and rolled once again to the floor.

But this time, he didn’t bother to pick it up.

And he didn’t bother to shut the door when he strode out of the room.

A weak shaft of sunlight slanted in through the tiny slit of a window.

Dominic, shivering from a night spent passed out on the floor in whisky-fuelled oblivion, sat up and groggily surveyed his surroundings. He was sitting on dirt. The wall against his back was rough stone, darkened here and there with moss.

Where the fuck was he?

The last thing he remembered – after downing a bottle of Draemar whisky with Archie – was stumbling down the back stairs in search of car keys – any car keys – so he could get away from the castle, away from Scotland, and most importantly, away from Gemma and her incessant demands.

Try this jacket on, Dom. What do you think of this dress for the honeymoon, Dom? Will you wear a boutonnière, Dom? Shall we go with Royal Doulton or Wedgwood china, Dom?

As if it made any fucking difference what he liked! Dom thought darkly. Gemma always did whatever the bloody hell she wanted anyway, regardless of his opinion.

He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and staggered to the door. Gripping the ancient-looking metal handle, he yanked on it with all his might, but the heavy oaken door didn’t budge.

It was locked. What the!?

There were bars inset in a small window at the top of the door, like the kind you saw in that Man in the Iron Mask film. But wait a minute – the man in the iron mask spent most of that film in a bloody prison.

What in hell was he doing in prison?

Panic overtook him as the whisky fumes fogging his brain began to lift. This was no prison. This, he remembered from the tour Tarquin had given them when they’d arrived at Draemar, was the dungeon.

He was locked in a dungeon in the bowels of the castle. And no one – no one! ‒ knew he was down here.

‘Help!’ Dominic bellowed, as real panic set in. ‘Let me out of here!’ He cast his eyes wildly over the dirt floor, hoping to find a key, or a crowbar, or maybe one of those tin cups that prisoners dragged across the bars in prison films.

But there was nothing. No key, no crowbar. Not even a tin cup. Just...dirt.

Right, then, he told himself as he began to hyperventilate. This was it. He’d always wondered how he’d die...and now he knew. No massive cocaine overdose for him, no heart attack whilst romping in bed with a couple of curvaceous groupies.

No, instead he’d die of starvation, wasting away little by little, until one day they found his bones in a pathetic heap on the floor of this bloody Scottish dungeon.

‘Lemme out!’ Dominic howled as he pounded his fists against the door. ‘Somebody get me the fuck out of here!’

Halfway down the stairs, Gemma came to a halt. ‘I can’t go down there,’ she said, and shuddered as she brushed another cobweb away from her face. ‘This is disgusting.’

Tarquin, a few steps ahead of her, turned and looked up at her with a raised brow. ‘You want to find Dominic, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course I do,’ she gritted, ‘but only so I can kick him in the balls and give him his bloody ring back!’

‘Stay here, then. I’ll go ahead and have a look round.’

‘No, wait!’ Gemma’s eyes widened as he started back down the steps without her. ‘Don’t you dare to leave me here!’ She eyed the moss-covered stone wall that pressed in closely on either side, and with another shudder, she hurried after Tarquin.

The floor, if you could call it that, consisted of packed dirt. Gemma wrinkled her nose as she glanced around. It was dim down here, and dank, and it smelled like earth, and moss, and damp.

Oh well, she reasoned uneasily, dungeons aren’t meant to be comfortable or sweet-smelling, are they?

‘Do you really think Dom’s down here?’ she asked Tarquin.

‘I doubt it. But we’d best have a look, just to be sure.’

‘Right,’ she agreed reluctantly, and followed close behind him.

They were halfway along the corridor, its length liberally festooned with cobwebs and inset on either side with thick oak doors, when Gemma came to an abrupt stop.

‘Did you hear it?’ she asked as she clutched his arm, her words breathless.

‘Hear what?’

‘That!’ she hissed. ‘Listen!’

Tarquin tamped down his rising irritation – really, Gemma Astley was more dramatic (and more annoying) than a six-year-old schoolgirl – when he heard it, too. It was a low sort of moan...

