Chapter Four

At Ben’s bidding, Megan brought the Volvo to a halt just past the ferry landing at Lochranza. He leapt out and began scanning the shoreline.

"Isn’t it beautiful?" she breathed, taking her place beside him.

Whitecaps frothed over the churning sea. Waves crashed onto the pebbles. Seagulls soared alongside a low-lying herring boat returning to harbor with its catch. Ben stood, silent, eyes closed, while the wind tugged at his hair. He inhaled deeply as though enjoying his surroundings.

"I guess there’s no sea in the Canadian Prairies?" Megan asked.

Without opening his eyes, he said, "The prairie is a sea in itself. Golden wheat, acres and acres and acres of wheat swaying in the wind. Or grasslands as far as the eye can see. We have lakes larger than the British Isles. And we have the Atlantic Ocean that joins the Labrador Sea before going through the Hudson’s Straight into Hudson’s Bay. But it’s not like this."

They stood for quite some time. The grumpiness he’d exhibited in the car melted with the lulling rhythm of the waves.

She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. She could fall hard for this man. Despite the moments when the problem, whatever it was, played on his mind and usually good nature, he captured her imagination and stirred warm emotions in her breast. She closed her eyes against a particularly violent gust of wind. No, she’d change that. She could fall for him even with his darker moments. They made him human. And he was very human with his broad shoulders and strong arms. He exuded controlled power in intoxicating doses.

Although he had not moved, Ben’s strength reached around her like a mysterious cloak. It was more as though she had stepped into his gravitational field and therein suspended, would be free to orbit for as long as she wanted. She wished for the nerve to tell him what kinds of marvelous effects he had on her—even if he did think Arran didn’t have a horizon. She chuckled inwardly at their minor skirmish about horizons. She remembered the way his eyes had twinkled when he’d asked her to dance, and the way they became gentle and caring when she talked about getting lost in the mist.

She had the urge to take his hand. A natural urge, she rationalized, given how drawn to him she felt. One hand hung at his side, so close to her own that it would only take a slight shifting of her two outside fingers to entwine them in his. If she did, would he pull away?

She deliberated this move, as he remained beside her looking out over the water. After a while, she sighed, unwilling to potentially wreck this lovely moment of two people, who had been perfect strangers until yesterday, and who were now doing nothing more than enjoying nature’s power in each other’s company. And she had to keep in mind her all too recent discovery that she was a little lonely, and therefore more than a little vulnerable.

"This is where Kilbrannan Sound meets the Sound of Bute," she said, breaking their mutual silence, and he nodded to show he’d heard. She gazed at his profile. His long eyelashes were now opened slightly and fluttered in the wind. Who was he?

"You flatter me by staring," he said, sending her a look that turned her insides to jelly with its sparkle and unexpected ability to reach right into her brain. "And you are dying to ask me all kinds of questions, aren’t you?"

"I hope I wasn’t rude! Don’t you like being flattered?" She hoped the quick fire now burning in her cheeks would be interpreted as early windburn.

He started walking briskly toward a large green rock face. "All people like flattery, to an extent. I’m no different. But it’s not necessary until I deserve it."

He bent down and ran his hand, the one she’d so desperately wanted to hold, along the rock. Transfixed, she watched as he trailed his index finger along a small fissure and caressed a vein of deeply embedded white stone. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop her imagination from speculating--if he touched ordinary stones with such infinite reverence, how would he touch someone he cared for? Good grief, Megan, you’re acting like a schoolgirl with her first crush.

"White quartz set in Cambrian schist turned green by mineral chlorite," Ben told her, dragging her from her thoughts. "Probably formed more than five hundred million years ago from sea mud and gravel. Very pretty when polished. And," he continued as he pointed down the shore, "those raised beaches prove how far inland the sea came after the huge glaciers melted."

They returned to the car. She forcefully closed the Volvo’s squeaky door, shutting out the noise of the wind and gulls. "You seem very knowledgeable. Are you a geologist?"

"Sort of," he replied, unsmiling. "I’m very interested in land formations, the earth’s crust, and precious stones. But lots of people are and you wouldn’t call them geologists."

"So, what do you do for a living?"

He took a while to answer. "I’m a teacher. History."

"And a computer genius," she added with an impish grin.

"Yes, I do a lot of computer-based research to help with my...teaching."

