MASTER OF GLEN CRANNACH. Stephanie Howard. CHAPTER ONE

MASTER OF GLEN CRANNACH

Stephanie Howard

"Why didn't you tell me who you were?"

The man Camilla now knew to be the Honourable Ross McKeown, the man she had taken for a shepherd, seemed to appreciate the joke more than she did.

From the moment they met, sparks flew between them. Camilla thought he was the most contemptible, ill-mannered man she'd ever met. Still she had come to Castle Crannach to photograph the Celtic jewels there and was determined to remain professional despite his provocation.

Only she certainly hadn't expected to find among the Scottish Highlands something far more precious than jewels.

CHAPTER ONE

Camilla came hammering round the woodland bend like a bat out of hell and very nearly went ploughing straight into a flock of black-faced sheep.

Just in time, with a muttered curse, she slammed her foot down hard on the brake and brought the car to a tyre-splitting halt. 'Blast and damnation!' she seethed, making a quick check over her shoulder to ensure that her precious camera-bag was safe. Then, satisfied, she turned her attention to the spectacle before her. This just about crowns the whole ruddy lot!'

The road ahead was completely blocked by a solid woolly mass, which appeared not to have the remotest intention of thoughtfully moving out of her way. It was the last straw. The final, fatal frustration in a day which had started out badly, then proceeded to get progressively worse.

It was less than three hours since Camilla had flown into Inverness from London on a supposedly routine photographic assignment, and already she was totally convinced of something she had suspected right from the start—that she and the Highlands of Scotland were destined to make uneasy bedmates. Three hours had already been more than enough. How would she ever survive a whole week?

In a gesture that gave vent to all her pent-up frustration, she banged her fist down hard on the horn.

It was a foolish, and potentially dangerous thing to do. Even before the blast rang out, disturbing the peaceful country air and sending a visible ripple of alarm through the nervous, huddled flock, Camilla realised her mistake.

But she was not prepared for the reaction it brought.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?' All at once, a furious male voice was bellowing at her, making her swing round guiltily in her seat to face the tall, powerfully-built figure in thick Aran sweater and body-hugging jeans who was striding impatiently towards her through the trees on the opposite side of the road.

As he moved, the head of thick, dark hair blew back, away from his face, revealing a set of striking features, handsomely proportioned, yet carved from stone. And, judging by the harsh, uncompromising lines in which those features were currently set, it was not difficult to ascertain the mood that prevailed in the psyche beyond Even at this relatively safe distance, the ground seemed to tremble at his approach.

In a couple of athletic bounds, he had emerged from the trees and leapt down on to the road 'Where the hell do you think you are—Brand's Hatch?' he demanded. ‘This road isn't a racetrack, you know! And are you out of your bloody mind banging on your horn like that?'

The apology that had been hovering politely on Camilla's lips dissolved with the icy rapidity of a snowflake in a mountain stream. Who the devil did this wild-looking, ill-mannered individual think he was, to dare to speak to her like that?

Her spine stiffened perceptibly as, very slowly and deliberately, she began to wind her window down. Then, defiantly tossing an errant strand of pale blonde hair across her shoulder, she narrowed her eyes imperiously, leaned out and, totally ignoring his boorish demands, enquired in a cutting voice, 'Are you, by any chance, in charge of these animals?

'And if I am?'

As he paused to issue the challenge in a tone quite as cutting as her own, thumbs hooked belligerently in the pockets of his narrow, thigh-hugging jeans, broad shoulders beneath the chunky sweater thrown back aggressively, he had crossed the narrow distance between them and was virtually standing over the car.

And as Camilla squinted up anxiously into the arresting, deeply tanned face, with its fiercely penetrating iron-grey eyes, dark brows, strong nose and wide, passionate mouth, she was aware that the air around him seemed to shiver with a sense of immense power held in check.

But she was not about to be intimidated by some upstart farm-hand, however overpowering his presence might be! With difficulty, she held his gaze—those eyes were the eyes of a hunter, she sensed—and forced herself to snap right back, Then I would suggest that you do a better job of keeping them under control! They happen to be blocking my path!'

'Blocking your path? Dear, dear, we can't have that' He raised one dark eyebrow in amused sarcasm and a caustic smile touched the granite-carved lips. Then all pretence at humour abruptly left his face as he added, evidently picking up her southern accent, you're not in the middle of Knightsbridge now, you know. I'm afraid in these parts different rules apply.'