...followed by the unmistakable sound of someone bellowing, ‘Get me the fuck out of here!’

Chapter 40

‘Dominic!’ Gemma cried. ‘Where are you?’

They stopped outside the last door along the corridor.

‘Gems?’ he croaked. ‘Gemma, is that you?’

They heard a scrabbling sound, then Dominic – looking a bit wild-eyed – pressed his face against the barred window at the top of the door.

‘How did you end up down here, locked in the dungeon?’ Tarquin asked him in bewilderment.

‘How the hell should I know?’ Dom snapped. ‘The last thing I remember is looking for a set of car keys.’

‘Car keys? Why would you come down to the dungeons to find a set of car keys?’ Gemma demanded. ‘You were drunk, weren’t you?’

He started to protest, then realized there was nothing to be gained by denying it. ‘Yeah, I was. I was drunk. So what? When I’m pissed, at least I can stop thinking about boutonnières and bridal gowns and bouquets for a bit. You’re doing my head in with all this wedding shit.’

She stared at him. ‘Are you saying...are you saying you don’t want to marry me?’

He gripped the bars more tightly. ‘I’m saying I’m having second thoughts about this whole wedding thing. You’ve turned into a bridal-obsessed cow, Gemma! I don’t care whether the guests throw rice or confetti or...or spears, I don’t care if the cake is made of vanilla or marzipan or fucking mud! I just want to marry you, babes, that’s all. I want this wedding to be about us, just us, not about table arrangements or personalized party favours or...or a trending hashtag on bloody Tweeper!’

‘So you don’t want a Scottish wedding with all the trimmings?’ she asked, incredulous. ‘No kilts? No tartans? No horse-drawn sleigh, no white roses or Prada gown or hand-made dried heather wreaths on the end of every pew?’

‘Of course we can have all of that stuff, if that’s what you really want, babes.’ Dominic lowered his voice as Tarquin solicitously stepped away and pretended to study the moss at the end of the hall. ‘You know me – I don’t care if your wedding gown is Prada or Primark. But in the end, none of it really matters, does it? What matters is you and me, exchanging our vows, and,’ he swallowed ‘and spending the rest of our lives together.’

Gemma’s eyes were awash with tears. ‘That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me, Dom. Have I really been such a beast?’

‘You have,’ Tarquin called out.

‘Sorry, babes,’ Dominic agreed, ‘but Tark’s right. You’ve been a fucking nightmare lately.’

She sniffled and stepped closer. ‘I’m sorry, Dom. I never meant to be such a cow, honestly. I just wanted every detail to be perfect for our wedding. For...us.’

He reached through and clasped her hand with his. ‘As long as I hear the vicar say the words, “I now pronounce you man and wife”, that’s all I need to make it perfect, babes. Honestly.’

Gemma squeezed his hand. ‘I love you, Dominic. And you’re right – in the end, that’s all that matters. Now,’ she added briskly, ‘let’s get you out of here. Tarquin!’ she called out. ‘You can stop eavesdropping now and let Dominic out.’

‘Well, I’d be more than happy to do that,’ Tarquin told her as he rejoined them, ‘if I could.’ He indicated the ancient lock. ‘There isn’t a key in the lock. And I’ve no idea where it might be.’

‘But...someone has to have the key!’ Gemma cried. ‘After all, that same someone locked Dom in and took the key. We just have to find it.’

‘But who would do such a thing?’ Tarquin asked, mystified. ‘Surely no one here at Draemar would deliberately lock Dominic in the dungeon and throw away the key.’

‘Somebody did!’ Gemma snapped. ‘It was probably that grumpy ginger-haired groundskeeper, Colm.’

‘No. It wasn’t Colm.’ Dominic shook his head as he began to recall the events of the night before. ‘I shared a bottle of whisky with Archie last night, in his study. I remember wanting to leave the castle, wanting to get as far away as I could, and so I went off in search of car keys. Archie followed me, said he knew of a spare set of keys down in the dungeon and that we’d go and get them.’

