Chapter Thirteen

When she awoke the next morning, Megan pulled back the curtains and looked down onto the stretch of shore where Ben had stood the previous night. She almost expected him to still be there although she knew the notion was ludicrous. If he had any sense he’d be snug in bed on a wet, wild, windy Friday like the one outside her cottage.

A few hardy souls were making their way to the center of the village, more than likely to buy their daily newspaper and freshly baked rolls. The wind grabbed at a young woman’s bright red umbrella and sent it skittering along the pavement—a splash of color in an otherwise grey scene—and rattled Megan’s window as if to tell of its strength.

Definitely a morning to stay curled up under warm blankets, preferable with someone to curl up with. Instantly her imagination began providing her with possible scenarios, all involving Ben. His chest rising and falling peacefully. His face robed in innocence as he slept. His body robed in nothing at all. She scolded herself harshly. Told herself to get a grip and move on. She’d experienced no more than a brief romantic interlude on a sacred island a couple of days ago. It hadn’t been serious! Just a few kisses which had led to a large dose of chilling reality very quickly.

She was about to turn from the window when a man passed by her gate. Like the woman with the umbrella, he too was hunched against the weather. The profile belonged to Francois. Megan frowned. Where could he possibly have been coming from? He hadn’t proven himself to be an early morning hiker, not any kind of walker it seemed, preferring to remain in the hotel for almost his entire free time, which Megan admitted wasn’t much. Being always available, Francois had given a lot of himself during his first week on Arran. She thought about his varied and interesting menus, his entertaining stories and his concern for her. Francois Armand was easily the most conscientious man Megan had ever met. So why on this morning was he traipsing around in such inhospitable weather instead of supervising breakfast at The Monk’s Hood? And why had he been asking about security and hidden cameras?

The wind rattled the windows again and Megan jumped back with a shudder. She crossed her arms, hugging herself for warmth and comfort. This whole Ben incident had her spooked. She was becoming suspicious of everybody. Maybe Francois just needed some fresh morning air. For all she knew, he could like the wind and rain.

Francois continued walking briskly and entered The Monk’s Hood via the front door. Megan glanced at her bedside clock. Unless he’d coerced Jean or Marion into preparing the scone batter, breakfast would be late. Well, today, she wasn’t going to worry about it. She would make her oatmeal with its generous helping of fruit, and take her time eating it while she reread her yet-untitled article. After that, she’d get dressed and go down the road.

She already knew how the day would be. She’d go over Amelia’s accounts, help with the midday crowd, and check the three American ladies out in time for the afternoon ferry. By then it would be time to prepare for the Tartan Ball. She wondered if Ben would attend.

"I don’t know if I’ll still be here on Friday," he had said the day Marion had handed them the cream and gold invitations. But he’d still been on Arran as of the previous night. Of course, he could catch any one of the ferries and be gone by evening. Or he could be forcibly removed by Gordon or Colin. Another sinister thought stabbed at her brain. He may even manage to steal The Rock Of Ages and slip off unseen. The stab twisted deeper. If he was half the brilliant mind Em Heatherington believed he was, he’d not take the ferry from Brodick. He’d catch the boat at Lochranza and perhaps disappear into the Highlands of Scotland for a while.

Megan’s fists clenched so tight that her nails dug into the flesh of her palms. That rat! No wonder he was so interested in Lochranza. Asking her to stop just past the ferry landing to examine the rocks. Pretending to be appreciating the sea when all he was likely doing was judging the distance between Lochranza and Kintyre and how long it would take to get there. And being a criminal of high intellect he would’ve studied everything there was to study about Arran including the poems the island inspired.

Megan could feel her resolve tear down the middle. Should she or should she not go to Gordon and Em with her conclusions?

An almost inaudible voice came to her from some distant corner of her common sense. "Nobody has said Ben is the thief," it whispered. "Innocent until proven guilty. How will it look if you are wrong? Do you really believe he could be this wanted criminal. Really, truly believe, beyond doubt? You think you have it all worked out. But do you? Better leave it alone! Stay away! He will leave you, you know that. By choice or by force, he will leave. But at least let him go without your accusations. Stay out of it! Let the police do their job."

She’d listen to that voice, she decided as she dressed and fired up the Aga. She’d think ahead to the Tartan Ball. It would be fun with good food, good friends and good music. The Ball became like the red umbrella—a splash of color in an otherwise grey scene.