When he looked away quickly, Megan was hit by the sudden idea that he was side-stepping the whole truth. Why did he have to lie to her?

"We’d better go. Unless you have more to say?"

Exasperated when he didn’t reply, she threw the car into first gear and drove the next half mile to her parents’ cottage with her teeth clamped tightly together.

***

Still annoyed, she jabbed the key into the lock and twisted it. "Oh, this stupid thing. It’s stuck. Again!"

"Here, let me." Ben examined the lock, pulled up on the handle and jiggled. The door swung silently open. "After you. Start the tour."

"Right then. It’s got a new Aga in the kitchen."

"Aga?"

"The stove! And also a new electric fire in the living room. There are two bedrooms upstairs. Toilet’s at the back of the house."

She wasn’t prepared for the expression of enchanted disbelief that crossed Ben’s features when he stepped into the cottage. He reminded her of a little boy in a sweetie shop. Now it was her turn to let her anger evaporate. She followed his eyes as they traveled around the room. A buffalo hide story blanket from the Dakota Sioux hung between three ebony African face masks and a collection of prehistoric fertility symbols. Necklaces of great variety hung from decorative hooks over a framed ancient papyrus and a shelf holding two large Inuit stone carvings—a polar bear with her cub, and a man fishing from his kayak.

"My parents are anthropologists," she said by way of explanation. "This is their trophy room. You should see their apartment in London!"

"Yes, I should." His eyes wide with wonder, he lifted a set of Russian stacking dolls. "I’d love to meet them. What a childhood you must’ve had!"

Megan gave a derisive snort. "That’s what everybody thinks. Believe me, it wasn’t so wonderful. I hardly saw them. I was in boarding school in Glasgow most of the time, or here with Amelia. Except for the occasional summer vacation."

"You probably got to see a lot more of the world than other kids your age." He ran his fingers across the surface of a gleaming Turkish waterpipe.

"And other kids got to see a lot more of their parents than I did of mine." She almost but not quite pouted. It was a leftover reaction she recognized from her childhood, the reaction she used to try to convince her mother or father to stay home for a while. "I still like Arran best of all."

"Understandable," he said, moving to look out the window. "This is where you felt secure and happy. But you probably were a very lonely young girl. No brothers or sisters I bet."

The accuracy of his remarks unsettled her. It wasn’t fair that he could read her mind while she could not read his.

The two small upstairs bedrooms were spartan in comparison. Her parents’ room, with its green, yellow and grey decor more resembled a safari tent than a place to sleep. Her pink and white room, which she’d rarely used, was bright and airy. The single bed under the window still wore the crocheted bedspread and two ratty stuffed dogs.

Ben’s lopsided smile sent her scurrying.

"I’ll make some tea," she said, and rushed downstairs into the tiny kitchen to put the kettle on. She knew this would be a fine opportunity to ask him about his family. Tit for tat. She wasn’t sure, however, if she wanted to set herself up for more potential lies.

When she came back into the living room, Ben was seated in her father’s handmade willow chair, his dark head against the yellow cushions. She could feel him watching her as she wrestled the teacups from the dilapidated sideboard. "I hope you take your tea black. There’s no sugar or milk. If you do decide to move in here, there’s a wee shop just down the road and then there’s the supermarket in Brodick, of course."

"Of course. And black is fine."

His scrutiny made her slightly embarrassed of her choice of clothing and tight ponytail. She decided to keep talking. Perhaps in the spirit of decent conversation he’d let his guard down again and reveal another morsel of information.

"When I was little, I often wondered what it would be like to have brothers and sisters. Can you imagine the life of our new chef? His mother, and his father too, I guess, had oodles of children. Mostly boys. I’ll bet Francois was never lonely." She paused, reflectively. "He’s really got it together, that man. Always smiling. And straightforward."

Ben’s eyes seemed to flicker at the mention of Francois. "A person can be the most lonely when surrounded by people. Sometimes we’re better off alone." He sipped his tea. "Oh, that’s good. It’s so wonderful here. The sea is right outside the door, and hills are on the other side. Not quiet. Peaceful."

So, he spends a lot of time alone, Megan thought. She pulled her legs up beneath her as she sat on the matching chair across from him. "I’ve been very fortunate having Amelia. She’s a wonderful person, despite not having much of a head for business."