‘In the dungeon?’ Gemma echoed sceptically. ‘And you believed that?’

‘At the time,’ Dominic informed her, ‘it made perfect sense. You have to remember, we were both bladdered.’ He scowled. ‘Anyway, we went downstairs, and we staggered all the way down the corridor to the end, until we came to the last door.’

‘This is for your own safety, laddie,’ Archie had mumbled as he turned and left Dominic inside, then swung the door shut.

‘Archie locked me in and took the key,’ Dom said slowly. ‘I remember now.’ As Gemma and Tarquin began to protest, convinced that Archie Campbell would never do such a monstrous thing, he added impatiently, ‘Don’t you see? He did it to keep me from grabbing a set of random car keys and driving off with a half a fifth of whisky in me.’

‘Then all we need to do is find Archie and get that key back,’ Gemma said.

Tarquin sighed. ‘There’s just one problem.’

Dominic eyed him suspiciously. ‘What do you mean, a problem?’ he demanded. ‘What problem? Just go upstairs and get Archie.’

‘That’s just it,’ Tark said. ‘He’s not here. He’s gone to London on a matter of urgent business and he isn’t expected to return until late tonight.’

‘Oh, that’s just fucking wonderful, that is,’ Dominic groaned. ‘So I’m locked in here until God knows when! I need a nice, greasy fry-up. I need a big glass of OJ and vodka. I need some bloody aspirin!’

‘We’ll just have to find the key, then,’ Gemma said firmly. ‘It’s bound to be in Archie’s room somewhere.’

But although she and Tarquin abandoned Dominic to look in Archie’s study and bedroom, then the library and the drawing room and even the kitchen, the key was nowhere to be found.

‘What’ll we do?’ Gemma wailed as she turned to Tarquin. ‘Poor Dominic! There’s no way to slide a food tray under the dungeon door; there’s not even space enough between the bars in that bloody window to hand him a bottle of beer!’

‘Alcohol’s what got him into this mess in the first place,’ Tarquin pointed out sharply. He sighed. ‘I’ll just have to go into the village and get a locksmith to come out and have a look. There’s a chap who specializes in antique locks.’

‘Well, go on and get him, then, and hurry!’ Gemma urged him. ‘There’s no time to lose. The wedding’s just two days away. And without Dominic, there won’t be a wedding!’

As he turned to go back downstairs, Tarquin suddenly remembered something.

‘I think I might know where the key is.’

‘You do?’ Gemma clutched his arm. ‘Where is it? Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I only just remembered. There’s an old key ring with dozens of antique keys hanging on a hook in the buttery. It’s been there ever since anyone can remember.’

‘Do you think the key to the dungeon is there?’

‘I don’t know,’ Tark said, and made his way downstairs with Gemma close behind him. ‘But it’s worth a look.’

Chapter 41

As she came downstairs later that morning, Caitlin Campbell paused on the last step. Draemar Castle was looking very festive.

The mantels, mirrors, banisters and doorways of the drawing room, library, entrance hall, and dining room were draped with fresh greenery and filled the castle with the scent of pine and spruce. A fire blazed a welcome in the drawing room fireplace.

A twelve-foot tree stood in the corner, glittering with icicles and woven with strands of white fairy lights. Christmas music played at a low volume on the old Roberts radio, and a tray with shortbread and mugs of hot cocoa sat on the coffee table.

‘There’s sherry, too, if you’ve a mind,’ Mrs Neeson announced as she brushed past Caitlin with a cut-glass decanter of Amontillado in hand and set it down next to the shortbread and cocoa. ‘Now I’d best get back to the kitchen, seein’ as I have waitstaff to supervise, and a wedding dinner to put on the table tomorrow, as well as the family’s Christmas supper afterwards.’

‘Everything looks lovely, very Christmassy,’ Caitlin approved as she entered the drawing room and surveyed her surroundings. ‘What can I do to help?’

Pen handed her several boxes of fragile German Christmas ornaments. ‘You can start by hanging these on the tree, if you like. Do you remember them? They were always your favourites.’

