CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

Not a single word was exchanged on the walk back from the old ruined chapel to the castle.

Stiff-legged, Camilla strode out ahead, covering the rough ground swiftly, without a thought to the damage to her shoes. And although she never once dared to glance round at Ross she could hear him following close behind on easy, long, unhurried strides that effortlessly kept pace with her own. And, as vividly as red-hot skewers, she could feel the taunting iron-grey eyes burning through the back of her neck and imagine the look of bold amusement that undoubtedly adorned his face.

That outrageous kiss and her own frantic reaction were probably his idea of a joke. She cursed him roundly beneath her breath. She must never let him catch her out like that again.

Once out in the open, away from the trees, she could feel her heartbeat begin to slow at last, and the fists that were jammed into the pockets of her trousers gradually unclenched themselves. As they came round to the front of the castle, still in single file, the hectic colour in her cheeks had subsided and she felt once more calm and in charge of herself. Half-way across the forecourt to the main door, she paused and turned to meet his eyes.

'If it's convenient, I'd like to spend some time examining the collection now. Preferably by myself,' she added pointedly, keeping her tone flat, deliberately unemotional. 'I trust you don't have any objections?'

'None at all,' he confirmed with just the hint of a smile as he stood before her, looking down, his hands in the pockets of his black leather jerkin, the wild, dark hair framing his face.

'However, I hope you won't mind if I accompany you upstairs. The key, you see. I'm afraid I can't let you have it. And if you insist on being left alone with the collection I’ll also have to lock you in the room.' He raised one dark eyebrow in a mock apology. ‘The insurance company, you see, would insist I'm afraid their terms are very strict.'

Camilla kept her expression impassive. ‘That's perfectly all right I quite understand.' Though she could tell from the impish flicker in his eyes that he quite enjoyed the thought of making her his prisoner. A thought which irritated her intensely and sent an unexpected shiver of uneasiness through her. With forced lightness she put to him, 'As long as you let me out again, of course.'

'Of course.' He held her eyes for a moment and smiled 'What possible use would you be to me locked up in a room with all the Celtic treasure? None at all,' he answered for her. 'Don't worry. I shall let you out.'

Somehow, his assurance failed to appease her. As she followed him indoors, across the hallway and up the stairs—after a brief detour to collect her camera-bag from her car—she felt sorely tempted to point out that to be of 'use' to him, as he'd so blithely put it was the very least of her ambitions. But of course, he was already well aware of that. He had only said it to annoy her.

At the top of the stairs he unlocked the door and stood aside to let her enter the room. 'When would you like me to come back and let you out again? he asked.

'In a couple of hours.' She glanced at her watch. 'Half-past one or thereabouts.'

He nodded. 'Half-past one it is.' His hand was on the door-handle. 'I’ll leave you now. Be good till I get back.' Then, with a wink, he closed the door. A moment later she heard the key grate in the lock, then a click of footsteps and he was gone.

She relaxed then, and looked round the room at the cabinets crammed with their Celtic treasure. For two whole hours she would be blissfully free to examine the collection and make notes and sketches and take a couple of preliminary Polaroids. She bend to unzip her camera-bag, and took out her notepad and pencil. For two whole hours there would be no Ross McKeown to ruffle her and get in her hair. Bliss. She sighed with relief. For a brief spell, at least, she could put him out of her mind.

For the next two happy hours Camilla was totally absorbed, reliving in her artist's imagination the history of the beautiful objects with which she was surrounded, all her thoughts and senses focused on the task of how to capture them on film.

She sighed as she examined a silver torque bracelet and frowned with admiration at an old Highland dirk. It was at times like these, when she had the honour of working with artefacts of such craftsmanship and beauty, that she felt truly privileged to be in the profession she was in.

She was lucky, she reminded herself. From nothing, she had built up her life exactly as she wanted it—in all areas, both professional and personal—and she must allow nothing to deflect her from her chosen path. Nothing, she emphasised inwardly, aware that, quite unconsciously, an image of Ross McKeown had flitted across her brain, like an interloper, shattering her inner harmony. Impatiently she chased the image away and forced her attention back to the task in hand. Nothing, she reminded herself ferociously. Especially not Ross McKeown!

It was a highly productive couple of hours. By the end of it Camilla had made copious notes and produced a pile of sketches of the compositions she planned to use. And she could feel her enthusiasm growing, minute by minute, for the job ahead. This commission, she was fast concluding, could prove to be not just an exciting challenge, but the jewel in the crown of her whole career.

