Monkshood. Anne Mather

that she would in fact keep the house. Michael would have to approve and somehow she could not see him subjecting himself to these kind of conditions in winter without a great deal of inducement …

      But for herself, the location was perfect. There was so much freedom and life and animal activity here and it would be a perfect place to write the kind of books she wanted to write.

      Upstairs was very similar to downstairs, she found as she continued her explorations. The house was furnished, but if she intended living here, she would need to make a lot of changes. She paused to wonder why Bothwell had been in the house, and then shook her head. After all, he had presumed the house to be his, so why shouldn’t he be here?

      It was after twelve-thirty as she left Monkshood to return to the hotel for lunch, and still snowing as heavily as ever. To her surprise she found a bunch of keys lying on the kitchen table, and guessed these were the keys Bothwell had used to let himself in and out. Conversely, she wished he had kept the keys, somehow. It seemed so final just handing them over like that. She could not suppress the feeling of guilt that assailed her in that moment.

      Trudging up the road to the hotel she was surprised to see a sleek sports car parked in front, its gleaming paint-work liberally splashed with slush. It looked so incongruous, somehow, beside the rather workmanlike bulk of the Range-Rover, and she wondered who it belonged to. Another guest, perhaps?

      Lunch was at one, so she had time to go upstairs and wash her face and shed her outdoor clothes before the meal. There was no one in the reception hall although voices could be heard from the bar, so perhaps whoever it was was just having a drink.

      When she came downstairs again, she went straight into the dining-room and discovered the Sullivan sisters seated by the fire talking to the other elderly man who was staying at the hotel. They greeted her in quite a friendly fashion, and then introduced her to the other guest. His name was Ian Macdonald and he asked her where she had been to get such colour in her cheeks.

      Deciding she might as well make a clean breast of it, Melanie said: ‘Actually, I went to see Monkshood.’ She smiled at Jane Sullivan. ‘You had said it was near the village, and I found it easily.’

      ‘Oh, did you?’ Jane Sullivan raised her eyebrows with assumed indifference.

      ‘Monkshood!’ Ian Macdonald frowned. ‘What would you be wanting with that old place? Is it up for sale, after all? Sean didn’t say anything about selling!’

      Melanie intercepted a look that Elizabeth Sullivan cast in his direction with meaningful intensity, but Ian Macdonald was not to be silenced. ‘Now then, Lizzie,’ he declared loudly, ‘everyone knows Sean owns Monkshood. Sure and wasn’t it from old Angus himself that he inherited his cussedness?’

      Melanie bent her head. Confronted by such an argument, she could not say that Monkshood belonged to her. Instead she turned with some relief as the young maid came in with the first trays of lunch, and everyone was forced to take their seats at their tables. Alaister came in after the maid, and he joined Ian Macdonald at his table, and as the two Sullivan sisters were talking together Melanie was relieved of the necessity of saying anything more.

      The meal was delicious. Game soup was followed by a mouth-watering steak and kidney pie, and to complete the meal there was apple tart and custard. The food might be unimaginative, thought Melanie, replete, but at least it was beautifully served, and extremely appetizing. She felt sure that several weeks here would add several pounds to her figure which she could do without.

      After the meal, the older guests retired to their rooms, and Melanie carried her second cup of coffee to the seat by the fire, smiling at the maid who came to clear the tables.

      Now that she had seen the house and made her own assessment of it, there was nothing to keep her in Cairnside. She could return to London as, she had originally planned. Bothwell’s suggestion that she could find somebody to look after the upkeep of the building had solved her most immediate problems and apart from the difficulty of getting her car there was nothing to prevent her from leaving. Of course, she could return to London by train and send for her car later, when the weather improved, but somehow she was loath to do that. Maybe in a couple of days she would be able to find a garage willing to dig it out for her, and in the meantime she could content herself by taking measurements for curtains and carpets, etc.

      She sighed, looking at the snow that was still falling heavily beyond the windows of the dining-room. If Michael knew of her predicament, he would demand that she return by train immediately, but she was in no hurry to leave just yet. Apart from her clashes with Bothwell, she was quite enjoying herself here, and certainly the snow was a novelty. Why should she rush back to town until she was absolutely ready to do so?

      Suddenly there was the sound of voices, and the dining-room door opened to admit Bothwell himself and a girl who Melanie had not seen before. The girl was as tall as Melanie, but much slimmer, so that the bones of her face were almost gauntly visible. Her hair was Scandinavian fair, and accentuated the pallor of her skin, and although she was not unattractive, her clothes were so lacking in elegance that she looked positively ungainly. She was clinging to Bothwell’s arm, and looking up into his face adoringly, and Melanie felt uncomfortably aware that she should not have witnessed this scene. This awareness was heightened when Bothwell himself saw her and his cold light eyes bored chillingly into hers. Melanie was tempted to rise and leave them, but to do so would automatically draw attention to herself, so she curled up a little more closely in her chair, tucking her legs beneath her and returned her gaze to the leaping flames from the logs in the grate.

      Bothwell released himself from the girl’s clinging grasp and taking her hand instead said: ‘Jennie, I’d like you to meet a new visitor to the Black Bull: Miss Stewart!’

      Now Melanie was forced to turn and acknowledge them, and she got reluctantly to her feet, intensely aware of Bothwell’s appraising stare. She had not bothered to change the trousers and sweater she had been wearing earlier, but under his gaze she felt stripped of all composure.

      ‘How do you do?’ the girl spoke suddenly, taking Melanie’s hand warmly. ‘I’m Jennifer Craig.’

      Melanie smiled a greeting and Jennifer went on casually: ‘I live quite near here, beyond the village at the head of the loch. Have you come to stay long?’

      Melanie was disconcerted by the girl’s frankness, and she found herself saying: ‘I don’t expect so. Unless the weather conditions force me to do so.’

      Jennifer chuckled. ‘Yes, it is pretty dreadful, isn’t it? I was just suggesting to Sean that we should arrange a skating party if the loch ices over. But we’re used to the weather, of course, aren’t we, Sean?’

      ‘Indeed we are,’ he confirmed dryly, looking not at Melanie now but at Jennifer, his expression so tender in its gentleness that a strange tightness came to Melanie’s throat. Certainly, he would never look at her in that way, she thought, and then chided herself for thinking such thoughts.

      ‘Are you on holiday, Miss Stewart?’ Jennifer was asking now.

      Melanie bit her lip. ‘Not exactly,’ she temporized.

      ‘Miss Stewart has come to see Monkshood,’ put in Bothwell, his gaze flicking coolly to Melanie again.

      ‘Monkshood?’ Jennifer was obviously surprised. ‘Are you interested in old buildings, Miss Stewart?’

      Before Melanie could think of some suitable reply, Bothwell spoke again, his voice curt and chilling. ‘Miss Stewart is the new owner of Monkshood,’ he informed her.