Caitlin took the boxes and set them carefully down. ‘Of course I do.’ They’d had these ornaments for as long as she could remember – a pink-cheeked skier, a snowflake, an angel, a Swiss chalet with tiny wreaths on the windows – each of them made of blown glass and meticulously hand-painted.

She remembered when one of the ornaments, a Scottie dog with a plaid scarf wound around his neck, had slipped through her fingers and shattered on the flagstones in the entrance hall. Six-year-old Caitlin had been inconsolable.

Now, as she took the decorations from the boxes and began to hang them from the branches, her throat thickened.

Would she trim a tree like this with Niall’s son or daughter one day? Would the two of them find a way to build a life together, or would her father – and Niall’s son Jeremy – make a future between them impossible?

At least none of the houseguests knew she was pregnant, thank God. Only Gemma.

But as she glanced down at the slight swell of her stomach, Caitlin bit her lip. It would only be a matter of time before everyone else noticed.

‘How are you feeling?’ Wren enquired in a low voice as she came to stand beside her.

‘Fine,’ Caitlin said shortly.

‘I’m glad. If there’s anything I can do...’

‘There isn’t.’ She hung one of the Swiss chalet ornaments and turned away from Wren’s hurt expression. She knew she was being beastly, but she couldn’t seem to help it. Knowing that she wouldn’t be giving her baby up for adoption to Wren and Tarquin after all made her feel horribly guilty.

Caitlin took a deep breath and set the empty box aside as she turned back to Wren. There was no time like the present...

‘We need to talk, Wren. It’s important.’

‘Of course,’ her sister-in-law agreed, her face at once eager and hopeful. ‘What is it? Is it about—’

‘Not here,’ Caitlin cut in. ‘Somewhere private.’

‘All right. I don’t think anyone’s in the library…’

The sound of raised voices outside the drawing room windows could be heard above the low crooning of Bing Crosby singing ‘White Christmas’ on the radio.

Pen laid aside a strand of lights and frowned. ‘It sounds like an argument. What in the world?’

She hurried over to join Wren and Caitlin in front of one of the tall drawing room windows.

Caitlin peered outside. ‘It’s Colm and Helen,’ she said in a low but avid voice, and pushed the drapes back to get a better view. ‘They’re having a regular donnybrook out there, right in the middle of the drive!’

‘I cannae believe you’d do this to me!’

As Helen extricated herself from the rental car, distracted by thoughts of how much she owed the mechanic’s shop and wondering how on earth she’d ever pay it back, she froze as Colm MacKenzie strode up to her.

‘Do...what, exactly?’ she asked, mystified as much by his words as by his obvious and incendiary anger. ‘What is it I’m supposed to have done?’

‘As if ye didn’t know,’ he spat, his jaw tight. ‘And it’s not what you’re “supposed to have done” – it’s what you did. I went in your room this morning,’ he forged on, ‘looking for that twit of a rock star, Dominic Heath.’

Helen bristled. ‘Why on earth would Dominic be in my room?’

‘I didn’t know whose bloody room it was,’ Colm flung back. ‘But he’s gone missing, and I was searching the rooms upstairs, when I came to yours.’

‘So you just – what? Went into my room and had a wander round?’ Helen demanded. ‘How dare you?’

‘How dare I?’ He got in her face and stared at her, his fists clenched at his sides and his hazel eyes dark with fury. ‘You’re the one who’s been looking into my past, searching for dirt about me on your computer. Or will you deny it?’

She stared back at him, and any words she’d had – to protest, to explain, to excuse her actions – dried up in her throat.

There really was no excuse for what she’d done.

‘So you know about the accident,’ he went on, his chest rising and falling with the tempo of his fury, ‘the accident I caused, and you know I’m to blame for my wife and baby’s death. You know that not a day has passed that I don’t wish it’d been me who died, not them. Instead I have to live with my guilt for the rest of my life.’

‘Colm—’

‘Are you pleased with yourself, Miss Thomas? Will you write a nice, lurid story about me to give to your editor back in London? Or did you give it to him when you met him at the pub on Friday night?’