She glanced at her watch. It was one-twenty-five, five minutes before Ross was due to come back with his precious key and let her out of here. As she bent over her camera-bag, carefully packing away her things, she was aware of a sudden stab of hunger. Little wonder, she thought to herself. Thanks to her oversleeping this morning and having to rush off without any breakfast, she hadn't eaten a bite since dinner last night. Suddenly the thought of a home-cooked lunch back at the Stag Hotel was quite enormously appealing.

She smiled in quiet anticipation. They served lunch until two-thirty. She would make it in plenty of time.

Four and a half minutes later she was waiting anxiously by the door, her ears straining for the sound of approaching footsteps. But all she could hear was the resounding silence that seemed to reverberate from the thick castle walls. And all at once she was acutely conscious of her utterly helpless, prisoner-like state.

She had tried to make light of it earlier, never believing she had anything to fear, but now she could feel a stifling anxiety beginning to creep over her and a growing sense of claustrophobia gnawing at her nerve-ends. In a rash demonstration of quite unwarranted trust, she had placed herself in Ross McKeown's hands. She might have known he could not be relied on, that he would cynically allow his promise to slip his mind—and she was stuck here, like a hamster in a cage, till he saw fit to turn up with the key.

With mounting impatience, she began to pace the floor, all her good humour melting away. What was it about the man that seemed destined to send her into a state of helpless turmoil? Just when she was starting to feel good about things, he had to go and turn them upside-down!

'It's one-thirty, Miss Holden. Are you ready to go?'

Soundlessly, without her noticing, the door had opened and he was standing there, a tall, composed figure in a burgundy-coloured shirt and jeans. With a start, Camilla swung round to face him. 'Oh, it's you!' she declared, taken unawares.

'You sound surprised. Weren't you expecting me?' He raised one sooty dark eyebrow as he spoke. 'We did say one-thirty, I believe?'

‘Yes, yes, we did.' To hide her confusion, she glanced down at her watch, observing that the time was now precisely one-thirty. It would appear that after all, he was not quite as unreliable as she had supposed. Her panic had perhaps been a trifle premature.

'So, are you ready to go? I can leave and come back later if you'd like to go on working for a while.'

'No, no. I've finished all I want to do for now.' She crossed the floor to gather up her camera-bag, slinging it across her shoulder with studied casualness. For no good reason she felt faintly foolish, as though believing he could see right through her with those penetrating iron-grey eyes and knew all about her momentary lapse of composure. Her latest momentary lapse, she should say. He had already witnessed quite a few.

He was standing just inside the room, leaning casually against the door-frame, the burgundy cotton of his shirt stretched tautly over the powerful lines of his shoulders as he folded his arms across his chest He enquired with a provocative smile, 'So you're satisfied for the moment at least?'

'Quite satisfied,' she replied fiddling self-consciously with the strap of her camera-bag, acutely aware of the power of his presence, not quite able to meet his eyes.

'You found your solitude conducive to concentration? That's good. I too find that solitude focuses the mind.'

Camilla did not reply. Whether it was her loss of solitude that was responsible or the particular company she found herself in, she was suddenly finding it quite impossible to focus her mind on anything.

Defensively, her eyes strayed from his face—from the wide, square jaw, to the column of his throat to the broad expanse of burgundy-dad chest.

The skin of his chest was dark from the sun and sprinkled with fine black hairs—as she could tell from the triangle of exposed tanned flesh just visible at the unbuttoned neck of his shirt And his wrists and forearms below the turned-back sleeves were equally bronzed and sinuous and strong. With his broad shoulders, long legs and narrow hips, he had perhaps the finest physique of any man she had ever seen.

Almost idly the thought crossed her mind; then, with a sense of dazed horror, she pushed it away. Appalled at herself, she snatched her gaze upwards and, with an effort, fixed it on his face.

'I'm ready to go now,' she told him levelly. Then she took a step forward towards the door.

Ross remained exactly where he was, not exactly blocking her exit though making it awkward for her to squeeze past As she hesitated, he glanced round the room. 'I take it you've returned everything to its proper place.' With a lazy smile, the dark eyes raked her face and there was taunting humour in his tone as he put to her, 'I take it you’re not trying to smuggle anything out in that camera-bag of yours?'