***

Cloyfell Castle stood on a small hump nestled in the Goatfell Valley. More modern than most of Scotland’s castles, Cloyfell had been built in the early 1800's and represented the best that money had been able to buy during that period. In some of her first attempts at writing articles, Megan had focused on Cloyfell and knew its history well, right down to the incredibly rich and eccentric slave trader who had the place designed to prove he knew what was architecturally popular at that time, that being a Medieval revival. For a relatively new building by most standards, Cloyfell looked and had the feel of some ancient stronghold. She’d always enjoyed Cloyfell and was slightly annoyed that the events of the last few days were clouding her happiness.

"And The Rock Of Ages is where?" Megan asked as she stepped out of the Volvo into the watery twilight.

Amelia allowed Gordon to help her out. "In the safe, just as you suggested."

Megan took a deep relaxing breath. On their way from The Monk’s Hood to Cloyfell Castle, they had been discussing the arrangements. Em had gone ahead to the Ball and she would leave before eleven o’clock when The Monk’s Hood closed its lounge and Archie went home. There were plenty of other pubs in Whiting Bay to accommodate those wishing to imbibe into the wee hours and beyond. Colin would pop in on the half hour to make sure Marion, at her usual station at the reception desk, was encountering no problems. Francois had declined Amelia’s suggestion to accompany them to the dance. He wanted an early night as he was catching the first ferry out in the morning. He had been given Saturday off, if she remembered, and he wanted to make the most of Ardrossan on the mainland. He had friends there he hadn’t seen in years.

In terms of protecting The Rock Of Ages, everything, it seemed, had been taken care of. Everything but Ben Scofield. Only Archie had seen him. Apparently Ben had left the hotel just before lunch and as far as anyone knew, he hadn’t returned. Megan found a small degree of relief in that information. But not much. Ben would wait until the hotel was quiet. He’d slip into the office and upon seeing The Rock was not on its usual shelf in the cabinet, would try the most obvious place—the safe—and he knew where it was. A simple combination lock wouldn’t slow him down.

She hoisted the skirt of her white dress to keep it from the wet gravel and started toward the castle. The Rock and Ben were not going to spoil this lovely evening. Every year the Tartan Ball was more spectacular than the last and she couldn’t wait to walk through the ancient wooden doors into that sparkling world of enchantment.

The smile she pasted on with such determination disappeared and reformed as a gasp of pure delight when she stepped into the Great Hall. The Historical Society had created a fairyland of dark green, brown and purple cloth draped from the center of the beamed ceiling and attached half way down the walls by stiff golden bows only to cascade to the floor. Candles burned from eight free-standing candelabrums strategically placed around the room. White winged creatures, fairies of all kinds, dangled from unseen threads overhead and danced in the breeze created by the guests.

Strings of tiny colored twinkling lights wound around the potted plants, along the mantel that graced the huge log-burning fireplace, and wrapped themselves between the plates of food and the frozen table center on the buffet. The ice sculpture of Pan playing his pipes, reflected the changing colors of the little lights. The effect was magical and impressive.

Men in black jackets and kilts of every tartan paid court to women in long white gowns who were proudly shouldering their clan plaidies, their jewels sparking in the candlelight.

The atmosphere, best described as electric, sent Megan’s taut nerves into tingles of anticipation. The soft music came from a harpsichord, violin and flute. She sighed with pleasure, took a seat beside Amelia and accepted a glass of white wine and a lobster hors d’oeuvre offered by one of the many tartan waist-coated waiters moving discretely in and out of the crowd.

Quiet gaiety pervaded the gathering and Megan, sipping some wine, closed her eyes to enjoy both the smooth flavor of the drink and the sounds around her. What a marvelous way to spend a Friday night, she thought. No hotel guests to cater to. Not a care except whether or not to have another lobster tail.

"Ah, here you are!"

Megan’s eyes flew open to see Marguerite Heatherington clipping across the great hall in full sail, the white dress billowing around her slim frame, the predominately red Bruce tartan plaidie clasped precariously on her shoulder by a massive yellow cairngorm brooch.

"My, but you’re a sight for sore eyes, Gordie," she said, grinning widely in appreciation at Gordon’s silver buttons and leather sporran. "And Amelia and Megan, always lovely."

Gordon nudged Em with his elbow. "Have you picked which innocent young lad you’re going to hook for the first dance? Knowing you, you’ll not be sitting it out. And you stand a better chance with somebody who has never met you before tonight."

"Why you cheeky rascal," Em retorted, feigning offense. "I’ll take great pleasure in telling you that I found myself a dance partner long before you lot arrived. Now, where did he get to?"

While Em scanned the hall, Gordon continued his lighthearted prattle. "Probably got a good look at you and ran away."