‘No, of course I didn’t!’

‘Why didn’t you mention it, then? You didn’t go into Northton Grange for groceries – you were here the entire time, giving Tom all the dirt you dug up on me.’

‘My meeting with Tom had nothing to do with you.’ She looked at him beseechingly. ‘I only looked your name up because I wanted to understand.’ She felt her throat tighten and tried to clear it. ‘You wouldn’t tell me anything, Colm, and I had so many questions—’

‘Then why not ask me? Why go behind my back?’

She opened her mouth to argue, to say that she’d only done it to protect herself, to protect her heart from being broken, that she was sorry she’d unearthed the sad tragedy of his wife and child’s death...

...but Colm, his face etched in contempt, had already turned on his heel, and left.

Chapter 42

‘Well,’ Pen observed as she turned away from the window, ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Colm MacKenzie so angry.’

Caitlin, standing next to her, raised her brow as the groundskeeper stormed off down the drive. ‘I wonder what Helen did? Whatever it was, it must’ve been pretty bad.’

‘I think,’ Wren ventured, ‘that the two of them are seeing each other.’

‘Colm and Helen?’ Lady Campbell enquired as she breezed into the drawing room and joined them at the window. ‘Oh, unquestionably! I don’t normally like to gossip,’ she went on, ‘but I was looking out my window the other morning when I saw Miss Thomas doing the walk of shame up the drive from the gatehouse.’

‘Really? And how do you know that’s what it was?’ Caitlin scoffed. ‘She often goes out walking.’

‘She had on the same clothes she wore the day before – jeans, and that hideous Christmas jumper.’ She sniffed. ‘I know, because she didn’t do up her coat. It was flapping behind her like a great quilted bird.’

‘Helen’s not the sort of woman who’s bothered about her clothes,’ Pen pointed out, and moved towards the door. ‘I admire her for that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some correspondence to catch up with. I’m woefully behind.’

‘Does anyone still write letters?’ Caitlin wondered, mystified.

‘I do,’ her mother replied. ‘It’s a lovely habit, and one you should cultivate.’

‘In my day, every young woman had monogrammed stationery,’ Lady Campbell agreed. ‘Now it’s all texts and status updates and God knows what... If you’ll wait, Pen, I’ll come with you. I’d like your input on the dinner menu for Hogmanay this year...’

As the two women left, discussing the relative merits of fish versus fowl, Caitlin moved to follow them. She didn’t want to talk to Wren about the baby, not just yet. She needed time to think first, to find the right words.

But what were the ‘right words’ to tell someone – namely, Wren ‒ that she’d changed her mind and was keeping the baby?

‘Caitlin, wait.’ Wren turned from the window and followed her. ‘You said you wanted to talk to me...about the baby.’

‘I do,’ she hedged, ‘but I’m a bit busy just now. I promised Tark I’d make ginger cookies while I’m here. He loves my ginger cookies. It’s nearly Christmas, after all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d best get started—’

‘Please.’

A world of pleading and hope was contained in the word.

Caitlin sighed and turned around. ‘All right. Let me just close the doors so we can have a bit of privacy.’

‘Have you decided whether to have natural childbirth or not?’ Wren enquired as Caitlin moved to shut the doors. ‘It’s better for the baby, you know. Much less traumatic. You could give birth in one of those water pools…’

‘I’m having a baby,’ Caitlin said irritably, ‘not... baking a custard in a bain-marie.’

‘It’s a very lovely, very gentle way to give birth.’

‘Honestly, I haven’t given it much thought. But I’m sure I’ll want every pain medication on offer. The truth is,’ Caitlin admitted as she went to one of the sofas and sank down, ‘I’m terrified.’

‘Tark and I will go with you, if you like. We’ll be your...your birthing partners. Isn’t that what they call it nowadays? And I can help you pack whatever you’ll need in hospital.’

