скачать книгу бесплатно
Elizabeth nodded. ‘Of course.’ She looked back at Melanie. ‘But what would you be wanting with such a monstrosity? Surely you’re not thinking of buying the old place!’
Melanie warmed her hands at the blaze. ‘No,’ she said, honestly. ‘No, I’m not thinking of buying it, I just want to see it, that’s all.’
‘And you’ve come all this way just to see Monkshood!’ exclaimed Elizabeth in horror. ‘In the depths of winter!’
Melanie was growing a little tired of this catechism. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘Perhaps you could tell me how to get there?’
But just at that moment the dining-room door opened again to admit the man called Alaister, and the two elderly ladies wished him a smiling ‘Good morning’ before taking their seats at a table for two.
Melanie sighed and walked across to her own table laid for one. Her question would have to wait. Besides, there was no hurry. It was still snowing and looked as though it was likely to continue to do so for some considerable time.
The meal, like the delicious dinner she had consumed the night before, was very enjoyable. There were Scottish kippers on the menu, as well as the most conventional kinds of breakfast foods, and Melanie ate well, deciding she might as well linger over the meal to fill in some time. By the time she left the dining-room, the others had gone and she decided to take a look round the hotel.
As well as the reception hall and dining-room there was a small lounge complete with a television, which somehow seemed out of place here. There was the public bar, and a bar lounge adjoining, but the remainder of the rooms were marked private and were obviously used by the landlord and his family. The blonde girl was at the reception desk again as Melanie passed through the hall on her way upstairs, and on impulse she approached her and said: ‘Did you telephone the garage in Rossmore for me?’
The girl looked up. ‘No, miss, but I don’t hold out much hope in these conditions. It’s only a small garage, you understand, hardly a breakdown station.’
‘But surely there’s somewhere in the area capable of towing my car in,’ Melanie exclaimed in surprise.
The girl shrugged. ‘At this time of the year they’re pretty well snowed under, if you’ll pardon the expression, by emergency calls. I don’t think towing your car down to Cairnside could be classed as an emergency, do you?’
Melanie compressed her lips. ‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly.
The girl smiled rather sympathetically, but Melanie was in no mood to appreciate it and she turned away abruptly, only to be halted again as the girl offered:
‘I can ring the garage in Newtoncross, if you like.’
Melanie turned back. ‘Is that near here?’
‘Not exactly. But it is the nearest town of any size and there might be someone there who can help you.’
‘Very well. Thank you.’ Melanie accepted the offer rather ungraciously and then made her way up to her room. Now that the heating was working again, the room was warm and comfortable, and as her bed had been made Melanie carried the basket chair near the bed to the window and seated herself in it looking out somewhat resignedly. If Michael knew the weather was so unpredictable he would insist on her leaving right away and returning to London. But, she asked herself, how could she achieve such a thing even if she wanted to? Her car was lost and abandoned, until someone chose to dig it out, and Cairnside was not at all what she had expected.
Back in London it had all seemed so simple, childishly simple! She would drive up here to the hotel the solicitors had mentioned vaguely and take her first look at Monkshood. But in London the weather had been temperate, with only frosts to contend with, and occasional squalls of rain. No one had prepared her for such extremes as these, and even now she found it difficult to believe that it could last much longer. To return to London without even seeing the house would be too galling. Michael, she knew, would fall over backwards trying to appear sympathetic, when actually he would be feeling delighted that she had proved yet again that she could not manage anything without him. Maybe it was because she had no parents that he felt such a strong protective urge towards her, but whatever it was it became a little overbearing at times and that was why Melanie was determined to succeed in this venture, despite Bothwell’s sarcasm and the deplorable conditions.
She got up from her chair and paced restlessly about the room. What was one supposed to do here when the weather was like this? One simply could not stay in one’s bedroom all day!
She paused by the window and looked out. Her room overlooked the forecourt of the hotel and she could see the man who had shown her where the phone was the night before busily shovelling snow. Maybe she could go out for a walk after all. If she wrapped up warmly and put on her wellingtons she could hardly come to any harm, not if she stuck to the road. She could possibly make her way to the village and inquire the whereabouts of Monkshood, without arousing any further speculation in the hotel.
The decision made, she felt much more cheerful, and she turned to her suitcases eagerly. Luckily she had brought wellingtons with her in case of wet weather, but judging by the conditions it would be some weeks before this area became warm enough to invite rain. She half smiled to herself. Until now, she had never encountered conditions like these.
