Читать книгу The Journey Home - Fiona Hood-Stewart - Страница 9

Midlothian, Scotland

1999

By the time he’d missed his third pheasant, Jack Buchanan was in a foul mood. It did not improve when, instead of falling to the ground with a satisfying thud, the last bird fluttered into the gray Scottish sky, unscathed.

He lowered the shotgun, irritated. Pheasants did not fly away. They fell obediently, just as junior executives and the other members of his entourage jumped into action when they were supposed to.

He entered the glen briskly, realizing he was having a bad day. He knew to expect it, for this particular day was always bad. Each year he thought he’d get the better of the pain that still rose to the surface, as boldly now as it had then, and every year it got the better of him. He cocked the gun in preparation, willing his mind to concentrate fully on the task at hand. The next bird would not escape him.

He didn’t have long to wait before catching sight of his prey, and he aimed carefully before slowly squeezing the trigger.

A split second later he stood frozen to the spot, his gut clenched, cold sweat breaking out under the heavy shooting jacket. He’d just missed a figure who’d walked straight into his line of fire.

Missed, by an inch of fate.

Thank God for the reactions he’d learned years ago that enabled him to deviate the shot, sending it ripping into a tree trunk a few degrees to the right.

“Are you okay?” he shouted anxiously, trying to make out who it was. There was a moment’s silence followed by the echo of his own voice. Horrified, he slung the shotgun through his arm, the dogs following close to heel. Bracken crackled noisily under his boots as he strode quickly toward a tall slender woman standing motionless among the trees, her ashen face surrounded by long chestnut hair.

“Are you all right?” he asked, eyeing her anxiously. Slowly tension gave vent to annoyance as he realized she was unhurt. “Don’t you know it’s not safe to walk in the woods in the middle of the shooting season?” he asked accusingly.

“Hey! Wait just one minute. You nearly killed me,” she exclaimed, suddenly coming to life with a shudder. “Plus, if anyone has no business being here it’s you. This is private land.”

“I’m well aware of that, but I have the owner’s permission to shoot every darn grouse or pheasant that happens to cross my path,” he answered sarcastically, irked by her sudden self-assurance. “I’m sorry I scared you, but you’re to blame for this incident, you know. You should keep your eyes on the ground, not up in the clouds, and be aware of where you’re walking. Sit!” he snapped curtly, for the pointers were still scuffling in the undergrowth, trying to pick up the scent of the bird their master had missed.

“What nerve!” she exclaimed. “This land belongs to the Dunbar estate, and you’re trespassing.” She glared at him, steadying herself against the tree as she spoke. Jack looked at her properly now, suddenly struck by the strange color of her eyes, a grayish-green that reminded him of the North Sea on a windy summer’s day. They also held a very determined look, and he was in no mood to argue.

“See that tree over there?” He pointed to his left. “That is where this property, namely Dalkirk—” he began patiently.

“Rot and rubbish. You’re on my land, and if you don’t leave immediately, I’ll call the authorities,” she said, cutting him short.

“And just how do you plan to do that?” he demanded, his tone as challenging as hers.

“None of your business. If you don’t know how to use a gun properly, you shouldn’t be carrying one. You’re careless.”

He bristled. No one called Jack Buchanan careless. “Look, miss. I’m a houseguest of Sir Peter and Lady Kinnaird. As I’ve already told you, I have their permission to shoot on their property.”

She straightened, drawing her tall, slim figure to its full height, and cast him a withering look.

“Maybe in America being a houseguest gives you the right to invade other people’s property, but let me assure you that in Scotland it doesn’t. Now, I’d like to get past, please.” She took a step forward, then halted. “By the way, for future reference, that fence over there is the boundary between the two estates.”

Jack’s eyes followed her gloved finger over the dogs’ heads to a dilapidated fence, barely visible among the foliage and bracken.

Seeing it only made him more exasperated. He bowed in mock surrender as she strode past him, her head held high, and watched as she started down the incline, her shoulders ramrod straight in an old green jacket worn over a pair of faded jeans.

Feisty, he remarked to himself with a spark of grim amusement, then whistled to the dogs. The incident had unsettled him. He knew he was at fault. Not entirely perhaps, but he should have been paying more attention instead of brooding over the past, as he had done on this day each November for the last twelve years.

He was about to leave when something on the ground caught his eye. He stooped. It was a solitary diamond pendant glistening on the bed of dead leaves and broken twigs. Scooping it up, he called after the woman as she reached the clearing.

“Hold it, I think you dropped something.”

He watched her stop, sway for an instant as though trying to maintain her balance, then crumple silently to the ground, like a limp marionette. Dropping the pendant into the depths of his pocket, he raced down the incline to where she lay, prostrate on the dank earth.