As she looked over into her sister-in-law’s excited, enthusiastic face, something of her own mixed feelings and misgivings must have shown. Wren’s smile faltered.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Caitlin stared down at her hands, twisting the onyx ring on her finger round and round. ‘I just have a lot to think about at the moment.’

‘You’ve changed your mind, haven’t you?’

Caitlin looked at Wren, and the words she’d started to say ‒ no, of course I haven’t – remained unsaid. What was the point in lying? She had changed her mind, because of Niall, because he wanted her and he wanted this child she was carrying.

‘You’re keeping the baby,’ Wren said evenly.

‘I – yes, I am. I’m sorry,’ she added in a rush, ‘but Niall asked me to marry him, which caught me completely by surprise, and he wants this baby—’

‘What about me?’ Wren’s words were low but fierce. ‘What about what I want? You said you wouldn’t keep the child, that you were giving it up for adoption. To us. To Tarquin and me.’

‘I know I did,’ Caitlin said. ‘But things have changed. I’m sorry, Wren, truly—’

‘Sorry?’ she echoed, and let out a sharp, bitter laugh. ‘No, you’re not sorry. You’re enjoying every minute of this, aren’t you?’

Caitlin stared at her, stunned. ‘What? How can you say that?’

‘You don’t like me, Caitlin. You never have. That’s plain enough, and has been from the day I married Tarquin and moved in here. You resent me – for living in the castle, for having a place in Tark’s life, for taking attention away from you. Because everything’s always all about you, isn’t it? Caitlin Campbell, the golden girl.’

‘That isn’t true!’ she retorted, incensed.

‘It is true! Despite the fact that you’re a spoilt, over-indulged girl who’s never wanted for anything, you’ve always been jealous of me. All the little digs, the barbed comments...did you think I didn’t notice?’

‘You swanned in here and acted as though Draemar was yours, right from the very first day. You redecorated the drawing room – there was nothing wrong with it – and you let your stupid dogs have the run of the place. You made me feel unwelcome every time I came home from university, like I didn’t belong any more. “Why did you bring your dog home, Caitlin?’”’ she mimicked. ‘“You’re upsetting the household! You know we have dogs at Draemar.”’

‘Well,’ Wren said, her voice unsteady as she stood up, ‘you got your revenge for my supposed sins, didn’t you? You offered me something you knew I wanted – a baby of my own – and then you snatched it back away again. That was the plan all along, wasn’t it?’

‘Do you honestly think I planned this?’ Caitlin said incredulously. ‘I told you, I changed my mind because Niall wants to marry me! It is his baby, after all.’

‘Ah, yes – Niall. He’s nearly twice your age, he’s cheated on his wife with you, and he’s broken up his family for you. He’s quite a catch, isn’t he?’ She strode to the door. ‘There’s one consolation in all of this, though.’

‘Oh? And what’s that?’ Caitlin snapped.

Wren’s smile was tight. ‘It’s only a matter of time before he cheats on you, Caitlin. Because those sorts of men always do.’

So saying, she flung open the doors and left.

Chapter 43

Late that afternoon, Helen got in her car and drove the short distance to the gatehouse. She was determined to talk to Colm, to make him understand why she’d done what she did and to admit that she was wrong to do it.

She marched up the steps and rapped on the door.

Of course, there was no answer.

You stubborn bloody Scot, she thought grimly. Next, she tried the door, but it was locked. She couldn’t call him, either, as he didn’t have a telephone.

‘What need do I have for a phone?’ he’d told her once, full of scorn. ‘Anyone at the castle who needs me knows where to find me.’

‘But...what about anyone else who might need to speak to you?’

‘There isn’t anyone else,’ he retorted, and changed the subject.

Well, Helen told herself, he couldn’t stay locked inside that damned gatehouse forever.

‘I know you’re in there, Colm MacKenzie!’ she shouted at the door, her gloved hands clenched at her sides. ‘You’ll have to talk to me, sooner or later.’

Silence.

Furious, she turned away and strode back to her car. She stalked down the walkway, lost in black thoughts – stupid, stubborn man; why couldn’t he mind his own bloody business, snooping on her laptop like that – when she slipped on a patch of ice, and fell.