"That makes you nervous," he said with a small smile. "The thought of maybe losing The Monk’s Hood. Don’t forget. I heard. On that day I showed up here. But I figure The Monk’s Hood won’t have a thing to worry about if the rumors I’ve heard about opening up the Holy Isle to tourists are true. This thing with the Rock Of Ages being stolen is going to make people very curious. Arran’s going to be popular."

"It’s already popular," she retorted. "But you’re likely right. The Rock Of Ages comes with an extremely significant legend."

"That’s the thing about legends," he said, standing to lean on the wooden beam that served as the mantel above the electric fire. "They’re probably true, at least to some degree. If nothing else, they give civilizations something to build on, a sense of who they are and who they came from."

"No doubt Canada has some wonderful legends," she added.

He moved to the Story Blanket. "We’re only starting to learn and appreciate the history of the First Nations and Inuit peoples. Wonderful stuff about the creation of humans, the weather, the animals. Very imaginative and colorful. The elders are great story tellers. But most other Canadians bring their Old Country tales with them. The Scots are no exception. Skirl o’ the pipes and a man’s a man for a’ that."

"And I’ve heard the rock found in Labrador is the oldest in the world." Megan kept her eyes lowered as she poured herself another cup of tea. "We had a lady at The Monk’s Hood last year who told me. Offered to put me up if I came to visit. Nice old dear."

"It’s blue and it’s called Labradorite. Makes quite unusual jewelry." He came to stand over her, his face a mix of emotions. "And you are an expert angler."

She swallowed her mouthful of tea as though it was a chunk of hard toffee. "I’m not sure what you mean."

"Done much fishing, Megan?"

"I...I...no, not much." Deciding she didn’t like the edge in his voice, she put her cup and saucer down on the table and pushed herself up off the chair. "Maybe it’s time we got back to the hotel."

He was no more than a few inches away. She could see the fine creases around his mouth and eyes. His voice fell over her like ice water. "So, what have you learned?"

"Who says I’ve learned anything?"

"You’re a bright girl. Come on, confess."

Megan’s face grew hot. "What does it matter? Obviously it was a mistake to try. But okay, I’ll tell you what I thought I’d figured out about you. I thought you were friendly, polite. I thought you were sensitive and educated and well-travelled. And that you take your tea black."

He suddenly sounded weary. "For your own good, Megan, don’t try to figure me out. I’m only a visitor. I can understand how a lovely, vulnerable woman like you would be an easy target for male tourists. And if things were different—." He let the sentence hang.

Irritated afresh at his ability to know her innermost thoughts so precisely, it was in her mind to call him any number of names, to throw him out of her parents’ cottage and drive away without him, to cancel his room at The Monk’s Hood.

How could she have been so stupid and naive as to fall for his good looks and smooth manners? A facade—all of it. And to think she’d entertained the unrealistic notion of a potential relationship. He was no better than any of the other men in her past who all figured they knew her so well. The catch was however, that in this case, he seemed to.

The slight scent of his aftershave drifted up her nostrils bringing with it the memories of how wonderful it felt being in his arms, the masculine power he radiated as he walked, the way her common sense collapsed willingly in his presence. She focused instead on the less emotional events.

He’d shown up at the fundraiser and had fled after only a couple of dances. And hadn’t he gone back to Amelia’s office this morning just as she was opening her safe? What was that all about? Then there was this thing on his mind that turned him into a miserable sod. Plus he saw her as a pathetic, drooling female, although he hadn’t used those exact words. He was probably used to being hounded by women.

Now, more than ever, Megan was sure she should steer clear of Ben Scofield. With superhuman effort she swallowed her anger and resolved to play it cool, keeps her wits sharp. But she wouldn’t again fall under any more of his spells. Better to focus on the successful running of The Monk’s Hood and to keep the tourists at a distance.

"Excuse me," she said with extreme politeness. "I think it’s time we got back to The Monk’s Hood. Our business here, I believe, is quite finished."

Was that disappointment in his features? But he didn’t argue when she brushed by him to tidy up. By the time she was finished, he was outside, leaning against her car with his face to the wind. Her hand hesitated on the knob of her parents’ front door.

