The sound of raised voices caught Helen’s attention. She uncurled herself from the window seat in the library and got to her feet. What in the world was going on? Putting her book aside – A History of Yellow Journalism – she left the library to investigate.
Halfway across the entrance hall, she ran straight into a solid, immovable wall...
‘Colm!’ she exclaimed, disconcerted.
He put his hands on her upper arms to steady her, then dropped them away like he’d been scalded. ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’
‘I heard shouting from the drawing room. I’ve been in the library, reading. What are you doing here?’
If he noticed the challenge in her words, he gave no sign. ‘One of the dogs got loose outside. I came to let laird Campbell know.’
They fell silent as the sound of Tarquin’s raised voice, uncharacteristically tight with anger, rang across the hall.
‘Perhaps it’s best if you go,’ Helen suggested in a low voice. ‘I’ll let Tark know what happened.’
He nodded. ‘The dog’s run off before; he’s a wanderer, but I reckon he’ll be back when he gets hungry enough.’
‘Like most strays.’ Helen smiled briefly and turned to go.
Colm caught her arm. ‘Wait. We didn’t finish our conversation last time, as I recall.’
Her heart quickened from a canter to a gallop. ‘No, we didn’t,’ she said tightly, and pulled away, ‘because there was nothing more to say.’
‘Aye, there’s plenty left to say. And plenty more explaining for you to do.’
‘Is that right? And if I remember correctly,’ Helen retorted, ‘the last time we spoke, you threatened me.’
‘Threatened you?’ His laugh was incredulous. ‘And how d’ye figure that?’
‘You said you knew who I was. That’s a threat, of a kind, isn’t it?’
‘Only if you’ve something to hide.’
‘I’ve nothing to hide. And how do you even know who I am? You went through my wallet, didn’t you?’ she said suddenly, answering her own question. ‘You went through it when you fetched my handbag and laptop from the car, that first night I spent at the gatehouse.’
He eyed her, his gaze unrepentant. ‘Your wallet was on the floor. It must’ve come out of your purse when you went down the embankment. I picked it up, and your photo ID fell out. I had a quick look afore I put it back.’
‘How dare you,’ Helen breathed, furious. ‘You’d no right to go through my bloody things!’
‘You’re a reporter, Ms Thomas, for that London rag, the Probe. Yet you’ve not told anyone. Why is that, I wonder?’
Helen opened her mouth to deny it. But what was the point? He already knew who she was; he’d seen her press ID. ‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘I work for the Probe. I’m after an exclusive story on Dominic and Gemma’s wedding.’
‘You’re writing a story on that twit of a rock star?’ he repeated, unconvinced. ‘And is that all you’re after?’
‘What else would I be looking for?’ she retorted.
He didn’t answer. But the guarded expression on his face, and the fact that he’d asked the question in the first place, piqued her curiosity.
Was there another story at Draemar Castle – a bigger story, perhaps? – one that she should be investigating?
Oh, well, it didn’t really matter, Helen reminded herself. Her hire car would be towed back to the village tomorrow, and she’d have to leave the castle. Unless, she mused, she could think of a good reason to stay...
‘What about money, for starters?’ he accused her. ‘You reporters are always chasing after a big payoff.’
‘There’s always the money, of course,’ Helen agreed, and shrugged. ‘There’s no denying that an exclusive look at Dominic and Gemma’s wedding – with photos ‒ would fetch a tidy sum. But it’s more than that. With a big enough story, I can quit this bloody job and do what I really want to do – write.’
He frowned. ‘But that’s what reporters do, isn’t it? Write news stories?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘We ask questions, we string facts together, we check names and conduct research. That isn’t writing, it’s reporting. I want to write. Worthwhile things like novels and short stories. Human interest pieces.’
For a moment, he said nothing, only regarded her with that inscrutable expression on his face. ‘Oh, aye. And I’m sure you will, given time. You strike me as a woman who always gets what she wants.’
Helen met his gaze. ‘Not always, Mr Mackenzie,’ she retorted. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me?’
