‘Stop struggling,’ he said, and his voice sounded lazily amused. ‘I rather like you like this, Miss Balfour.’
I gave an angry sigh. ‘You have not answered my question,’ I said. I relaxed for a moment, staring at the spiky pattern of the pine needles against the dark blue of the night sky. ‘Why smuggle whisky?’
‘Why not?’ He sounded maddeningly reasonable. ‘The King’s taxes are criminally high.’
‘But you are an officer in the Navy and heir to an earldom!’
‘Which has nothing to do with the exorbitant state of the taxes.’ He moved slightly, his hand coming up gently to brush the tumbled hair away from my face in what was almost a lover’s touch.
‘I cannot have a conversation about tax with you in this situation,’ I said, resisting the urge to turn my cheek against the caress of his fingers. ‘It is ridiculous.’
‘As you say.’ His voice had dropped. ‘Taxes are not the matter uppermost in my mind, either.’ He leaned closer. And at that point, when every fibre of my being was aching for him to kiss me, we heard the sound of horses on the road.
We both froze absolutely still.
‘Excise men?’ I whispered.
‘Maybe.’ In the darkness his face was set in taut lines.
‘I could call out for help—’
His gaze came away from the road and focussed hard and fast on mine in the moonlight. ‘Then why do you not?’
For a long, long moment of silence I looked up into his face, and then I took a deep and deliberate breath.
Throw down the gauntlet…
His mouth came down on mine so swiftly that I never had a chance to call out, and after the first second I completely forgot that that was what I had been intending to do. The sensuality flared within me in a scalding tide, drowning out thought. He kissed me again, fiercely, hungrily, and I instinctively understood somewhere at the back of my mind that this was something that been going to happen between us from the very first moment that we had set eyes on one another.
No one had ever kissed me before. My being the schoolmaster’s daughter, the village lads had thought me above their touch, whilst the gentlemen who had visited the Manor had thought me beneath their notice. So, although I understood the theory of love from my reading and from observation, I was quite an innocent. But Neil Sinclair did not kiss like a gentleman, and he made no concessions to my inexperience, so I had no time to worry about what to do, or how to go about the whole business of kissing. In fact, I do not believe that I spared it one thought, but simply responded to the ruthless, insistent demand of his mouth on mine.
When he let me go, the pine needles and the stars pricking the skies above them were spinning like a top. I saw the flash of his smile in the darkness.
‘Thank you,’ he said. And then he was gone.
I lay still for another long moment, thinking of the arrogance of the man in thanking me for something he had not had the courtesy to request in the first place but had simply taken, like the thief he was. Then I struggled to sit up, and from there, by degrees, to stand on legs that felt all too unsteady. I could still feel the imprint of Neil Sinclair’s lips on mine, a sensation that threatened to rob me of any remaining strength. Then I told myself that I was acting like a silly little miss—and that Mr Sinclair had behaved like the scoundrel he undoubtedly was, and deserved everything that was coming to him. I took that long-delayed deep breath and found that I could scream after all.
‘Help! Smugglers!’
I stumbled out of the woods and onto the road—right in front of two English Army redcoats. Their horses shied and almost set the poor old coach horse off at a gallop—except that it was long past such excitement. One of the soldiers was so startled that he already had his musket raised and wavering in my direction.
‘What the hell—’
Indeed. What I can have looked like, tumbling out of the trees with pine needles in my hair and my clothing askew, can only be wondered at. He was a short, stocky man, and from what I could see of his expression in the rising moonlight I would have said he looked of nervous disposition. Not the kind of temperament to suit hunting smugglers through the Scottish glens.
His companion was a very different matter. Tall, fair and languid, he put out a hand to soothe the other man and stop him shooting me in a fit of anxious overexcitement.
‘Put away your gun, Langley,’ he murmured. ‘Can you not see this is a lady? You will frighten her.’
He dismounted with one fluid movement and was bowing before me. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘Lieutenant Arlo Graham, at your service. Smugglers, you say?’
‘Whisky smugglers in the woods,’ I said. ‘What are you waiting for?’ I looked from one to the other. ‘They are getting away.’
Lieutenant Graham sighed. He seemed utterly disinclined to plunge off up the wooded mountainside in hot pursuit. Perhaps it would have disarranged his uniform.
‘Too late,’ he said. ‘They will be well away by now.’ He turned to the carriage. ‘Is this your conveyance, madam?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am Miss Balfour, niece to Mr Ebeneezer Balfour of Glen Clair.’
‘But where is your coachman?’
‘I have no notion,’ I said truthfully. ‘I believe the wretch ran off when the smugglers stopped the coach.’
‘And why should they do that?’ Langley interposed. Rudely, I thought. ‘If they were smuggling whisky why draw attention to themselves by stopping the coach?’
‘I have no notion,’ I said again, rather less patiently this time. ‘I am not in their confidence, sir.’