With a cry of mingled pain and rage at her own stupidity, she tried to stand. Pain radiated through her ankle and half the way up her calf. Tears threatened; she blinked them away and gritted her teeth as she tried once again to get to her feet.

But with nothing to pull herself up on, no wall or hedge for leverage, she couldn’t get back up.

Helen let out a breath of frustration. If she could only manage to stand, and if she took it very slowly, she might – possibly ‒ make it back to the bloody car—

A hand reached out and gripped her arm, none too gently. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Colm growled as he bent down to glare at her. ‘Why can’t you ever leave things well enough alone?’

‘Why can’t you ever tell me anything?’ she flung back. ‘Why do you guard every scrap of information about yourself like it’s...like it’s radioactive?’

‘Because some things are none of your business, Miss Thomas, that’s why.’

Helen bit her lip as her ankle throbbed with pain. She’d been downgraded once again to ‘Miss Thomas’, she noticed. ‘You’re...you’re right,’ she admitted. Her voice was barely audible.

‘What was that?’ He raised his brow and cupped a hand behind one ear. ‘Did I actually hear you say I’m right?’

She glared at him. ‘Yes, damn it. You’re right. It wasn’t my business. I shouldn’t have gone snooping online. I’m sorry.’

He made no reply but scooped her up into his arms and made his way back to the gatehouse. Thrusting his foot out, he kicked the door open, then deposited her on the sofa.

Almost, Helen thought suddenly, like a husband carrying his bride over the threshold for the first time.

Except that Colm wasn’t her husband. And he was beyond furious with her.

And she could hardly blame him.

‘You’re a pain in the arse, Miss Thomas,’ he informed her as if he’d read her thoughts, ‘and no mistake. And you’re a problem I can do without.’

‘Just get my handbag from the car,’ she gritted, ‘and I’ll have someone from the castle come and fetch me back. I’ve no desire to inconvenience you any further.’

Then, with a sinking sensation, she remembered she hadn’t brought her handbag. She’d been so focused on confronting Colm, on making him listen to her, that she’d left the damned thing behind in her room.

‘No one at the castle has time to ferry you back and forth, any more than I do.’ He disappeared into the kitchen and banged around, making enough noise to make her wince. ‘They’ve work to be doing, same as me. And looking after you,’ he added with a scowl as he returned with a basin of warm water in his hands, ‘is a full-time job.’

Helen eyed the basin he set down on the floor by her foot with suspicion. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s Epsom salts, is what it is,’ he retorted, ‘to soak your blasted foot in.’ He reached in his shirt pocket and thrust a couple of aspirins at her. ‘Take those. They’ll help with the pain and swelling until you can get to a doctor.’

‘But I haven’t any water. And I can’t very well take a pill without water.’

‘Ye daft woman,’ he muttered. He stood up and stalked back into the kitchen to fetch a glass from the cupboard. She heard the cupboard door slam shut, followed by the sound of the tap running.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured a moment later as he thrust a half-filled glass of water into her hand.

He grunted. ‘Take the bloody pills.’

Wordlessly she complied.

He stripped off her boot and sock and lowered her swollen foot into the bowl. ‘Is this a habit of yours, Miss Thomas?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Twisting your ankle. Showing up at my door half-frozen. Complicating my bloody life.’

‘Forcing you to be civil? Making you interact with another human being?’ she retorted. ‘I’m sorry that’s so painful for you, Mr MacKenzie.’

For some minutes there was no sound but the crackle of the fire and her laboured breathing. The carriage clock on the mantel chimed softly – one, two, three, four ‒ as Colm leant back against the sofa and began, haltingly, to speak.

‘I was working extra hours at the woollen factory,’ he said, his words low. ‘We needed money for the baby, for a bigger place. My wages didn’t stretch far enough. Alanna had her eye on a cottage for let in Glen Ayr, a cottage with a fireplace and a fenced yard and a couple of old apple trees.