As she had been affected when she’d walked into her cottage the day before to find Ben there with Gordon Aird, she was overcome by the sensation of how ‘right’ he looked in the setting. Here on the shore at Lochranza, his dark hair ruffled, his profile meditative, his silhouette provocative, he could have been one of Scotland’s finest warriors preparing himself for battle. The image of tall, strong, handsome, Ben Scofield intent on the challenge at hand, flooded through her veins nearly destroying her new resolve not to let him get to her.

After a few steadying breaths, she opened her car door and suggested they start back. As she drove, she kept up a stream of conversation. "Do you think you’ll be moving in then? Do you like Cameronia? That’s the name of the place, by the way. Lots of people name their houses. Dad liked the sound of it. And, so if you and I can agree on the rent, I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t have a stay in good old Cameronia."

Ben eyed Megan suspiciously. "Can I think about it?"

"I wouldn’t think about it too long," Megan replied. "If what you say about the tourist boom becomes reality, pretty soon you won’t be able to rent a stable on Arran." And I can keep an eye on you if you are in my parents’ house, she said inwardly, although you’ll be far enough away from me that I needn’t become entangled.

He sighed. "I’m not sure. There are a few things I need to check out. Thanks all the same."

He sounded so sad that she glanced anxiously at him as she maneuvered the car around the curve outside the village of Sannox. He seemed to be thinking very hard and whatever it was weighed greatly on his mind.

Why did he have to be so reluctant to open up? If she only had some idea of what was troubling him. She lifted her chin and strengthened her resolve to remain unaffected by Ben Scofield’s magnetism.

***

The sounds of heated arguing reached Megan’s ears immediately as she preceded Ben through the back door of The Monk’s Hood and into the kitchen.

"I won’t work with this...this khaki female," Francois stormed at Amelia as he tossed a large wooden spoon into the sink. "She doesn’t know how to behave in a kitchen."

"Don’t overreact. It’s only a little spill," snapped Charlotte. She dropped to the floor and began wiping up the puddle of ketchup.

Amelia’s authoritative voice rang around the kitchen. "Now, everybody, just calm down. Francois, darling, go into the lounge and get yourself a stiff drink. You’re probably worn out from working all morning by yourself."

"I am not worn out."

Charlotte pulled a face. "Temperamental! Had him pegged from the start."

Francois swirled on her. "Temperamental?"

Amelia came to his defense. "Francois is one of the least temperamental chefs I’ve ever had. I want to keep him around. You, however, are only here for a few hours, at the most a day or two. So, keep quiet and get that mess cleaned up. And please be more careful."

"What’s all this?" Megan asked, as she and Ben stepped over some red spots on the linoleum.

Charlotte gave the spill her full attention. Francois took one look at Megan and Ben, and with a snort of annoyance left the kitchen saying, "I’ll have that drink after all."

"From what I can gather," Amelia replied, "Charlotte accidentally bumped into Francois while carrying an open container of tomato sauce."

"He bumped into me!" Charlotte corrected. "He knocked into me at least fifty times before he finally managed to make me drop something. And he’s not big on the chit-chat. He just keeps glaring at me. Don’t know what’s up his—."

"Charlotte!" cut in Megan.

Charlotte wrung her cloth out under the tap and reluctantly apologized.

"I’ll go have a word with Francois," Amelia said.

"The kitchen looks much better since getting all those dishes washed," Megan said by way of a soothing compliment before she followed her godmother, with Ben in tow. Charlotte didn’t answer.

Francois sat slumped over a pint of dark ale. Amelia perched on a bar stool beside him, her attempts at placating her most treasured employee evident in her body language and words. Gordon sat one seat away, loudly adding his praise and encouragement to that of Amelia. Even, Archie, the bar tender, had plenty to say.

"It’s that way sometimes with casual help," he was saying. "They need time to learn where everything is or where it goes. And they don’t stick around long enough to get a proper feel for how you, the permanent staff person, operates. I wouldna’ gie it another thought."

"Ah, there you both are," cried Gordon upon seeing Megan and Ben. "Join us for a drink before Francois here has to go back into the battle zone to check the dinner. And where did the two of you go off to anyhow? Some sightseeing?"

Ben supplied the answer. "We had a lovely time at Lochranza."

Megan lifted herself onto a stool and accepted the orange and rum Screwdriver provided by Archie. "Ben’s thinking on renting my parents’ place up there."