Camilla was ninety-nine per cent certain that it was intended as a joke. But it was to that one per cent of doubt that she instantaneously responded. With a deliberate gesture she swung the bag from her shoulder and almost threw it to the floor at his feet 'Feel free to search it if you like!' she challenged. 'In fact I absolutely insist!'

If she had responded with a simple, honest denial the matter would no doubt have ended there. But Ross was not a man to pass up a challenge, particularly one issued with such vehemence. Keeping his eyes fixed on her face and his own features expressionless, as though carved from stone, he lowered himself down on to his haunches and pulled back the zipper of the camera-bag. 'Only too happy to oblige,' he confirmed

Camilla watched the strong brown hands as they searched among her precious equipment, not certain with whom she felt more annoyed—herself or him. Why could nothing ever be civilised and straightforward when she was dealing with Ross McKeown? Why couldn't she simply treat him with the indifference he deserved instead of rising like a gauche fool to his every taunt?

Her eyes grazed the tightly stretched fabric of his jeans that seemed to strain against the muscular bulge of his thighs—then instantly darted away again. What was it about him that so put her on edge?

He glanced up at her, the unruly dark hair falling back from his face, the penetrating eyes beneath their straight black brows giving nothing away as he told her, ‘Well, there doesn't seem to be anything here.'

Camilla glared at him. 'Did you expect there would be?'

'One never knows.' Without dropping his eyes, he rolled the zipper shut then slowly began to rise to his feet, his tall frame seeming to unfold forever as le straightened to his full height and stood before her. 'I would say you have an honest enough face, but when dealing with strangers one can never be sure.'

That reference to her 'honest enough face' was the ultimate double-edged compliment In essence, more of an insult, really. Camilla's brow puckered with annoyance. She straightened her shoulders and suggested caustically, 'Since you're so damned suspicious, perhaps you'd like to frisk me before you let me leave? After all, I might just have the Ceo do dh’or hidden up my jumper!'

Even before the smile crossed his face—the slow and openly appreciative smile of a big cat sizing up its prey—she knew she should not have said it She felt herself stiffen as the dark eyes swept over her, caressing the full, soft swell of her breasts beneath the bottle-green cashmere sweater, then curving past her tiny waist to the shapely hips in their jodhpur-style trousers. As his smile broadened, she prepared to take a step back. 'Is that an invitation, Miss Holden?' he enquired.

Her jaw clenched. She threw him a look of contempt 'It most certainly is not!' she retorted.

One coal-black eyebrow lifted a fraction. He seemed to take a step towards her. 'It sounded distinctly like one to me.'

She glared at him. Don't you dare! her eyes warned. If he as much as laid one hand on her she would scream the whole damned castle down!

But already he was turning away. He threw her an amused look as he held open the door, casting one final, shamelessly appraising glance at her slender form as he observed, 'Don't worry, I won't need to frisk you, Miss Holden. I can see all too clearly what you're hiding under that sweater of yours—and it most certainly isn't the Ceo do dh'or. His gaze lingered a burning moment longer, then he motioned to her to pass ahead of him out on to the landing. 'But thanks for the offer, anyway. I may take you up on it some other time.'

Camilla's cheeks were burning as she grabbed her camera-bag from the floor, slung it hastily over her shoulder and hurried past him, eyes averted. The .man's damned impertinence knew no limits! He appeared to possess not a milligram of shame!

She hovered at the top of the stairs as he pulled the door shut and locked it, watching as he slipped the key once more into the pocket of his jeans. Then, straight-backed, she preceded him down the stairs in angry silence until they reached the hall.

'So what are your plans? Will you be coming back later? I take it you're off now to have some lunch?'

As he followed her across the huge hall, she paused and turned to answer him. 'I won't be coming back today. I'd like to let my ideas settle.' Then she hurried on before he could mock her, 'If it's convenient, I'd like to start shooting early tomorrow, the earlier the better.'

With a half-smile he looked down at her and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. 'And what do you mean by early, Miss Holden. Nine o'clock, like today?'

She grimaced inwardly. 'A little earlier. I was thinking more in terms of eight.' Tonight she would be very careful to book an alarm call before she went to bed.

'Eight is fine.' As she turned away again, he followed her to the door. 'So you’ll be taking the rest of the day off?' he enquired.

'From the collection, yes. But not from work.' If it was any of his damned business! She paused by the door and turned to look at him. 'I thought I might have a drive around and take some scenic pictures for my portfolio.'