Too right! thought Camilla with bitter irony, remembering the late arrival of her flight, the mix-up about the hire car at the airport and her total failure so far to elicit even marginally comprehensible directions to her ultimate destination, the remote and apparently inaccessible castle at Glen Crannach. The civilised rules of London's Knightsbridge were most definitely not in evidence here. Rules of chaos and disorder, it seemed, prevailed!

Wisdom, however, cautioned her to keep such observations to herself as the wild-looking, raven-haired creature in the Aran sweater went on to enlighten her, 'In this part of the world, I'm afraid, animals of the four-legged variety are considered to have as much right to use the highways as their two-legged cousins and their cars.'

'How touchingly egalitarian!' Camilla glared her impatience at him through angry, long-lashed, china-blue eyes. An unaccustomed frown of exasperation marred her normally good-humoured face. ‘Then perhaps you wouldn't mind explaining to me how this particular two-legged animal, and her car, are supposed to get where they're going to when a herd of her four-legged cousins are so inconsiderately blocking the way?'

Another fleeting smile of amusement briefly touched the wide, sensuous lips as the stranger deliberately took pleasure in carefully correcting her. 'Flock, not herd.' Then, as she frowned at him, momentarily uncomprehending, he elaborated condescendingly, 'I realise you don't have sheep in Knightsbridge—at least, not of the variety under discussion here—but the correct terminology for a group of such animals happens to be flock, not herd.'

The normally serene blue eyes flashed jaggedly, like chipped porcelain. She had not just flown over six hundred miles and driven another fifty or more for a lesson in farm etiquette. Nor, even less, to be the butt of this insufferable upstart's humour. Acidly, she informed him, 'I don't give a damn about the correct terminology! All I want is for you to move the wretched things out of my way!'

'Oh, is that what you want?

'It's what I want and what I demand!'

Dark eyebrows soared with disapproval. 'My, my ... Do I detect the beginnings of a tantrum?' Then the strong jaw clenched as he leaned forward and informed her, 'I wouldn't advise such behaviour with me. It could prove highly counter-productive. You see, I'm just liable to lose my patience and drag you right out of that car to give you a lesson in how to behave.'

Camilla threw him a look of contempt 'I doubt very much that you're qualified to give lessons in anything to anybody. And certainly not in anything relating to civilised behaviour!' But, as she said it, for safety's sake she placed her hand strategically near the door-handle, just in case he should have the temerity to attempt to keep his overbearing threat The look in those menacing iron-grey eyes more than suggested that he might

They bored into her like steel drills as he came back at her now, his tone taut as a whiplash as he observed, ‘You appear to have an answer for everything.' Condemnation tugged at his lip. 'So I'm sure you're perfectly capable of dealing with this tiresome little problem yourself and clearing the road without my help.' With a final dark look and a contemptuous shrug, he started, elaborately, to turn away.

'Hey, there! Wait a minute! You can't just walk off and leave me here!'

Dark eyes glanced crushingly over his shoulder. 'Oh, no? Just watch me, lady!'

'But what am I supposed to do? Perhaps you expect me to sprout wings and fly?'

He paused a couple of feet away and turned with a harsh look to meet her gaze. 'I don't give a damn what you do. Sprout wings, if you like. You're damned well high and mighty enough! Just so long as you don't use your horn and frighten the sheep in the process.'

'But it's your job to control these animals, not mine! I demand that you get them out of my way!'

'Demand?’ A dark scowl thundered across his face. That's a word you use rather a lot. And one, I'm very much afraid, that will get you absolutely nowhere with me.'

Camilla glared at him. To get anywhere with this savage was positively the last thing she desired But, without his assistance, she knew she was stuck. Perhaps she ought to by a different tactic.

With a flash of inspiration, she glanced at her watch. ‘The reason I'm in such a hurry,' she offered in a suddenly reasonable tone, 'is because I happen to have a very important business appointment to keep with the Laird of Glen Crannach.' She was bending the truth ever so slightly, but perhaps, since all else had apparently failed, a strategic bit of name-dropping might not go amiss.

A totally inscrutable look settled on the stranger's face as the iron-grey eyes surveyed her now. 'Do you, indeed? he observed. ‘To have an appointment with such an eminent old gentleman, you yourself must surely be a person of some considerable consequence...'

As he paused, Camilla looked back at him in silence, uncertain of the underlying meaning of his remark. Then she listened with irritation as, running a hand over his unruly dark hair, he continued calmly, 'However, it was my understanding that the Laird is in rather poor health these days.'

And what would a ruffian like him possibly know about such things? Determined not to concede an inch, Camilla unflinchingly met his gaze. ‘I’m extremely sorry to hear it However, should it happen to be true, I'm sure the Laird's heir and grandson, the Honourable Ross McKeown, will take care of me in his grandfather's stead.' She regarded him archly, proud of herself. With a little unwitting assistance from him, she had dropped in two names for the price of one!