"Aha! There he is," Em cried, raising her hand and waving to someone across the room. "Over here! We’re over here!"

Megan could not see the lucky fellow because she had remained seated during the conversation and so she was totally unprepared for the sight of the fabulous man marching in their direction. The crowd parted easily before him. The ripples of power reached her while he was still a few paces from her. Flustered, she nearly spilled her wine. The cracker fell into crumbs on her lap. The blood rushed so quickly to Megan’s head she barely heard Amelia’s appreciative whistle.

Ben Scofield, thief or no thief, looked as though he’d been born to wear the kilt. The white shirt with its gently starched ruffles enhanced the tan of his skin and the deep blue of his eyes. He was neither smiling nor stern. The black velvet jacket seemed hardly adequate against the accentuated width of his shoulders. The lovely dark green, navy and white of his kilt with its grouse claw pin, moved in obedient pleats when pushed by his knees as he walked. The black leather and silver sporran demanded Megan’s attention and as this brought all kinds of indecent thoughts to her mind, she pulled her eyes down to his legs. His skean dhu stuck out from the top of one of his knee-high socks and his black shoes had been highly polished.

Not in her wildest dreams, nor her most erotic fantasies, had Megan ever come close to imagining that he could affect her with such intensity. He could have walked straight out of an historical romance, she thought hazily as he sent her mind catapulting back in time yet again, to an era of strife and fear, where life was precious due to its very uncertainty, to King Robert. Back to a time of unbridled passion and undeniable love. Even though her reason told her men did not wear attire such as this in the thirteen hundreds, she could not disconnect the notion from the essence of the powerful man now standing in front of her. And she also found it fleetingly interesting that Em Heatherington wore the Bruce tartan.

Megan was having trouble breathing normally and she was well aware of the heat in her cheeks. Ben Scofield was absolutely the most magnificent looking man in the world. She could no longer deny herself that. But she could not, would not forget who he was on the inside despite what she had once thought his soul told her. The one benefit to him being here, she realized suddenly, would be that he wasn’t at The Monk’s Hood stealing The Rock Of Ages.

With that relieving notion, she inclined her head in a slight bow, and said, "I’m surprised to see you. I thought you had either locked yourself away for the night or had left the island."

"Megan!" gasped Amelia. "For heaven’s sake, don’t start. Ben! You look absolutely fabulous. I’m very glad you could make it. But where did you get the kilt from? And that beautiful sporran?"

He smiled at Amelia. "There’s a real nice guy in Greg’s Garage who happens to be a MacLean. Who knows? He could be some distant relative of my mother’s. He’s the same size as me. I had to get my rental car towed in the other day, and we got to talking about this fancy party. Said he’d lend me his kilt if necessary. The jacket was a bit of a problem though. Turns out I’m a bit wider than him." He paused and turned to Megan. "The sporran and skean dhu are my grandfather’s. I had them express couriered over from Canada. They arrived late this afternoon." His expression grew serious. "They came with a letter from my mother. Apparently my Gramps is quite ill. She’d like to me return as soon as possible. I’m making arrangements to fly home. I’ll likely be leaving here tomorrow."

Megan’s heart plummeted at the realization that she really would never see him again. But her suspicions helped her heart quickly return to its natural position and her eyes narrowed. What a superb actor! Sick grandfather, my foot! In fact, she now seriously doubted that any of his stories about his childhood on a prairie farm contained a single grain of truth.

Em touched Ben’s arm. "Don’t worry about a thing." Then Em winked at Ben with a deliberate slowness that disturbed Megan. It was as though Ben Scofield, thief extraordinaire, and Marguerite Heatherington, Triple I super sleuth, shared a very special secret. And that, in Megan’s opinion, simply didn’t add up.

She glanced at Gordon. He was frowning sympathetically. Wasn’t he always going on about Em’s wonderful ‘nose’? Well, didn’t her wonderful nose catch the scent of the bad guy standing right beside her? What was wrong with them? Or were they all acting again? Maybe Em did know about Ben and wanted him close to keep an eye on him.

The harpsichord music stopped to make way for the skirl of the bagpipes and anyone sitting stood up. Two pipers and a drummer cut a swath through the middle of the hall. Behind them came the lord and lady of Cloyfell Castle and the local dignitaries including the head of the Historical Society, James Lachlan. A stately grey-haired old gentleman, James Lachlan stood in the center of the room and waited for the pipes to finish. He thanked the appropriate people, and bid all in attendance have a grand time. Food and drink would be constantly available until one in the morning when he hoped people would leave full of happy memories and of good cheer from the knowledge that, because of their attendance at the Tartan Ball another piece of Arran’s history had been preserved. He ended with a nod aimed at the pipers who had now donned an accordion and violin and said, "Start the dancing!"