And as she strode away across the entrance hall towards the drawing room, Colm called out, ‘Goodbye, Ms Thomas. And good luck to you on that story. I hope you find what you’re looking for.’
Caitlin and Jeremy did not come down for dinner that evening. If he noticed their absence, Tarquin gave no sign.
‘Any word on your hire car, Ms Thomas?’ he asked Helen midway through the main course.
She glanced up from her saffron-sauced finnan haddie with a polite smile. ‘Yes, actually. Someone’s coming out tomorrow morning to tow it away to the village. Then I’ll be out of your hair at last, and on my way.’
He paused, wine glass halfway to his lips. ‘I certainly didn’t mean to imply that you’re not welcome to stay on at Draemar for as long as you wish,’ he hastened to assure her, and reddened. ‘I simply wondered.’
‘I quite agree with Tarquin,’ Wren said. ‘We’ve loved having you here as part of our little house party, Ms Thomas. And you do realize, don’t you,’ she pointed out, ‘that even if they tow your car away, it may not run properly...and you’ll need to stay on until it’s repaired. In which case,’ she added briskly, ‘you must stay here, at Draemar. We shall be deeply insulted if you don’t.’
Tarquin raised his wine glass. ‘Hear, hear.’
Helen laughed. ‘Well, we can’t have that, can we?’ She laid her fork aside and added, ‘Thank you both, so much. You’ve been very patient. And very kind.’ And you’ve very neatly solved the problem of how I’ll manage to stay on here a bit longer...
‘How is your ankle, Dominic?’ Wren enquired as she turned to the rock star. ‘Any better?’
He shrugged. ‘It still hurts like a bast— er, quite a bit. But that groundskeeper chap found me a pair of crutches and brought ’em round.’
‘Oh, yes, Mr Mackenzie.’ Wren paused as a footman poured more wine in her glass. ‘He’s a treasure. He’s proven himself invaluable in the short time he’s been here. Hasn’t he, darling?’ she asked Tarquin.
‘Oh, yes, quite,’ he agreed, distracted.
‘What did he do, before he came here?’ Helen wondered. ‘Has he always been a groundskeeper?’
‘No,’ Tarquin answered. ‘No, I don’t believe so. When I interviewed him for the position, he said he’d worked in construction, and tended bar, and that he’d done a stint in the British Army...’
‘Interesting,’ she remarked. ‘He’s worn a great many hats, then.’
When everyone finished dinner and got up to go into the drawing room for after-dinner drinks, Natalie stayed behind. ‘Rhys,’ she murmured as he turned to follow the others, ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling very well. I think I’ll go upstairs and, and lie down for a bit.’
‘Again?’ A frown creased his brown. ‘But you’ve complained of not feeling well before. And you’re alarmingly pale. Perhaps being out in the cold all afternoon was too much.’
‘Probably,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll just go to bed early and I’m sure I’ll be fine in the morning.’
‘No.’ Rhys shook his head firmly and took her arm. ‘This time, I insist on fetching a doctor to have a look at you.’
She didn’t argue, but allowed him to lead her upstairs and settle her on the bed while he went back down to inform their hosts that she was ill.
Doctor MacTavish, the family physician and local GP, arrived forty minutes later with his medical bag in hand, and Rhys led him upstairs to their bedroom.
‘Well,’ MacTavish pronounced a short time later, after conducting a thorough examination of Natalie, ‘you’ve not got a fever, young lady, so it isn’t flu; and the fact that you’re keeping your food down tells me it’s not food poisoning, either.’
She exchanged a quick glance with Rhys, who hovered near the bed, and eyed Dr MacTavish in puzzlement. ‘If I haven’t flu or food poisoning, then what on earth is wrong with me, doctor?’
‘Well, nothing’s wrong with you, as such,’ he ventured as he returned his stethoscope to the bag. ‘I’ll need to run a urine test in my office to be sure, of course, but...’ he smiled ‘I think it’s safe to say, Mrs Gordon, that you might very well be pregnant.’