‘That will no doubt be the Honourable Ross McKeown's pleasure.' An amused smile flickered in the corners of the mobile, well-shaped mouth, and the iron-grey eyes seemed to pause for a moment to study her more closely, taking in every detail of the perfect oval of her face, with its soft, shiny frame of long blonde hair, perfect English rose complexion, bright blue eyes and rosebud mouth.

Then one dark eyebrow arched appreciatively as his eyes drifted insolently downwards to apply their unhurried scrutiny to the softly feminine curves of her breasts that rose and fell with growing indignation beneath the pale blue cashmere of her sweater.

How dared he examine her like that with that bold, hedonistic look on his face? Somehow, just his gaze on her had felt as intimate and real as a caress—and, treacherously, Camilla could sense her unsuspecting flesh responding, her skin growing warm and tingly all over, as he continued his scrutiny a wanton moment longer before returning his attentions once more to her face.

Yet, in spite of the indignity of that sensuous assault that Camilla was still struggling to overcome, she at least had the satisfaction of observing that her little ploy had had the desired effect. Her casual introduction into the conversation of the names of the local gentry had evidently aroused his interest—and perhaps even a bit of timely respect She allowed herself a brief smile of satisfaction and awaited his more co-operative response.

Vain hope! The man was pathologically incapable of respect, and co-operation, most likely, was a word he had never heard. She felt her smile crumble with frustration as he came to lean arrogantly against the side of the car. Then, casually pushing back the sleeves of his sweater to reveal strong, tanned forearms, he informed her, in a tone of malicious satisfaction that belied the synthetic sympathy of his words, 'If you're headed for Castle Crannach, I'm sorry to tell you you're going the wrong way. There's a turning about five miles back along the road that you should have taken.'

'I didn't see any wretched turning!' she protested futilely, blue eyes accusing him.

He merely smiled a superior smile. 'Nevertheless, I assure you it's there.'

Camilla didn't doubt for one moment that it was. Hadn't she been missing turnings and misreading road signs right from the very outset of this ill-starred journey? It was almost beginning to feel as though she might never reach the castle at all—an eventuality which, all things considered, might not be such a terrible thing.

For the absolute truth of the matter was that Camilla had been less than overjoyed about this assignment right from the day it had landed in her lap. Maybe fate was trying to tell her now that she should just turn around and go straight back. One thing was absolutely for certain—she didn't belong in this alien place!

With a sigh of resignation—in spite of her personal misgivings, it was her duty to get on and do the job she'd come to do—she started to jam the gear-lever into reverse. 'Five miles back, you say?’she muttered bad-temperedly. 'I don't suppose you could find it in your heart to tell me which side of the road it's on?'

'You’ll find it on the right-hand side. You can't really miss it. It's the only turning for miles.'

Camilla nodded doubtfully. As soon as someone uttered those fateful words, ‘You can't miss it', somehow she always did.

The iron-grey eyes were watching her as he offered, with a sarcastic smile, 'If you're really as helpless as you would have me believe, I suppose I could always draw you a map.'

Helpless? No one had ever called her that before. He was evidently as poor a judge of character as he was unpalatable as a man. She straightened and threw him a hostile look. That won't & necessary, thank you very much.'

He held her gaze, as though he could read her mind. 'Somehow, that's what I thought you'd say.' Then he took a step back and hooked his thumbs once more into the pockets of his body-hugging jeans. 'As I said, it's on the right-hand side of the road, just after the hump-backed bridge, on the north side of the burn.' As Camilla frowned, he clarified, 'A burn's what we call a stream in this part of the world.' He smiled an irritating smile. 'Another little word for you to add to your vocabulary.'

Camilla was far too much of a lady to offer aloud the suggestion that instantly crossed her mind as to what she would like to see him do with his contributions to her vocabulary! Instead, she smiled a tight-lipped smile as she swung the steering-wheel round to execute a neat three-point turn, and informed him caustically through the still-open window, Thank you for everything. It's really been most educational.'

'Don't mention it. Anytime.' There was no lack of vinegar in his own reply. ‘Though I would hope that next time we meet I won't be required to waste so much time instructing you on how to behave.'

Confounded upstart! Of all the nerve! 'Don't worry,' she assured him, with needles in her voice. 'I haven't the faintest intention of wasting another single second of your time!'

'Good. I'm glad to hear it' With a dismissive swagger, he turned away. 'I would say that was an admirable intention... for both our sakes.'