'An excellent idea.' He opened up the door for her. ‘There's some very pretty scenery around here. However…’ he looked up at the sky and frowned a little. 'I would advise you not to venture too far. The weather can change rather abruptly in these parts and I reckon we're in for a nasty spell.' He lowered his gaze to her face once more, mocking amusement in his eyes. ‘I’m sure you wouldn't want to get stranded in one of our sudden Highland mists?'

Camilla sniffed dismissively. He was simply trying to scupper her plans. Above them there was scarcely a cloud in the sky. It was a perfect autumn day. But she wasn't about to get into an argument She threw him a bland and tolerant smile. ‘Thank you for the advice. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at eight.'

Then, shaking her blonde hair over her shoulders, she turned and headed for her car, her step light and a smile on her lips at the liberating prospect of an entire afternoon without the threat of Ross McKeown crossing her path.

Little did she realise that just a matter of hours from now, she would be humming a very different tune.

On a sudden impulsive whim, Camilla decided not to take lunch at the hotel, after all. Instead, fired with sudden enthusiasm to get on with the afternoon ahead, she ordered a picnic lunch from the manageress, Mrs Cameron, then hurried upstairs to her room to change while the good woman was preparing it.

What she would do, she had decided, was drive up to Loch Maree, the spot the Laird's old gardener had particularly recommended, and have a leisurely lunch on its picturesque banks before scouting around the area for the best spots to take some scenic pictures. It would be a pleasantly leisurely afternoon. Precisely suited to her mood.

It was getting on for three o'clock by the time she came in sight of the loch and the hunger pangs were gnawing like rats at her stomach. On the road map the loch had looked much closer, a matter of twenty-odd miles away, but the bewilderingly twisting and turning road had slowed her down considerably.

Never mind, she told herself cheerfully, as she spread out the colourful tartan rug that Mrs Cameron had insisted she borrow. She was in no hurry, after all, and now she would enjoy her lunch even more!

She leaned back, tucking the skirt of the blue dress she had changed into decorously around her knees as she chewed on a chicken leg and admired the view. The old gardener hadn't been exaggerating one bit. This place just had to be one of the most beautiful spots in the world.

Happily, she drank in the view, suddenly wishing a little wistfully that Eric were there to enjoy it with her. He didn't usually care much for the great outdoors, being essentially an urban man, but she felt certain that even he would see that there was something special about this place. Then she smiled, remembering the little gift shop that she'd spied along the road. I’ll stop off on my way back and buy a postcard to send him, she resolved.

She sighed happily and helped herself to another chicken leg. Suddenly, Castle Crannach and all the hassles of the past two days seemed a million miles away.

'Hi, there!'

Camilla glanced up at the sound of a voice to see a skinny, dark-haired boy, about twelve or thirteen years of age, smiling at her from the edge of the loch. He carried a fishing rod over his shoulder and he had appeared from nowhere, it seemed. As she nodded in greeting, he explained himself.

'I was up beyond those trees, looking for trout, but so far I haven't caught a thing. So I thought I'd come down here to give it a try. I’m sorry, I didn't realise you were here.'

He spoke with a typical Highland lilt, soft and musical to the ear. Camilla straightened and smiled at him. 'You're not bothering me, I promise you. Please don't feel you have to go.' In fact, she was thinking as she watched him, it would be quite pleasant to have a bit of civilised company—something she hadn't exactly enjoyed in over-abundance of late.

The boy smiled his thanks at her and squatted down to prepare his line. 'You're not from these parts, are you?' he enquired. 'Are you here on holiday?'

'Not really.' Camilla rose from her travelling rug and went down to the water's edge to join him. ‘I’ve come here to take some photographs for a book. I'm a professional photographer.'

The boy appeared interested. 'What kind of photographs?’ Then he grinned at her as he cast his line. 'Perhaps you could take a picture of me—if I manage to catch anything!'

In the event, she did. In fact, she took several. An hour later, young Kyle, as the boy was called, was declaring his intention of adopting her as his personal good-luck charm as he posed on the lochside with his second catch. 'You should come here more often,' he told her. ‘They're fighting for the fly when you're around!'

Camilla laughed and rumpled his hair, 'Don't be so modest,' she proclaimed. 'It's your dazzling technique that's responsible.'