‘‘It’d be perfect for the bairn,’ she told me the minute she saw it. ‘We can put a swing in the tree, and we’ll have room upstairs for a proper nursery.’’

Helen was silent.

‘I’d worked a double shift the night before. I’d got a few hours of sleep when I felt Alanna shake me awake to say that something wasn’t right. She was having pains. I told her it was probably Braxton Hicks and went back to sleep. She shook me again and said no, this was a different pain altogether, and she was scared. So I got up, and we packed her overnight bag, and I helped her into the car, and we left straight away for Kilmarnock.’

He sat back and rested his shoulder against the sofa. ‘Half the way there, I must’ve fallen asleep at the wheel. One minute I was awake, the next...’ His voice trailed away. ‘I was upside-down in the car, suspended by my seat belt. I couldn’t feel anything, and I couldn’t see Alanna. All I saw was blood, and shattered glass.’

‘The scar on your thigh,’ Helen murmured.

He nodded. ‘When I came to again, I was in hospital, and they told me...they told me my wife and my baby were dead.’

Helen reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. Her face was wet with tears. ‘I’m so very sorry.’

‘The police wanted to charge me with involuntary manslaughter,’ Colm went on grimly, ‘because they were convinced I’d been drinking. But when the blood tests showed no trace of alcohol or drugs in my system, and when my boss at the woollen factory confirmed I’d worked a double shift the day before, no charges were filed.’

Colm laid his head against Helen’s legs and closed his eyes. It was only when she felt the dampness on her thigh that she realized he was weeping.

‘Alanna was all I had,’ he rasped. ‘She was mine, Helen. My everything. I never had a proper family growing up, no one to give a shit whether I lived or died. Alanna was my one true friend, my wife, my rock – my home. She was so excited to have our baby. She had so many plans for the cottage, for the nursery. But because of me, because I fell asleep,’ he spat the word out ‘it all came to naught.’

‘You were exhausted,’ she reminded him, her words gentle. ‘You were working extra hours so you could provide for your family. You did it because you loved them.’

Helen stroked his hair, so soft and thick, and murmured meaningless words of comfort – meaningless, because really, what words could mitigate the pain and emptiness of losing someone you loved? – until Colm’s shoulders stopped heaving, until his grief and anger and pain eased.

‘I didn’t go anywhere for days, weeks afterwards,’ he said dully. ‘Just sat in our flat and drank and slept and stared at the walls. Finally, when I couldn’t put it off any longer, I gathered up the baby’s things – the tiny clothes and the shoes and rattles and suchlike. I couldn’t bear to look at it...any of it. I threw it all in a couple of bin bags and left it on the church steps.’

‘I know how much that must’ve hurt.’

He lifted his head and saw the sadness in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, lass,’ he said softly. ‘I dinnae mean to burden you with my troubles. Or to remind ye of your own.’

In answer, she managed a smile. ‘We’re a pair, aren’t we? “Colm and Helen’s Lonely Hearts Club”.’ Her smile faltered. ‘Tell me, Colm ‒ why is life so unfair? Why do some people sail through it without a hitch, and others – like us – suffer such awful tragedies? Why?’

He pulled her down beside him and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. ‘I don’t know, lass. There’s no rhyme or reason to it.’ He paused. ‘But I know this ‒ I’m glad you’re here.’

She lifted her head to look at him quizzically. ‘Really? I thought you despised me.’ She gave him a watery smile. ‘“Ye daft Sassenach”,’ she mimicked.

‘You are a daft Sassenach,’ he retorted, ‘sometimes.’ His voice softened. ‘But you have one redeeming quality. Well...two, actually.’

‘Oh? What’s that?’

‘You make a decent pot of tea. And you put up with myself.’

Later, when the fire had died down to embers and it was fully dark outside, Helen’s eyes drifted open. She and Colm had fallen asleep on the floor, sprawled together in each other’s arms. His breathing was regular, his heart beating steadily against her ear. He smelt of wood smoke and, faintly, of damp wool.

‘I love you, Colm MacKenzie,’ she whispered against his chest. ‘You daft Scotsman.’

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