Damned arrogance, Camilla was thinking irritably to herself as she slammed the gear-stick into second and jabbed her foot down hard on the accelerator. Yet she couldn’t suppress a private, sardonic little chortle as she wound up the window and headed down die road Next time we meet, indeed! There was never going to be a next time—at least, not if she saw him first! And if she did she just might seriously consider mowing down his arrogant personage, along with his herd of road-blocking sheep! She bit her lip and mentally corrected herself. Flock, not herd. He'd been right about that.

To her mingled amazement and relief, she found the turning to Glen Crannach exactly where he'd said it was. Though it was hardly surprising that she'd missed it the first time ... The crooked little signpost that announced its presence was all but completely obscured by a clump of leafy rowan trees, their fingerlike leaves a warm russet-gold in the early autumn sun.

She glanced at her watch and made a quick calculation. According to the information on the signpost it was eight and a half miles to Glen Crannach. If she could manage this last lap of her journey without taking another wrong turning along the way, she might just make it to the castle in time for her appointment with Ross McKeown.

For she was already perfectly well aware that the old Laird himself was poorly and that all his affairs these days were being handled by his grandson, Ross. She had been informed of that much by the secretary she had spoken to when she had phoned from London to set up this job. But she had not been about to discuss such matters, which clearly were no concern of his, with that detestable individual with the sheep!

As she drove along, praying at every bend in the road that she might not encounter any more sheep, Camilla found her thoughts straying uneasily to the week that lay ahead—and wondering why it was that she felt so ambivalent about this job.

OK, so the Highlands of Scotland weren't exactly Paris or Florence. Some might say she had drawn the short straw when it had come to the handing out of jobs...

It was Anni who had broken the good news about the Meredith assignment 'Guess what? They're bringing out a new series of art books and they want Focus to supply the photographs for three of them—French Impressionism, The Italian Renaissance and The Celtic Heritage of Scotland.

Which was really quite a coup for Focus, the small but highly respected photographic studio that Anni and her partners, Camilla and Sue, ran from a corner of a converted warehouse at the back of Covent Garden. Yet Camilla had felt a pang of unease—and had known long before her name was picked out of the hat that she was the one destined to end up eating haggis for a week rather than tortellini or pate de foie gras!

'Cheer up,' Sue had commiserated when her expectations were confirmed. 'I hear the heather's blooming at this time of year!'

It was, too. As she sped now along the rough, deserted road, the hills all around were a rich, brilliant purple, really quite breathtakingly beautiful. And, to be perfectly truthful, she didn't really care too much about missing out on France or Italy. She had visited both countries before, whereas this was her very first visit to Scotland.

Yet there was something indefinable, like some sixth sense deep in her soul, that made her feel edgy and afraid. Quite illogically, she felt threatened—as she had before she had even stepped on to the plane.

It was all to do with Eric, she suspected, and his proposal of marriage just two nights ago.

It was something she had long been expecting, and she had had her answer ready. She had been going out with Eric now for almost a year and she knew that he was precisely what she was looking for in a husband A brilliant solicitor, at twenty-nine four years older than herself, he shared her own love of a quiet life, with just the right sprinkling of restaurant dinners and theatrical outings to keep monotony at bay. And above all, he came from, and would provide for her, the sort of stable, secure background that throughout her turbulent childhood had been no more than an unreachable dream.

So, the other night, when he had popped the question over dinner at a West End restaurant, her unequivocal acceptance had been ready on her lips.

She had been momentarily stunned when he had held up his hand with a sympathetic smile and enjoined her, ‘I know this is a very big decision and you probably need some time to consider. So, think it over while you're up in Scotland. You can give me your answer when you get back.'

She had been half-way to protesting that she didn't need time to think. But she had hesitated, and then, as he had turned to call the waiter, it had suddenly been too late. And that was more or less precisely when her feelings of anxiety had started to grow. Almost as though she feared that with that momentary hesitation she had somehow jeopardised all that was most important to her.

Of course, it was utterly ridiculous, she told herself firmly now. And equally illogical and foolish was the manner in which she had somehow transferred her personal anxieties to this trip to the Highlands. Almost as though she believed that this place would be the instrument of her downfall. It was a stupid and irrational fear. As soon as this week was over she would, quite simply, return to London and give Eric her answer, in the affirmative. Then her life would continue exactly as planned.

At that moment her attention was distracted by something approaching in her rear-view mirror. Something that appeared to be travelling at a quite remarkable speed.

