Blue Bonnets (18 page)

He followed the butler along endless corridors, past a succession of richly furnished drawing rooms, a banqueting suite and a ballroom where crystal chandeliers dripped from moulded ceilings, their lights reflecting onto the polished parquet flooring. In every room gold brocade curtains draped tall windows and gilded griffins adorned enormous mantelpieces. Everywhere servants dusted furniture, polished already gleaming mirrors and floors, and arranged elaborate flower displays. The whole castle buzzed with the preparations for McRae's grand ball.

At last the butler opened a door to the library. Bruce paused in the doorway and blinked. Light poured in through large French windows which opened onto a terrace and offered a breathtaking view of the grounds and of the dull, slate grey waters of the Firth in the distance. Every wall but one was lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling – the remaining wall being covered with portraits.

Leather armchairs and lacquered Chinese cabinets were scattered around the room, but unlike his own desk at Wrath, McRae's walnut kneehole desk was free of clutter and sported a silver inkwell, a rosewood cigar box and an oil lamp.

Once the butler had closed the door behind him, Bruce strode across the room to take a look at the collection of portraits, most of them of men in sombre black attire, hunting outfit or parade uniforms posing proudly for posterity. As he scanned through the paintings, his eyes were attracted by one of the smaller portraits and he stepped a little closer.

There was something familiar about the tall, powerfully built man wearing the scarlet coat, dark green tartan kilt, white and red diced hose of the 92
^nd
Gordon Highlanders. He was of course familiar with the uniform, since he too had worn it until his discharge eighteen months before. The man in the painting had one hand resting on the pommel of his claymore, while he held his blue bonnet topped with six black ostrich feathers with the other.

Niall McRae. It had to be him. In the right-hand corner of the painting were the artist's signature and a date: April 1815. This must be Niall McRae's last painting before Quatre-Bras. Less than two months later, he would be dead.

He looked more closely at the man's face. It was like staring at his own reflection. Damn, he must be more tired than he thought. He was seeing things. Niall McRae was indeed tall and dark-haired, but he looked nothing like him. It was the uniform, and the light playing tricks on him, that was all.

He made himself focus on the medals pinned on the man's broad chest: the Egyptian sphinx, the 1813 Vittoria gold medal, and one half of the medal of the battle of Alexandria. After listening to Rose reading her father's journal, he had expected to see it there. Only there was something odd, he thought as he leant closer. The artist appeared to have painted the wrong half of the medal.

He shrugged. It was probably only a mirror effect, and in any case, it didn't really matter which half McRae was wearing. Did it?

Of course it bloody well did! Actually there was a way to find out which half McRae wore in the painting, and it was to decipher the two numbers engraved on the medal. Bruce narrowed his eyes, tried different angles and stifled another curse. It was no good. The numbers were too small. He needed a magnifying glass. He turned round, his gaze skimmed the room, stopped at McRae's desk.

He was half way across the room when the door opened and McRae walked in.

They both froze and stared at each other. They hadn't met since the enquiry at Whitehall eighteen months before, when McRae had accompanied his friend Frazier to a couple of hearings.

Bruce swallowed hard, remembering all too well McRae's mocking looks and sneering comments as his actions were being scrutinized and his future played out.

Dressed in light grey, tight-fitting trousers, maroon tailcoat and a pink and almond green silk waistcoat, MacRae was as usual the epitome of wealth and elegance. Bruce took a deep breath. He may be a dandy, but he was also the man who was trying to ruin him, the man who had lied to Rose, made a fool of her – his throat tightened – the man who'd seduced her.

‘This is an unexpected pleasure, McGunn.' An uneasy smile flickered on McRae's lips – or was it a nervous twitch? ‘I thought my butler had gone raving mad or had supped too much liquor when he announced you were here.'

McGunn bowed his head in a curt greeting.

‘McRae.'

As McRae came closer, Bruce noticed his pasty face, the purple shadows under his eyes and the traces of liquor and cigar smoke emanating from his person. The man's dissolute lifestyle must be catching up with him.

‘You look as if you encountered some kind of… problem on your way here, McGunn. I hope your injuries aren't too painful.'

