“Nothing, silly girl!” Eileen replied, laughing carefully. “I used my bad arm. It’s still painful, but it will heal.”
“She will be fine,” Teresa said warmly. “I will gie her a wee bit milk o’ the poppy in a wee while, but no’ too much. Ye have tae be careful o’ yon stuff.”
“Thank you,” Caitlyn smiled. “I will go and do some riding, then. I will be back soon. Goodbye, Mammy, Teresa.”
They watched her as she went out.
“Fine young wummin,” Teresa said, smiling.
“Indeed she is!” Eileen agreed. “All we need to do now is find her a fine young man!”
Caitlyn went downstairs, thankfully seeing no more of Alastair on the way out. The horse she had borrowed, a spirited mare called Bettie, was just as glad as she was to be out in the open air again, for she tossed her head and broke into a spontaneous canter as soon as she was over the drawbridge. Caitlyn laughed; Bettie was obviously feeling the same way as she was.
There was something oppressive about Mullach Castle, as though there was a phantom hiding in every shadow. The staff were quiet and did not make eye contact with her unless she spoke to them first, and the corridors and passageways were dark and echoing. Caitlyn hoped her mother made a speedy recovery, because the sooner she was out of this benighted place the better!
The one magical thing about Mullach Castle was its views. Set as it was on its table top hill, it gave a panoramic view in all directions, and it was magnificent. The hill sloped straight down to the North Sea, with only a narrow strip of sandy beach dividing it from the shore. The frothy waves, orwhite horses,in local parlance, were galloping onto shore propelled by gale force winds from a developing storm on the horizon.
Stripes of lemon-yellow gorse hedges, which she knew had lethal spikes, ran down the hill in between meads of bright pinkish-purple heather, and here and there the black shadow of a sentinel fir tree stood watching over its domain, its pointed crown bent backward, obeying the will of the prevailing wind.
Caitlyn knew she would be able to see only a fraction of the estate that day, but hopefully, if they were forced to stay any longer, she would be able to extend her reach.
She rode around for half an hour admiring the views, but keeping an eye on the massive cloud banks on the horizon which were threatening torrential rain. Unfortunately the threatening weather had made it impossible for a more thorough exploration, but she would be here for some time yet, she consoled herself. She rode into the castle gates just in time to miss the storm, but as soon as she was under its roof, a pall of gloom settled on her again like a black rain cloud over her head.
She went up to see her mother again, but she had fallen asleep with a smile on her face, and Caitlyn smiled too, wondering what she was dreaming about. Teresa was sitting sewing by the fire. Caitlyn decided to explore the castle.
She noticed one strange thing right away. The servants would glance at her then look away and hurry on. On another occasion, three of them were talking in whispers and occasionally glanced at her, but when they saw her gazing back they scurried away.
The castle might have had a stern and sullen atmosphere, but it was still a fine piece of architecture. The marble floors were exquisitely patterned with inlaid marble in different shades. The ceiling in the main hallway depicted a painting of ancient Roman gods and goddesses, a subject which had always fascinated her.
There were paintings hanging on every wall, each with a unique gold-leafed frame, and every satinwood door that led off the hallway was graced with its own decorative surround of Corinthian pillars, scrolls, and bunches of grapes. The massive chandeliers that hung from the roof sparkled in the daylight, each crystal making its own sparkling rainbows.
Why then, in a place so full of light, did it seem to be so dark? It was her imagination, she knew, but it was still frightening.
Caitlyn meandered on, going up this staircase and that, trying to ignore the whispering of the servants behind her.
If I show no interest, perhaps they will go away,she thought. She felt extremely uncomfortable, but she would not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing it.
Presently she came to a particularly dark staircase, but she could just make out what looked like a painting of Alastair at the top of it. He was sitting on a leather chair with a golden spaniel sitting on his lap, and was wearing a dark red cloak.
She went up to it to look at it more closely, and then she realized that it was not him at all, the nose being slightly longer and the lips a little thinner. The painter had captured the deep, dark eyes perfectly, however. They stared out at the viewer with an intensity that was almost equal to that of the living eyes themselves.
This must be his father, but the two men were so alike as to be almost indistinguishable from one another. She stood and looked at the portrait for a while, but was just about to turn away and descend the stairs again when she heard a noise that sounded like a woman weeping in the room next to her.
Without stopping to think, she knocked on it to find out if all was well inside. A few seconds later she heard heavy footsteps crossing the room, and had less than a second to take a step backward before the door was wrenched open so hard that it shuddered on its hinges.
Alastair was standing there glowering at her, his brows drawn down into a fearsome frown, face flushed with rage. Before she could say a word he closed the door behind him so that she was unable to see inside the room, then he gripped her arms so hard that she moaned in pain.
“What are you doing here?” he asked furiously. “I want no strangers snooping around my home to pry into our family business. We need no interference from outsiders.”
“I-I was not prying,” she answered. “I was looking at the paintings when I heard someone weeping. I thought I might be of assistance. I am sorry if I did wrong.”
Alastair looked down at her and saw that she was trembling. Suddenly he felt sorry and ashamed in equal measure. He knew that he was not a man with an outgoing disposition—in fact, he spent most of his time alone—but he had never behaved like this before.
What was she doing to him? Perhaps her kindness and softness were touching his soul, but he quashed that thought at once. It was more likely that her beautiful green eyes and cascade of glorious red hair had brought out a need that he had been suppressing for a very long time.
It was the simple, primitive need of a man for a woman that made him want to gather her into his arms and kiss her, feeling her pliant woman’s body pressed against his, inhaling the scent of her hair and arousing his senses.
“Forgive me, M’Laird,” she said stiffly. “I meant no harm, and as soon as my mother recovers we will take our leave and trespass on your hospitality no more. If it suits M’Laird, we will take all our meals in our rooms from now on. Good day.” She curtsied politely then ran down the stairs before he could say another word.