The couple of hours they spent together were the most relaxing and congenial that Camilla had passed since her arrival in the Highlands. As Kyle helped her polish off the generous remains of her picnic lunch—Mrs Cameron had evidently assumed she had the appetite of seven men!—then took her on a guided tour of the most scenic corners of Loch Maree, Camilla could feel the tension in her gradually unloosening and that spiky, defensive state of mind that Ross McKeown had wrought in her happily begin to dissolve away. Her sense of humour was restored. She was her old good-natured self again.

It was just after five o'clock when, with a quick glance at the sky, Kyle began to pack up his fishing gear. ‘Time I was getting back home,' he told her. Then he glanced up at her and warned, 'I'd advise you to get back to your hotel. I reckon we're in for a bit of a cloudburst—at the very least.'

Camilla frowned up at the sky. 'Surely not?' she protested. The sun had receded behind a bank of cloud, but they were light, fluffy clouds, not threatening at all. 'It doesn't look like rain to me.'

Smilingly, Kyle shook his head and pointed in the direction of the mountains to the west, ‘That's where the bad weather's going to come from. It's been building up since just after lunchtime and it's my guess it’ll be with us in less than an hour. The weather can change quite suddenly up here, sometimes without any warning at all.'

Camilla followed his pointing finger, recalling Ross's earlier warning, and she could see that beyond the range of mountains the sky looked heavy and brooding and black. But he could still have been wrong, they both could, she told herself, faintly irritated by the fact that Ross had intruded into her thoughts, and somehow even more irked by the niggling possibility that he might have been right.

Fifteen minutes later, as she and Kyle parted company—Camilla armed with the boy's address, so that she could send on the photographs to him—she made the rash and fatal mistake of allowing her irrational irritation to overrule her customary caution.

Instead of heading straight back for Glen Crannach, as her young friend had advised, out of a sense of mutiny that was entirely directed at the absent Ross she stopped off at the little gift shop on the lochside to buy a postcard for Eric, then lingered a further quarter of an hour admiring the array of pretty tartan knick-knacks that were for sale.

But the time she emerged into the street again, the sky overhead had darkened considerably and a penetrating drizzle had begun to fall. Camilla shivered as she climbed in the car. The temperature, too, had dropped abruptly. Beneath the lightweight dress she wore she could feel the goosebumps creeping over her flesh.

Still, not to worry, she consoled herself, tossing back her silky blonde hair and turning the ignition key. In just over half an hour she would be back, safe and warm, at the Stag Hotel, enjoying one of Mrs Cameron's afternoon teas.

Alas, that was not how things turned out.

Half an hour later, not only was she not back at the hotel, but she had totally lost track of where she was at all. Just a couple of miles beyond Loch Maree, the sky had suddenly turned to night and the drizzle had seemed to solidify before her eyes into a thick, impenetrable wall of fog.

She leaned forward, peering anxiously through the windscreen, as visibility dropped to a couple of yards, aware of a growing sense of panic as the fog closed around her, cutting her off. It had been difficult enough finding her way around these remote, uninhabited Highland areas in broad daylight when she could see where she was going. In these treacherous, nightmare conditions it was an outright impossibility!

And the fog was growing thicker by the minute. She could scarcely see a foot beyond the bonnet of the car. As she came to a sudden intersection she blindly took a left, gambling on her sense of direction. If she kept calm and kept her wits about her, somehow, surely, she'd get back in one piece?

A further miserable hour later, she was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain the calmness she had vowed. She felt as though she was going round in circles and the fog was so dense she could scarcely see at all. She shivered, the tension in her mounting, as she began to fear being stranded for the night I could die of exposure, she thought in horror, as the cold, damp air chilled her flesh. I could end up lost and alone in this wilderness and not a soul in the world would know where I was.

She breathed in deeply to stave off her panic. 'Get a grip on yourself!' she commanded.

But then, like an accursed bolt from the blue, it happened. From out of the thickening, swirling mists a dark and totally indistinguishable shape suddenly reared up in front of the car, and before she could slam her foot on the brake there was a sickening thud as she drove straight into it.

Her heart seemed to stop dead in her breast. She swallowed drily. 'Oh, no,' she breathed.

By some instinct she knew instantly that what she had hit had been a living, breathing thing. Not just some lifeless object, but vulnerable flesh and blood, like herself. In the silence that suddenly surrounded her, she dropped her head for a moment against the steering-wheel, a hollow feeling churning in her stomach, fighting back a rising sense of nausea. Whatever it was, she had probably killed it. Heaven forbid that it had been a human being.