Lieutenant Graham smiled. ‘Of course not, Miss Balfour.’
Langley frowned suspiciously. ‘And what were you doing in the woods yourself?’
I looked at him. ‘Hiding, of course. What else would I do with such ruffians about?’
‘What else indeed?’ Lieutenant Graham said. ‘That blackguard of a coachman, running off and leaving a lady unprotected! I am sure your uncle will turn him off on the spot. Now, pray let me escort you to Glen Clair before you take a chill, Miss Balfour. Langley, you can drive the coach and lead your horse. I will take Miss Balfour up with me.’
Before I could protest, he had remounted the very showy chestnut and reached down to swing me up before him. His arm was strong for such a deceptively indolent fellow. The horse, clearly objecting to the excess weight, sidestepped and threatened to decant me on the verge. I grabbed its mane and reflected that it was only in stories that the heroine was so featherlight that the poor horse did not suffer.
‘Unchivalrous fellow,’ Graham said, bringing it ruthlessly under control. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Balfour.’
‘When you are quite ready, Graham,’ Langley said crossly. He had already mounted the box and efficiently tied his own horse’s reins to those of the poor old nag.
Graham pulled an expressive face. ‘I apologise for Langley,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘I fear the climate in the north suits him ill. He is in a permanent bad mood.’
‘He is lucky it is not raining,’ I said. ‘This is fine weather for these parts.’
‘But cold,’ Graham drawled. ‘Always so cold, Miss Balfour. And on the rare occasions that it is warm the mosquitoes bite. Langley, poor fellow, is fatally attractive to the mosquito.’
It seemed to me that if Neil Sinclair was a handsome knave, then Arlo Graham was the smoothest gentleman this side of the Tweed. But both had one thing in common. They were well aware of their own attractions. Lieutenant Graham certainly did not require me to join the ranks of his followers, being his own greatest admirer.
We set off at a decorous trot. After we had covered but a few yards, Langley enquired irritably whether Lieutenant Graham could not hurry it up a little, for the coach was in danger of running us over. Arlo Graham sighed, but speeded up slightly. It also meant that he had to tighten his arms about me as I sat in front of him, to ensure that I did not lose my balance. This was by no means an unpleasant experience, but I found that rather than dwelling on Lieutenant Graham’s most respectful embrace, I was thinking of Neil Sinclair’s rather less deferential one. Not that I needed to worry that either of these two were likely to catch him, for the one would end up shooting at shadows and the other would do nothing so strenuous as chasing criminals. So it seemed it was left to me to have a few severe words with Mr Sinclair when I next saw him.
After about ten minutes we clattered across another wooden bridge, passed a dark and silent lodge house, and found ourselves on a wide sweep of drive before the Old House at Glen Clair. I was home.
Chapter Five
In which I meet my family and receive a less than warm welcome from my uncle.
Although it could only have been nine o’clock, there were no lights. The house crouched silent like a pouncing cat. I shivered.
Lieutenant Graham dismounted and helped me down. He strolled across to the door and tugged on the iron bell-pull. It came away in his hand, so he knocked. I heard the sound echo through the house like a distant roll of thunder.
‘Are they not expecting you?’ he enquired.
I was saved the complicated explanations as the door sighed open with a shuddering creak. A tiny pool of light fell on the step.
‘Who is it?’
Lieutenant Graham checked at the sound of so sweet a female voice. Then the lady holding the candle stepped forward, and we all saw her for the first time.
Quite simply, she was beautiful. She was perhaps a year or two older than I, and she had corn-gold hair curling about her face, and deep blue eyes. I heard Arlo Graham catch his breath and saw him draw himself up very straight. Lieutenant Langley, who had presumably abandoned the poor old horse in the stables, came scrambling up the drive with my portmanteau in his hand, and practically pushed Graham out of the way in order to make a handsome leg.
No doubt my cousin Ellen always had such an effect on all men. I was seeing her for the first time too, of course, but I was not a man. My feelings were vastly different, consisting of envy and admiration in almost equal measure.
‘Madam! I…’ Graham cleared his throat. ‘I have escorted Miss Balfour to you. There has been an accident on the road…’ His voice trailed away. Had he been knocked on the head by one of the ceiling beams—a distinct possibility, given the dilapidation of the entrance hall—he could not have looked more stunned.
‘There were smugglers on the road,’ I said, seeing that Lieutenant Graham had lost the power of speech. ‘How do you do? You must be my cousin Ellen. I am Catriona Balfour.’
She smiled at me, the sweetest smile I had ever seen. I remembered Neil Sinclair saying that Ellen was delightful, and I felt a fierce rush of jealousy and an even fiercer one of shame a second later—for how could I hold such a sweet creature in dislike?
‘Catriona!’ She could not have seemed more pleased to see me had we already been the best of friends. To my surprise, she came forward and hugged me warmly. ‘I am so glad that you are safe here! We were afraid that you were lost.’