As it began to gain on her, she could make out a dusty-looting Land Rover which, in wilful defiance of the narrowness of the road was quite evidently intent on overtaking her. Lest she doubt that, its horn suddenly gave a monstrous blare, making her swerve abruptly into the side of the road as, throwing up a hail of small stones, it went roaring arrogantly past.

It had all happened too fast for her to be able to make out the driver, but she raised an angry fist at him all the same, as he and his dusty vehicle disappeared at full speed round a bend. 'Damned cowboy!' she railed indignantly. Then she paused for a moment to catch her breath, oddly shaken by the incident. It seemed to be yet another manifestation of the menace and hostility of this place. And, again, the gnawing preoccupation assailed her that perhaps it had been a mistake to come.

Impatiently she cast the thought aside. It was too late now to let her insecurities swamp her. She was here and she had a job to do—and she was jolly well going to get on with it!

She took only one wrong turning along the remainder of the road to Glen Crannach, but she was already too far behind schedule to stop off and check in at the Stag Hotel, where she was booked for the duration of her stay. She was due at the castle at four o'clock and her professional pride would not allow her to be late.

She arrived at the gates with ten minutes to spare and paused for a moment to admire the stately grey stone edifice with its parapets and towers, set back discreetly from the road amid undulating, russet-gold trees. So this was the home of the fifteenth Laird of Glen Crannach, not to mention also the home of what had brought her here—namely, the most comprehensive private collection in the world of early Celtic art.

She smiled appreciatively to herself. And a fitting home it appeared to be. The handsome Castle Crannach was surely everyone's idea of what a Scottish castle should be! As she made her way up the gravel drive, she was happily surprised to feel a faint glow of enthusiasm for the job ahead.

The first slightly chastening blow to her suddenly lifting spirits came as she drove up to the main door of the castle. For there, parked right outside, was an exceedingly dusty Land Rover, remarkably similar in every detail to the one she had encountered just a short while ago.

But it must be another, she hastily reassured herself as she climbed out of her almost equally dusty hire car and lifted her camera-bag from the back seat Four-wheel-drives in this part of the world were probably as common as red buses down in London. It was surely quite unthinkable that anyone connected with Castle Crannach could have the loutish manners of the driver of that car!

The second slightly chastening blow to her spirits came just after she had rung the doorbell — though it failed to occur to Camilla at the time that a third must be waiting in the wings. Life's demoralising little blows tended to come in sets of three.

The door opened, and a woman in a starched white apron appeared. "Yes?' she enquired with a fearsome scowl that knocked the smile right off her visitor's face.

Camilla nodded politely at the thin, dour figure, determined not to be thrown by this somewhat chilling lack of welcome. 'I'm Camilla Holden. I have an appointment with Mr Ross McKeown.'

Shrewd nut-brown eyes regarded her from a pale, lined face. 'In that case, you'd better come in.'

Stiffly, the woman stood aside and allowed Camilla to step into a huge vaulted hall. Then she was leading her across a crimson carpet, emblazoned with the McKeown coat of arms, and through a double doorway into a large reception room. Wait here,' the woman commanded brusquely. Then, with a crackle of her starched apron, she was gone.

Alone, Camilla paused to look around her. Wow! This was really something else! Who ever said that the British landed gentry had fallen on hard times? There was definitely no evidence of poverty here! From the magnificent crystal chandeliers to the Aubusson tapestry on one wall, every antique stick of furniture and every precious ornament proclaimed wealth and lineage and taste.

Without even thinking, she was unzipping her camera-bag and fitting her Nikon with the appropriate lens. For already her sharp eyes had homed in on several of the Celtic artefacts that were dotted about the splendid room, and, like a marksman spying his prey, her finger was itching to squeeze the trigger.

Next moment she was moving about the room, clicking excitedly. This place was a treasure-trove, and she hadn't even glimpsed the real collection yet! As her spirits began to soar again, somehow she knew beyond a doubt that the heir to all these treasures, the man she was about to meet, had to be a man after her own heart A man of immaculate taste and finesse, who took pleasure in the cultural delicacies of life.

It was starting to look, after all, as though her trip might turn out to be a resounding success!

'So, Miss Holden, I see you've arrived!'

At the sound of a male voice, Camilla swung round, a smile of delight etched on her face. For little did she suspect that the vision that would meet her eyes represented the third and most demoralising blow of all. In an instant, the smile had frozen on her lips and her heart was plummeting to the floor.

'Surely, it can't be...!' she gasped in silent horror.

But there could be no doubt it was.

With a faintly amused, superior smile, the wild-looking, dark-haired figure in the Aran sweater and body-hugging jeans stepped towards her and extended his hand. 'So, we meet again. I'm the Honourable Ross McKeown.'

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