On shaky legs, she climbed from the car and staggered round to where the creature had fallen, her eyes focusing frantically through the fog, her head swimming dizzily with apprehension.

At the sight that met her eyes, she let out a cry. Part dizzy relief, part despair, part a horrible sense of regret Then she dropped down to her knees at its side and reached out a hand towards its face.

At least her victim had not been human. There was that much to be grateful for. But as she gazed down at the still, stricken form, sprawled out on its side on the road, Camilla felt her heart contract with pain. It was one of God's most gracious and gentle creatures, a red deer, that she had struck down.

Sudden, sharp tears pricked at her eyes. To have killed such a creature. Such horrible shame. Wretchedly, she touched with her fingertips the still-warm velvet softness of its ear and let the tears roll helplessly down her face, 'I'm sorry. So very sorry,' she whispered beneath her breath.

Then, bitterly, she wiped the tears from her cheeks. What good was sorry? The poor beast was dead.

'You bloody stupid woman! What the hell do you think you're doing?'

Still crouched on her knees, Camilla swung round, instantly recognising that voice. Then a confusion of conflicting emotions rushed through her—relief, anxiety, resentment and shame—as, an instant later, from out of the mists, the tall figure of Ross McKeown appeared.

He stood over her, glancing from her stricken, tear-stained face to the inert body of the red deer on the road. Between clenched teeth he uttered a curse, then impatiently commanded her, 'Get out of the way. Let me deal with this.'

As she staggered obediently to her feet he was crossing to the animal and bending down, one hand expertly reaching out to press down gently on its chest He glanced up at Camilla, his face expressionless. ‘The heart's still beating. He's alive.'

Right on cue, the creature stirred, one dewy dark eye flickering open to glance up dazedly at Ross. And all at once the cold chill that had settled in Camilla's heart was replaced by a warm flood or relief. Her voice broke with happiness as she breathed, 'Oh, thank God! I didn't kill him. Do you think he's going to be all right?'

Already, Ross was helping the animal to its feet, then quickly but thoroughly checking its limbs and ribcage for damage. 'You probably did no more than stun him,' he affirmed briefly, glancing across at her. 'I presume that, considering the weather conditions, you weren't going very fast?'

'I was doing less than ten miles an hour,' she answered perfectly honestly, yet feeling the colour rise to her cheeks as she remembered his previous remarks about her driving. 'He just seemed to come out of nowhere. There was no way I could miss him.'

'He was probably as lost as you.' He threw her look of censure as with infinite gentleness and patience he guided the rapidly recovering deer to the edge of the road, then let him go. The deer shook itself, then paused to glance briefly over its shoulder before trotting off, apparently none the worse for its ordeal, away from the road and into the mists.

Ross watched the animal disappear. 'He’ll go back to his herd now. He’ll be OK.' And there was a note of such compassion in his voice that Camilla found herself glancing at him curiously, aware that she had just glimpsed a side of him that she had never even guessed at before.

Less than an instant later, however, the Ross McKeown who turned to face her was the one with whom she was already all too painfully familiar.

A sudden scowl darkened his features. 'So,' he said, his voice grown hard. 'Perhaps now that someone has conveniently come along to clear up your mess for you, you wouldn't mind explaining what the hell you're playing at!' As she blinked at him, momentarily taken aback, he grabbed her roughly by the arm and proceeded to lead her round the back of the car to where the Land Rover was parked 'I thought I told you to stay close to Glen Crannach. I warned you the weather was set for a change.'

How dared he? Angrily, she snatched her arm away. 'Who do you think you are? My keeper? I don't need permission from you to go anywhere! I go where I like, when I like, thank you very much!'

'Sure you do!' His tone was shaved steel as he glared at her and grabbed her by the arm again. 'But you're not so clever at finding your way back, are you, Miss Independent!' He pulled open the Land Rover door and started to shove her unceremoniously inside. 'If I hadn't come along you would have been stuck here until the mist cleared and sometimes these mists can last for days.'

Camilla shivered inwardly at the thought That would have been even more unpleasant than the indignity of being saved by Ross McKeown. But only marginally, she decided, as she fought to free herself from his grip. 'What do you think you're doing?' she demanded fighting to resist his efforts to shove her inside the car.

'What the hell do you think I'm doing? I'm taking you out of here.'