‘The carriage was late arriving at Sheildaig,’ I said. ‘And as I mentioned, there were smugglers on the road.’
I saw her glance quickly over her shoulder and draw the gauzy spencer more closely about her throat.
‘Smugglers! How terrifying!’
‘Nothing to fear, ma’am.’ Langley stepped forward. ‘They are considerably less terrifying with a musket ball through their throats.’
Ellen gave a little scream of horror.
‘Pray, stop frightening the ladies, Langley,’ Arlo Graham said. ‘Madam, there is nothing to fear. We will protect you to the death.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘let us hope it does not come to that.’ I waited for them both to take the hint and leave now that all was safe, but neither gentleman moved. Both were staring at Ellen, who was standing, head bent shyly, looking at nothing in particular. I realised that I would have to be plainer or we should be there all night.
‘You must excuse me, gentlemen,’ I said pointedly. ‘It is late, and I have some hunger after the journey. Thank you for your aid, and I will bid you goodnight.’
Lieutenant Graham woke up at that. ‘Of course, Miss Balfour.’ He looked at Ellen. ‘But which of you is Miss Balfour?’
‘My cousin,’ I said irritably, ‘is Miss Balfour of Glen Clair, being from the senior branch of the family, Lieutenant. I am Miss Catriona Balfour of Applecross.’
Graham bowed—first to Ellen, then to me—as precedence demanded. ‘Then I shall hope to call on you both tomorrow,’ he murmured, ‘to enquire after your health.’
‘Please do,’ Ellen said, smiling with luscious warmth.
‘I shall call, too,’ Langley piped up.
‘Oh, good,’ I said. I shut the door in their faces and turned to my cousin. ‘I am sorry to disturb you so late in the evening—’ I began, but she shook her head, smiling.
‘Oh, Catriona, pray do not apologise! We keep early hours here at Glen Clair, for Mama is an invalid and Papa…’ Her voice trailed away. ‘Well, you shall meet him presently. Now, you said that you were hungry.’ She slipped her hand through my arm and drew me along the stone-flagged corridor.
We passed two doorways, the oaken doors firmly closed. With each step the house seemed to get darker and more and more cold. I felt as though I was being sucked into the very depths, and shivered.
‘There is no money for candles nor fuel for a fire anywhere but in Mama’s bedroom,’ Ellen said apologetically.
She opened a door and I found myself in a cavernous kitchen with a scrubbed wooden table in the centre. Ellen put the candle down on this and scurried off into the pantry. She returned a moment later with half a loaf of bread, a slab of butter and a thin sliver of unappealing cheese. She looked as though she were about to cry.
‘I am sorry,’ she said, staring at the cheese as though she expected something to creep out of it—which it might well have done. ‘It is all we have. Mrs Grant, our housekeeper, brings food from Kinlochewe on a Tuesday, and she will be with us on the morrow, but until then…’
‘This will do me fine,’ I said heartily, reaching for the rusty old knife I had seen on the dresser. I managed to hack a bit of stale bread off the loaf and smeared some butter on it. After a moment’s hesitation I also decided to risk the cheese. It was strong, but surprisingly tasty, and not, as far as I could see, too rancid.
Ellen sat down on the bench opposite me. She looked the picture of misery. ‘I am sorry!’ she burst out again. ‘I know this is a poor welcome to Glen Clair for you, Catriona. I have so looked forward to meeting you—my own cousin, and so close in age. It will be lovely to have a friend at last, for Papa allows so few people to call.’
She stopped. In the flickering light of the tallow candle she looked like a drooping flower. It was fortunate that Lieutenant Graham was not there to see it, for he would probably have carried her off on the spot, so desperate would he have been to make her smile again.
‘I am very happy to have found you, too,’ I said sincerely. ‘I have no brothers or sisters, and did not even know of my uncle and his family until my father died. I had no home, so—’ I swallowed the lump that had risen unbidden in my throat. ‘It was splendid to hear of Glen Clair and to know that I had someone to take me in.’
Ellen smiled, her blue eyes luminous in the candlelight. ‘Then we shall be the best of friends,’ she said, clasping my hand, ‘and it will be delightful.’
On such sweet sentiment there was an almighty crash at the back door, and a moment later it swung inwards, bouncing off the lintel. Several scraps of plaster fell from the ceiling onto my bread and cheese.
Ellen went white before my eyes. ‘Papa!’
A man was standing in the doorway—or, more accurately, was leaning against the doorpost in the manner of one completely drunk. He had a blunderbuss in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other, and was drinking straight from the bottle, splashing a vast quantity of malt down his stained shirt. He was a big man, powerfully built but run to seed, with thinning grey hair and grey eyes narrowed against the candle flame. How he could possibly have fathered the adorable Ellen was a mystery that I could not fathom.