A few minutes later, warmly clad in her sheepskin coat and a fur hat, mittens muffling her hands and wellingtons hugging her slender legs, she went downstairs. The hall was deserted apart from a Border collie who was showing more interest in a meaty bone than anything else and Melanie crossed to the outer door.
Both the door leading into the lobby and the door to the yard were heavy to swing open, but she managed it and emerged into a white world so cold it took her breath away. In the hotel, it had seemed almost inviting looking out on the snow-covered yard, but now that she was actually out here Melanie had second thoughts. She looked about her, blinking in the flurries of snow that caught on her long lashes and invaded her nose and mouth, but there was no one with whom to pass the time of day. The man who earlier had been shovelling snow had apparently disappeared round the back of the hotel and only the path he had cleared was evidence of his presence.
Sighing, Melanie thrust her hands into her pockets and hesitated, stamping her feet indecisively. She knew the direction of the village, but wasn’t she being a little foolhardy attempting to walk there in this?
She looked round at the hotel. Its mellowed walls were smudged with clinging flakes, while its eaves were laden with more snow. It looked somehow warm and comfortable and inviting and Melanie was tempted to abandon her ideas altogether. But the thought of spending the whole day in the hotel, wasting time, was more than she could bear, and with determination she set off.
It wasn’t so bad, actually. The snow covering the ground had taken away the glassiness and she could walk quite briskly and keep warm. The road was quite clearly defined in daylight, the tracks of the one or two vehicles which had passed this way providing a trail, and Melanie’s spirits lifted. This was better than sitting in the hotel, hugging the fire, and listening to the click of the Misses Sullivans’ knitting needles. Which was perhaps a little unkind, she conceded silently to herself, as she did not really know whether they knitted or not.
Beyond a curve in the road, she came upon a snow-covered gateway, and something made her stop and stare beyond the gate to the house at the head of a tree-lined drive. The whole place looked neglected, even in its blanket of snow, and she hesitated for a moment before stepping across the grass to the gate itself.
She looked up the drive speculatively. The house was empty, certainly, and it backed the mist-shrouded mountains as did the hotel. And if she was not mistaken, the village was not much further now. She frowned. Jane Sullivan had said it was near the village, so this could conceivably be Monkshood.
Without waiting to consider her actions, she pushed open the gate and walked slowly up the drive. The keys the solicitors had given her in Fort William were lying in her handbag at the hotel, so she would not be able to go inside, but she could not resist taking a look round and maybe peeping through the windows.
It was certainly an ugly old place, as Jane Sullivan had said. Not even the frosting of snow could improve upon its square windows and heavy eaves, and the straggling creepers that clung grimly to its walls gave it a rather ominous appearance.
To her disappointment the front windows were shuttered downstairs and she walked disconsolately round the back, following what appeared to be a path through straggling gardens interspersed with pine trees.
To her astonishment, there were footprints at the back of the house – huge footprints that laced and interlaced the area just outside the back door. Some had obviously been made some days ago, as these were already beginning to disappear under more layers of snow, but some seemed to have been freshly made.
She frowned. Could she possibly have made a mistake? Was this not Monkshood after all? If so, she was trespassing on someone else’s property.
She shook her head in bewilderment. Cairnside was such a sparsely habited area it seemed incredible that there could be two houses possessing the same characteristics and both in such an obvious state of neglect. She had been prepared for neglect, the solicitors had warned her of that, but they had also said that basically the house was sound and that was why she wanted to see it for herself.
The silence all around the house was almost deafening. Even the snow fell silently, and Melanie felt a sense of unease assail her. What if she was right? What if this was Monkshood and someone was using it as a sleeping place? After all, there had been no footprints at the front of the house, so whoever it was wanted to remain anonymous, it would seem.
She shivered momentarily. There were footprints at the front now. Her footprints! And anyone looking out of an upper floor window would see them. A desire to run assailed her, and only the memory of Michael’s smiling contention that she would never be able to manage alone caused her to still her racing pulses. She was being melodramatic, allowing the silence to get the better of her. This was her house, after all, and if anyone was inside, they would jolly well have to shift themselves.
Stepping forward, she tried the handle of the back door. To her astonishment, it gave under her fingers and she pushed it open incredulously.
The door fell back to reveal a kitchen, stark and cold. There was a range of the like Melanie had never seen before, which appeared to provide cooking as well as heating facilities, a scrubbed kitchen table, somewhat mildewed now with dampness, and several plain wooden chairs.