Megan bit her lip. If Ben turned out to be an expert Scottish Country dancer, she might seriously consider throwing herself off the nearest parapet.

Em took Ben’s hand. "Okay, Handsome. It’s a waltz. Let’s go show you off. Make a few females swoon."

Gordon claimed Amelia and soon the dance floor was a whirling multi-colored sea of black, white and tartan. Megan knew how well Ben could waltz from her time in his arms at the hospital fund raiser. She remembered his politeness and ease, his consideration of her as he guided her between the couples. He obviously had the same affect on Em because she was smiling brightly at whatever Ben was saying. Megan felt a pang of jealousy as did the middle-aged women on the next couch who had to talk quite loudly to hear each other over the pipes and drums.

"Who is he?" queried one.

"Who cares," was the jovial reply. "What I wouldn’t give for one night with him!"

A third added fuel to the speculation. "I saw him yesterday outside the chemist’s in Brodick having a rather intense conversation with that retired teacher fellow over there."

"A fight was it?" asked the first.

"I wouldn’t say a fight exactly," lady number three explained. "More like a heated discussion between two people debating. Like a father and son. The father giving his advice to a son who wanted to do the right thing but wasn’t going to follow his father’s advice to do it. Does that make sense to you girls?"

"Och, aye," the other two chorused.

"So, how’d they part?" asked the first. "I can just see the young him stomping off in a brooding bad mood."

"Stomped off to the nearest pub, you mean," added the second, sarcastically.

"Yer both way off." The informant took a deep breath as she relished the power she held over her two cronies. "The old gaffer clapped the young him on the back and then they just went their own ways. There’s no chance a man with that kind of aura about him would stomp off into a pub. He’s got a lot more going for him than that."

The first nudged the second, a broad grin slicing her round face. "Listen tae her. Did ye know her mither was a gypsy? And her seeing auras all this time and no’ telling us."

Megan stepped away from the women now laughing at their own silliness. Gordon and Ben? Talking together? Her mind started to whirl like the colors on the dance floor. There were too many possible permutations and computations to work through and the atmosphere was far from conducive to deep thinking.

When the players finished the graceful waltz and the drummer called, "Everyone take your partners for the Eightsome Reel," Megan gladly accepted James Lachlan’s extended hand. She’d enjoy trying to remember the intricate patterns of the dances.

As she took her place in the circle, she noticed Em and Ben returning to the couch. She knew Ben watched her. His eyes felt like burning coals on whichever part of her body she turned in his direction, making her lift her chin higher, step more daintily and smile continuously.

She tried in vain to escape his smouldering look but could not. The hall was not, and never would be, big enough. Nor could she escape the sensations his attention caused within her; a heat that melted her resolve to push him from her mind, a pulsating longing to have him crush her against his chest and gaze down upon her with the same enticing expression he saved for minuscule fragments of time when no one else could see. But more than ever, she was convinced that Amelia had been correct. Ben desired her as much as she desired him. Megan didn’t think she was being conceited. She was reacting purely to her instinct, to the age-long male and female mating signals that were buried under layers of civilization. She felt beautiful and madly seductive. In all her life she’d not once been so overtly admired and it sent her self-esteem soaring.

But, of course, the Ben of her dreams was impossible. He was leaving. He was a phony. Megan’s feet missed a step and she faltered. James whispered instructions to her and she soon regained her place in the set. She was filled with loathing for Ben Scofield and what he had done to her life. James spoke words of encouragement, obviously hoping to help her regain her happiness, but nothing could mend her change in spirit.

James Lachlan partnered Megan for two more dances, A Strathspey and The Duke of Atholl’s reel, before leading her back to her seat. Ben turned to speak to her, but she sent him a glower of such ferociousness that his mouth snapped shut.

Flushed pink with exertion, Amelia excused herself, and left the hall. His partner now gone, Gordon bowed low and asked Em if she’d like to dance The Gay Gordons.

"I’d be delighted," Em replied, "providing Megan dances with Ben." She sent Ben a sly expression. "It’s not hard, boy. You’ll catch on."

Ben’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "I already know how to dance The Gay Gordons. My grandfather taught me."

Megan made a derisive snort. Em raised her eyebrow. "You don’t believe him? Make him prove it!"