Of course, he must already know about the beating at the harbour the night before. No doubt Morven's thugs had made their report.

‘It's nothing for you to worry about,' Bruce replied with feigned indifference, even if at that moment he wanted nothing more than wipe the smirk of McRae's face.

‘Very well. Please sit down.'

McRae gestured towards an armchair and sat behind the kneehole desk. He may look calm, languid even, but the nervous glance he darted towards the family portraits did not escape Bruce's attention, and neither did the trembling of his hand as he opened the rosewood cigar box and held it out for Bruce to help himself. When Bruce declined, he dug a cigar out and stuck it between his teeth.

‘You don't smoke? Too bad. These Partagás are imported from Havana especially for me.'

He lit the cigar, and took a few deep, long puffs.

‘So tell me, what can I do for you? I take it you're not here to wish me a happy birthday or congratulate me on my engagement to Lady Sophia.'

‘It would be rude of me not to,' Bruce said. ‘Many happy returns, and my best wishes to you and your fiancée.'

McRae nodded. ‘Thank you. By the way, where is your travelling companion?'

‘Miss Saintclair?' Bruce asked, nonchalant. ‘What about her?'

‘Is she here with you?' The twitch at the side of McRae's mouth became more pronounced.

Was he afraid of Rose waiting for the chance to ruin the ball and his engagement Lady Sophia, or was he only thinking about Colonel Saintclair's diary?

‘No, she's not here,' he replied after a short silence.

McRae flicked ash off his cigar into a silver ashtray and added, his voice unsteady.

‘Ah… May I ask where she is?'

‘I left her in Porthaven this morning. As far as I know, she's still there,' Bruce lied. By now he fully expected the young woman to be safely tucked away on Wallace's farm, out of reach of Morven and his gang.

‘The thing is, Miss Saintclair has something my mother is most anxious to see, something she was bringing from Algiers especially for her.'

‘Does she now? And what would it be?'

McRae tapped his cigar against the side of the ashtray.

‘She didn't tell you anything?'

‘I am afraid I have no idea what you are talking about, McRae.'

The man squirmed in his seat, and Bruce was enjoying every second of it. It was obvious he wondered how much Bruce knew about the fake wedding and the journal. It was a damned shame Bruce couldn't use Rose's pretend wedding as a lever to against McRae's bankers. He had thought about it, but without any proof that it had ever taken place it would be Rose's word against McRae's. What was more, he was reluctant to expose the young woman to public scrutiny.

McRae drew on his cigar and his face soon disappeared behind a cloud of smoke. An uneasy silence descended between them, a silence that Bruce had no intention of breaking.

At last, McRae leant over the desk.

‘Why are you here, McGunn?'

Bruce stared him straight in the eye.

‘I have a business proposal for you. About Wrath and the bank loans.'

McRae cocked his head to one side, his lips stretched into a conceited smile and he let out a long sigh.

‘At last you realised you have no alternative than to sell Wrath to me. That's excellent news, excellent news indeed.'

Bruce opened his mouth to say that hell would freeze over before he sold him even a handful of McGunn soil and was about to inform him that the
Sea Eagle
was being held to ransom at Wrath when McRae added.

‘My lawyers, Langford and Stewart, happen to be here, putting the final touches to my marriage contract. I'm sure they can have the preliminary sales agreement drawn up in no time.'

Langford and Stewart were the lawyers Colonel Saintclair wrote to about Niall McRae's last will and testament, the ones Pichet had met in Inverness before getting himself killed, and the men who knew about that mysterious third letter…

He glanced at Niall McRae's portrait and his breath grew short. Suddenly it was vital that he stay at Westmore to look at the painting again and talk to the lawyers. For that he needed to change his plans and pretend he wanted to sell Wrath.

‘I want it to be clear that I'm not agreeing to anything until I see your lawyers' proposal,' he said, rising to his feet.

‘Of course.'

McRae stubbed the end of his cigar in a silver ashtray and stood up too.

‘Please attend the ball tonight and be my honoured guest until the lawyers produce a draft sales agreement. I can't wait to tell everybody the news. It's not every day a McGunn bows down to a McRae.'