She hesitated on the threshold, listening, but there were no sounds. It seemed that whoever was using the place was not at home at the moment. She stepped inside, but refrained from closing the door behind her – just in case!
Resisting the impulse to walk on tiptoe, she crossed the kitchen and opened the door at its farthest side. This led into a passage which, although it was gloomy, could be seen to lead directly through the house to the front door. At the end of the passage, near the front door, stairs could be seen running up, and there were several doors opening from the passage itself.
Melanie grew a little more confident. There was no sign here of anyone’s habitation, and she threw open the door opposite the kitchen door.
This appeared to be the dining-room. There was a table, heavily covered with dust, several chairs, and an antique dresser loaded with grimy plates and cups.
Another door revealed a kind of study, with books against the walls, and a desk that would do marvellously for her illustration work. Yet another room appeared to be the lounge, with an old suite and several odd chairs and tables.
The whole house, it would appear, if the upstairs was the same, was furnished after a fashion, and Melanie thought that a good spring-cleaning was what was needed. Indeed, her spirits rose higher, if she was stranded in Cairnside for any length of time, she might be able to accomplish this herself.
She was so absorbed with her exciting reasoning, that she did not hear footsteps descending the threadbare carpet on the stairs, nor hear a man approach the doorway of the lounge to stand regarding her with obvious astonishment, until a deep voice said:
‘Do you mind telling me what the hell you’re doing in here?’
Melanie almost collapsed, so great was the shock, and she swung round to face Sean Bothwell.
‘You!’ she exclaimed, in disbelief. ‘It was your footsteps I saw outside!’
‘It was,’ he agreed uncompromisingly, his expression grim. ‘But you haven’t answered my question. I asked you what you thought you were doing here!’
Melanie quivered a little under that penetrating stare. ‘I – I might ask you the same question,’ she retorted.
Bothwell’s eyes narrowed. ‘I asked the question first,’ he said, with harsh insistence in his voice.
Melanie swallowed hard. ‘Very well, then. I – I own this house.’ She put a hand to her lips. ‘This is – Monkshood, isn’t it?’
There was a moment when she thought she had been mistaken after all; when she began to think frantically that she had made some terrible mistake, and had indeed invaded someone else’s private property.
And then he said, slowly and clearly: ‘Yes, Miss Stewart, this is Monkshood. But you are not the owner. I am!’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_ccf43531-396d-583b-8e7e-a41db18f4153)
MELANIE was speechless for a moment and she stood staring helplessly at Bothwell as though he were some kind of malignant spirit. Then, gathering her scattered senses, she said carefully:
‘I think there’s been some mistake, Mr. Bothwell. Angus Cairney was my mother’s cousin. She was his only relative, and as she is dead, Monkshood was left to me.’
Bothwell’s light eyes were veiled by the long black lashes that were the only feminine thing about an otherwise harshly masculine face. The long sideburns that grew down to his jawline accentuated the darkness of his features and added to his air of command. In different clothes he would have fitted well into a more primitive era of history, and Melanie had the distinct impression that even today Sean Bothwell was a law unto himself.
‘I see,’ he said now. ‘And who told you Monkshood was yours?’
‘Why – why, the solicitors, of course.’
‘What solicitors?’ His tone demanded no prevarication on her part and she found herself saying:
‘McDougall and Price, naturally.’
‘Ah!’ He ran a hand down his cheek thoughtfully. ‘They contacted you in London?’
‘My solicitors, yes.’
Melanie stiffened. She was allowing her own surprise at finding him here to weaken her resolve, and he was simply using her to gain whatever information he could get. Straightening her shoulders, she said:
‘And now perhaps you’ll tell me why you should imagine Monkshood belongs to you?’
Bothwell turned those light eyes upon her and she moved a little uncomfortably. She would not admit to being afraid of him exactly, but he did disturb her in a way no man had hitherto disturbed her. It was his attitude; she could not be certain what he might say or do next, and it was most disconcerting. She had always found men reasonably easy to handle, but Sean Bothwell was different somehow.
‘Angus Cairney was my father,’ he said now, his eyes narrowed and speculative.
Melanie fell back a step. ‘What?’ She shook her head helplessly. ‘But – but the solicitors! They didn’t even know he was married!’
Sean Bothwell gave her a derisive stare. ‘He wasn’t,’ he said deliberately.