Ben held up his hand. "I’ve never forced a woman to dance with me. If Megan doesn’t want to then that’s fine."

Em interrupted. "Oh, for heaven’s sake. Get out there, the pair of you. Life’s much too short for this kind of shenanigans. You’re young. The castle is beautiful. And I don’t want you ruining my lovely evening with your sulking." She wagged her finger at them. "I don’t know what’s going on but I’m asking you to pretend it’s nothing." Her voice grew soft. "Please. Have some fun together tonight. Who’s to say what tomorrow will bring!"

Megan’s thoughts were harsh. A pair of handcuffs and a broken heart. That’s what tomorrow will bring. But before she could offer an argument, Ben had slipped his fingers around hers and was pulling her onto the floor. Megan’s cheeks grew hot when she noticed the three women on the next couch staring at her as though she was insane for even so much as hesitating to dance with the handsome stranger.

Megan refused to help Ben. If he truly knew The Gay Gordons, he’d know what to do. His arm would be across her shoulders, holding her inside hand. The other would hold her arm across his abdominal area. Without so much as the slightest pause, he placed her precisely where she should be and held her fingers lightly in the proper positions.

"Now, let me see if I remember right," he said as the opening chords sounded and he proceeded to talk them through the dance. "Four steps forward, turn, four steps behind. Repeat in the other direction. Birl your partner for eight with one finger. Waltz for eight. Start again. How am I doing so far?"

She sniffed haughtily, thankful it wasn’t the kind of dance that made talking to your partner easy. When it was over, he bowed and she dropped into a low curtsey. The drummer announced an old-fashioned waltz and Megan would have returned immediately to the couch but Ben stepped in front of her.

"I know I said I’ve never forced anyone to dance with me. But can you manage one more dance, please. I promise I won’t bug you again."

The flickering light played strange tricks with his eyes. It was as though the warm glow came from inside him instead of from the candles.

"One more," she said. As his arm wrapped snugly around her waist, Megan steeled herself against the treachery of her body. She knew what would happen if she lowered her defenses. She’d become another set of clichés, a spineless jellyfish, a lovesick maiden, or the proverbial moth to a flame. She clenched her teeth together to prevent herself from smiling adoringly up at him when he swung her into the circle. ‘Don’t look at him, don’t smell his aftershave, don’t even think’ became her mantra.

Not a moment too soon, for her senses were buckling under his power, the dance came to an end. "Oh, Megan," he said, breathing into her hair. "I’m going to miss you."

She defied her common sense and brought his eyes up to meet his. "You have no right to talk to me like that." She had intended her words to be scathing but they had come out in a breathless whisper.

They were still standing in the middle of the hall. Around them people were preparing for another dance. Ben took her hands and gently squeezed her fingers. His thumbs caressed her knuckles. Megan knew she was crumbling beneath what she decided was his polished expertise and prayed for enough strength to maintain her dignity. Tears were not so far away.

"You have made my trip to Arran a magical, unforgettable experience," he said. "I know I have caused you pain and I’m sorry, more sorry than I can say." He brought his mouth down gently to her parted lips in a brief kiss, then turned abruptly on his heel and walked out of the hall, leaving her fragile and shaken. Her eyes would not be torn from his broad back. Her last sight of Ben Scofield would be of his clenched fists at his sides and the swing of the MacLean tartan kilt.

For Megan, the fairyland that was Cloyfell Castle’s Great Hall disappeared with Ben’s leaving. She spent the rest of the night in numb resignation, barely tasting the delicious food. She wouldn’t have noticed Em’s departure later at eleven o’clock except that Em offered to let her ride in her taxi back to The Monk’s Hood and she readily accepted, allowing the driver to drop her off at home. Em had been blessedly quiet during the ride from the Goatfell Valley to Whiting Bay. But now and then the older woman would pat Megan’s arm and sigh, and Megan took those moments as a sign that Em had more than an inclination about what had transpired between her and Ben. And more importantly, the lack of small talk helped Megan keep her tongue from spilling out all that she knew about Ben being the thief. She wasn’t ready to turn him in. Not yet anyway.

Alone at last in her cottage, Megan stripped off her dress and undid the plaidie. She stood in front of her full-length mirror, the white satin of her slip tight against her body, her face pale and pinched with stress. She’d fix herself a nice cup of brandy-laced tea and go to bed.

The telephone rang, making her jump. It was Em. "You’d better get down here. Now!"

Megan stuffed her feet into her hiking boots, pulled on an overcoat and ran down the road to The Monk’s Hood. She dared not even put a name to the pain or the fear in her heart.