'I can go in my own car. I can follow you.'

He let out his breath in an impatient rasp. ‘I’ll bet!' His tone was caustic. 'If you think I intend spending the rest of the evening playing hide and seek in the mist with you, I'm afraid you're very much mistaken. Maybe this is the sort of thing that Eric's used to, but I've had more than enough for one night!'

With one final, effortless twist of his arm, he deposited her on the passenger seat 'Now, just do as you're told and stop arguing,' he grated. Then, before she could protest he was stripping off his black leather jerkin, the same one he had been wearing earlier that morning, and flinging it at her as he slammed the door shut. 'And put that on,' he commanded sharply, 'before you freeze to death.'

Angrily, gratefully, Camilla did as she was told. Beneath the heat of her anger she felt shivery and cold. The jerkin was heavy and deliciously warm, with the rich, tangy scent of expensive leather mingled with Ross's own personal scent Clean and cool and masculine. She pulled the collar up around her ears and glowered at him as he climbed in beside her a minute later, and handed her her handbag and camera-bag.

'How did you know where I was, anyway? And why did you bother to come and find me? Nobody asked you to,' she added churlishly, glowering across at him. For some reason she bitterly resented Ross McKeown in the role of knight in shining armour.

Though if a knight in shining armour was what he was, he was making no bones at all about the fact that it was a role he had stepped into reluctantly. His tone was about as chivalrous as a kick in the teeth as he informed her icily, 'When the weather changed, I phoned the hotel, just to check if you were back.' He revved the engine and glanced across at her, a black look in his eyes. 'My—gardener told me that he'd particularly recommended that you go to visit Loch Maree, so I took a gamble and headed this way. Though I may tell you, you were hard to find. You've strayed miles off the road to Glen Crannach.'

Camilla sank deeper inside the jerkin as the big car began to move away, its powerful fog-lamps piercing the gloom, as Ross stepped cautiously but confidently on the accelerator. She should thank him, of course, she was aware of that He had saved her from a horrible ordeal. Perhaps even from an untimely death. But she felt stubbornly reluctant to acknowledge that fact. The thanks she knew she owed him remained stillborn on her lips.

He conveniently let her off the hook of gratitude with his next remark.

'You realise, of course, that the only reason I came after you was to avoid all the unpleasant fuss your disappearance would inevitably have stirred up.' There was a caustically amused note in his voice as he added 'And naturally, I was thinking of poor old Eric, too. Since your demise would have robbed him of a lifetime of wedded bliss, I felt it my duty, for his sake, to try and track you down.'

'How uncommonly civil of you.' Abruptly, Camilla turned away. As always, without understanding why, she had felt a tremor of anxiety at hearing Eric's name on Ross's lips. 'I'm sure he’ll be eternally grateful to you.'

The rest of the journey was passed in silence, Ross concentrating on his driving, while Camilla sat huddled in her seat, staring straight ahead out into the fog. Yet, though her eyes were focused unflinchingly on the twin yellow beams cast by the headlamps, her every sense was acutely tuned to the powerful male presence at her side.

She found his nearness disconcerting, physically, emotionally, every which way. He seemed so totally, so naturally in control—as though everything he touched was at his command—and that mastery somehow threatened to spill out and draw her into its thrall.

Protectively, she wrapped her arms about her and cursed herself for her own stupidity that had dropped her into his clutches like this. She had started off celebrating her temporary release from him, and look how things had ended up!

But at least she would not be required to put up with his company for very much longer, she quietly consoled herself, as she caught a brief, reassuring glimpse of a signpost announcing, 'Glen Crannach, five miles'. Soon she would be back at the Stag Hotel, belatedly enjoying that soothing cup of tea that she had earlier promised herself.

At least, that was what she was thinking—until he took a deliberate turning in the opposite direction to the hotel.

She snapped her head round to look at him, a flash of anxiety igniting in her breast "You're going the wrong way,' she informed him. The road to the Stag Hotel was back there.'

Iron-grey eyes swivelled round to fix her. His tone was flat Tm aware of that However, my dear Miss Independent, I'm afraid I have not the faintest intention of further putting myself about by escorting you all the way back to the hotel. We're going straight back to the castle.'

He paused and smiled a vampire's smile. 'Out of the goodness of my heart, I’ve decided to let you spend the night as my guest!'

⇐ Предыдущая 20 21 22 23 242526 27 28 29 Следующая ⇒