Gordon’s eyebrows shot up. "Is he now? Very interesting."

"Where’s Lochranza?" asked Francois, his palm on the kitchen door. "Is it far?"

"Too far to walk today before the meal crowd starts clamoring for food," Megan answered. "But if you do decide to visit there, it’s on the northern tip of the island. I can take you."

"No, that’s okay. I just wondered."

"Your usual whisky, Ben?" asked Archie.

"No thanks. Too early in the day. Maybe with supper—which, I’m sure, will be delicious." He gave Francois a reassuring pat on the shoulder, but Francois shrugged him off.

Surprised, Ben said, "Excuse me."

"Oh, Francois," said Amelia in a gentle tone, "why don’t you have a lie down? Or take a walk. I’m sure the roast beef won’t need any attention for a while."

Francois managed a slight smile as he slid off the barstool and started towards the kitchen. "Thanks, Amelia. You’re one nice lady. Some fresh air might do the trick."

"Don’t you and the new girl get into fisticuffs," joked Gordon. Francois ignored him.

"Oh, don’t tease him," said Amelia.

Gordon’s impish grin died on his ruddy face. "You’re right, my dear. On to brighter things. Do you think we might have dinner together? After earlier, I know we have so much in common."

Megan’s brain snapped to attention. "Earlier?"

Amelia laughed. "This morning, after brunch, Gordon and I took a walk along the shore. Had lots of fun. It might be hard to believe, but this man is full of surprises."

Gordon reached for Amelia’s arm. "Come, dear friend, you promised to show me your latest...em...acquisition. I can’t wait to see it. Say, Ben, maybe you’d like to see it, too? It’s the Rock Of Ages."

Megan heard Ben’s sharp intake of breath. She prepared for him to refuse but he agreed and with more enthusiasm than he’d exhibited all day.

Dread slithered down her spine as they entered Amelia’s office. Had Amelia decided at some point since the previous day to move her beloved relic out of her suitcase and into a place of safer keeping? Surely Amelia, who’d been intentionally or unintentionally spied on that morning by Ben wouldn’t be so unthinking as to expose the safe and its holdings to Gordon, another man who was no more than stranger. She prayed these men were honorable and that she was nothing more than paranoid.

Amelia, however, did not seem concerned. Laughing lightly at Gordon’s continual asides, she seemed to float over to the class cabinet and opened it. On the middle shelf, amid the Waterford Crystal and Hummel figurines sat the Rock Of Ages in its specially designed three-legged holder.

"Very nice," gasped Gordon as Amelia passed it to him. "Very, very nice. And this is only a copy, you say? Amazing. Look at the artistry. And the deep color of that ruby. Hard to believe it’s just colored glass. Here, Ben. Take a gander at this beauty. Ever seen anything like it?"

Ben held the Rock Of Ages up to the light and studied the serpents by drawing his finger along their curves. He turned it upside down and examined the tails. His scrutiny was so intense that Megan almost expected him to pull a monocle from his breast pocket, or a Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass. Then he held it in his closed fist, as if weighing it, or checking its size.

At first all the color drained from his face and two bright pink spots appeared on his cheeks. Megan frowned, wondering what could cause such an undeniable reaction. He knew something about the Rock Of Ages, that much was obvious. Gordon hadn’t paid it that much attention and he’d been the one keen to see it. Was everyone acting strange or was she imagining it?

Ben became aware of Megan’s stare. He cleared his throat and gave the Rock Of Ages back to Amelia. "It is a fine piece of work," he said, not meeting Megan’s eyes. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go."

Megan stopped him just outside the office door. "Just a minute. I’d like a word with you."

He barely hesitated. "I can’t. Not right now." He took the steps to the next floor two at a time in easy leaps.

Her temper threatened to flare for the second time that day. She would have dearly liked to stamp her foot on the hardwood floor. She was so full of questions, full of emotions, and the situation was playing havoc with the balance she believed she had acquired since her return to Arran.

A flash of white caught at the corner of her eye and she turned in time to see Francois duck into the kitchen. Probably back from his walk, she decided.

She went into the lounge which was filling up with its regular Sunday nighters and ordered another Screwdriver from Archie. As she sipped on the drink, she wished she had a real screwdriver, one that she could stick into Ben Scofield’s head and undo the screws. It was likely the only way she’d ever get any answers.