Melanie felt the hot colour surge up her cheeks at his words and she twisted her fingers together nervously. She was sure he was enjoying her discomfiture, but that didn’t prevent her feeling of mortification. Compressing her lips, she tried desperately to find something to say, but his statement was irrefutable.
As though relenting a little, Bothwell took his eyes from her confusion and glanced round the room. Taking out his case, he put a cigar between his lips and lit it before walking across to the windows. They were shuttered here, as in all the downstairs rooms, but it was possible to see through the slats. He stared out broodingly for a while, giving her time to collect herself, and Melanie was somewhat relieved. Even so, she dreaded the moment when he would turn and their conversation would have to continue.
Eventually he moved away from the window and she felt his eyes flicker over her again. Melanie felt an awful sense of inadequacy assail her, and wished for the first time that she had waited for Michael to accompany her to Cairnside. Surely this situation could never have happened if he had been with her. He would have insisted on her making proper inquiries and making an official visit here to look round. He would never have countenanced an impulsive invasion into someone’s privacy. And yet she had not known what old emotions she was rekindling when she pushed open the door of Monkshood.
‘Well?’ he said finally, spreading his hand expressively. ‘What do you intend to do with it?’
Melanie stared at him, pressing her lips together to prevent them from trembling. ‘I – I – oh, I don’t know,’ she said, bending her head. ‘I – I no longer feel I have any right to the place!’
His eyes narrowed chillingly. ‘Oh, come now, Miss Stewart! Spare me the platitudes! I’m quite aware that I’ve shocked your little system to the core, but don’t allow it to colour your judgment. I’m sure McDougall and Price would agree with me in that at least!’
Melanie bit her lip. ‘Your – your father made a will—’
‘I guessed that. I would imagine it was made some time ago, however.’
‘Yes.’ Melanie looked away from him, unable to suffer that bleak appraisal. ‘Perhaps he left a second—’
Bothwell shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘He had probably forgotten he had made the first. He was an old man, Miss Stewart, not much concerned with worldly matters.’
Melanie shook her head. ‘My mother only mentioned him a couple of times. I never met him.’
‘Your mother must have been his only relative. He never married.’
‘But your mother—’ began Melanie impulsively, only to halt uncertainly as his expression darkened.
‘My mother was already married – to someone else,’ he advised her harshly. ‘I do not think the details of my conception need concern you.’
Melanie turned away. ‘I feel terrible …’
‘Why should you?’ His voice was cold. ‘We cannot be held responsible for the actions of others.’ He walked towards the door, drawing on fur-lined leather gloves. ‘I’ll leave you to investigate your property. Just one point, when you decide to sell the place, I’d like first refusal.’
‘Oh, please,’ Melanie turned to him again, holding out her hands in a gesture almost of supplication. ‘Please, don’t go. I – well – I wish you would stay.’
His eyes surveyed her broodingly. ‘Why?’
Melanie loosened her fur hat, taking it off and allowing her hair to swing in a dark silky curtain against her flushed cheeks. ‘We – we’re almost related, aren’t we? Surely we can be friends. I’d like your advice.’
Bothwell leaned indolently against the door post. ‘You do not strike me as the kind of woman who would take advice from anyone,’ he observed dryly.
Melanie quelled her indignation. ‘Why do you say that?’
He frowned. ‘Surely there was someone back home who advised you not to come to Cairnside at this time of the year, wasn’t there? You’re wearing an engagement ring – didn’t your fiancé express any doubts on your behalf, or is the ring merely a decoration, designed to arouse speculation?’
Melanie looked down at the square-cut diamond Michael had bought her. She was so used to wearing it, she had not thought he would notice. ‘I am engaged, yes,’ she said slowly. ‘And my fiancé did suggest that I should wait until the spring to come here, but surely you can understand my anxieties about a house standing empty all winter?’
Bothwell straightened. ‘You could have had someone look after it for you. The solicitors would no doubt have been pleased to arrange it.’
Melanie compressed her lips. ‘I didn’t think of it,’ she replied.
Bothwell shook his head. ‘Exactly why did you want to come here yourself?’
Melanie sighed. ‘My reasons wouldn’t stand up to your cold-blooded assessment of the situation,’ she answered impatiently.
Bothwell looked wryly at her. ‘Try me!’
Melanie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I wante4 to see the house because I’ve never owned a house before. I’ve never even lived in a house, so far as I can remember. We always had flats or apartments, and I suppose foolishly I thought I might make a home here.’
‘I see.’ Bothwell drew deeply on his cigar. ‘And your fiancé? Is he agreeable to moving north?’