He laughed again. ‘In fact, I don't believe it ever happened before.'

Bruce curled his fist by his side, striving to repress the urge of smashing it into the man's pasty face and swallowed hard. He would bow to no man, and certainly not to a McRae. Yet he had to let the McRae believe he had won for now.

‘No one is to know until I agree to the proposal,' he cut in sharply. ‘You only tell your bankers and the lawyers, or the sale is off. Is that clear?'

McRae chuckled. ‘Oh, very well if you insist. Shall we toast to our agreement? I have an excellent Fine Napoleon cognac.'

‘No, thank you. It would be a little premature.' He paused. ‘Actually, there was something else I needed to talk to you about. Two bodies were washed up on my beaches earlier this week – two women, one of whom Rose Saintclair identified as her best friend Malika Jahal.'

He watched McRae closely for a reaction. There was none. The man's eyes didn't show a flicker of emotion, regret or even surprise. Rose would have been disappointed. Contrary to what she thought, the man wasn't in the least overwhelmed by the news.

‘Malika, dead?' he said at last. ‘How very sad. She left Westmore about ten days ago. Rumour has it she ran off to Inverness. Actually, that would have been at around the same time you were there, wouldn't it? Maybe you met her there…'

Bruce's stomach knotted. Why did McRae mention his visit to Inverness? Images of Malika flashed before his eyes. Malika alive and scared, barely dressed, in a large brass bed. Malika's dead, empty eyes staring at the grey sky on the beach.

‘Why would I?' He forced the words out. ‘Anyway, Miss Saintclair is understandably very upset, and very surprised too, since her friend never mentioned her intention of travelling to Scotland on the
Sea Lady
.'

He stared at MacRae. ‘I assume she travelled on the
Sea Lady
.'

‘Indeed. She was planning a surprise reunion here with Miss Saintclair,' McRae replied. ‘Apparently the two young ladies had argued and Malika felt remorseful.'

‘Then why did she leave Westmore before Miss Saintclair arrived?'

McRae shrugged and looked away. ‘Who knows? She was a volatile, headstrong young woman. To tell you the truth, she and I didn't really get on.'

This time McRae looked uncomfortable. Something wasn't right, but Bruce couldn't quite point out what.

‘So you have no idea why she left Westmore and what happened to her?'

‘None whatsoever. Have you?'

Bruce stiffened. ‘Of course not. I didn't even know the woman.'

McRae opened the door and the two men walked out of the library.

‘Of course, how silly of me…'

Once again Bruce has the uneasy feeling that McRae knew something he didn't, and he didn't like it one bit.

‘Perhaps I could question the dancers and musicians,' he suggested.

This time, McRae laughed.

‘You're welcome to try, but they only speak Arabic, and a few words of French. They will be performing here tonight, so you can try and speak to them then. Anyway, I must leave you now. As you can imagine I still have a lot to organise for the ball.'

‘Baxter will take you to your room now. He'll sort out a suit for you and everything you might need for tonight. Please make yourself at home.'

There was little chance of that, Bruce thought as he watched him walk down the corridor. He glanced back at the library door with a stab of regret. He would have to come back later to take a closer look at Niall McRae's portrait, when the ball was in full swing and everybody was too busy enjoying themselves dancing to McRae's string orchestra, eating his canapés and drinking his champagne to pay him any attention.

Chapter Twelve

Rose didn't see the pothole until it was too late. The mare stumbled straight into it, almost throwing her to the ground and into a large puddle filled with mud and partly melted snow.

‘There, there, that's a good girl…'

She patted the horse's neck with a shaky hand and issued soothing words. It wouldn't be able to carry on much further, it was exhausted. So was she, but it was no excuse. She should have been paying more attention to the road.

She dismounted and started walking on the uneven track, leading the horse behind her. Where was she? She should have reached Westmore by now. The light grew dim and blue, shadows thickened and closed in on her. She pulled the sides of her cloak more tightly as the sea breeze blew colder. If she didn't find Westmore or some kind of shelter before nightfall, she would be in serious trouble.