Habit made him prop the gun against a tree trunk, sheer discipline keeping him from allowing emotion to cloud his mind. He banished all feelings of remorse and self-recrimination to the nether regions of his brain, and assessed the situation.

The raw November afternoon was fading fast, the sky heavy with clouds, and a chill in the air announced snow. Gently lifting her limp body, he gazed at her lifeless face. All at once, past images sprung before his eyes, a shaft of uncontrollable anguish tearing through him like a bullet, ripping his heart and piercing his gut as another face, a face so beloved and yearned after, replaced the one of the woman lying still and pale in his arms.

That this should have happened today of all days was the cruelest twist of fate. For a brief moment pain slashed into him, as rampant now as it had been then.

He forced himself to breathe deeply before heaving the woman carefully into a sitting position against his chest, her head propped against his shoulder. He sent up a silent prayer when she moved ever so slightly. Thank God she was going to be okay. When she finally stirred, he caught the fleeting whiff of her perfume. It lingered in the sea breeze that blew inland from the Firth of Forth and could still be felt, even here, in the heart of Midlothian. Her eyes twitched and he leaned closer, trying to catch the gist of her whispered words as she drifted back to consciousness. Then he set himself to the task of seriously reviving her.

India Moncrieff came to with a splutter. Something strong and pungent was burning in her throat. She struggled to sit up farther, but was restrained by a powerful hold.

“Drink some more,” a firm, masculine voice ordered.

Before she could answer, more liquid was tilted down her throat. Finally she found her voice.

“Please stop,” she begged, choking, her disjointed thoughts slowly taking shape. All at once she remembered. She’d been shot at. She hadn’t been hit, but the shock and fear of the moment must have caused her to faint. She felt suddenly ridiculous. She’d never fainted in her life. Then she realized, to her dismay, that the arm behind her head must belong to the obnoxious American, the one responsible for this whole mess.

“Just do as you’re told and stop arguing,” the deep voice continued. “The alcohol will get your blood moving. I’m going to move you over there.” Before she could protest, India was scooped up by a pair of strong arms, lifted as though she were a featherweight and deposited gently on a large tree stump.

“Where do you live?” he demanded, his hands still securing her arms in a firm grip.

“It’s really none of your business,” she muttered, wishing he would shut up. Perhaps then her head would stop spinning.

“You’ve made it my business. Whether I like it or not, you’re my responsibility.” He loosened his grip and stood up.

“Responsibility? I’d hardly call leveling rifles at people responsible. I’ll be fine on my own, thank you very much.” She passed a hand over her eyes and sat up straighter. Then, pulling herself together with an effort, she eyed the stranger, taking in the thick dark eyebrows that loomed ominously over a pair of piercing blue eyes. Eyes that held concern and, to her irritation, a touch of amusement.

“Do you think you can walk?” he asked doubtfully.

“Of course I can,” she lied, attempting to rise. “I’ll be perfectly all right. You can go now.”

“I won’t leave you here.”

“Oh, please just go. You’ve caused enough trouble already. I’ll be fine.” But he stood his ground, looming over her, tall, dark and scowling, as confident as though he owned the place.

“All you’ve done from the moment I’ve met you is complain,” he exclaimed, his mouth breaking into a smile that lit up his handsome face. “Now please. Stop arguing and be reasonable. If we don’t get moving we’ll be stuck out here in the dark, and I don’t have a flashlight.”

India eyed him with suspicion. “Who are you anyway?” she asked.

“My name’s Buchanan. Jack Buchanan. Like I told you, I’m staying at Dalkirk with the Kinnairds. Are you their neighbor?”

“I suppose so.”

“What’s does that mean?” he asked, puzzled. “Either you are or you aren’t.”

“Yes, I am the neighbor—in a way. Though I fail to see what that has to do with you,” she added, noticing the shadows flitting eerily to and fro in the failing afternoon light. She found the idea of being stuck by herself, with no light and little notion of how to get back to the house, rather daunting. She reluctantly swallowed her pride and rose.

“Since you’re determined to come along, we’d better go, though I’m sure I could manage. Thank you all the same,” she added as a grudging afterthought.

“Okay. Let’s get moving. By the way, what’s your name?”

“India Moncrieff,” she replied, cross that she couldn’t just walk off and dump him.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he replied, making no effort to conceal the cynical glint in his eyes.

India straightened her jacket. If he was a friend of Peter and Diana’s, there couldn’t be much harm in letting him take her back to the house. Except for the damage it was doing to her pride, she realized ruefully, watching him pick up his shotgun and whistle to the dogs, his dark hair tousled by the wind.

They emerged from the glen and headed toward the burn. At the first blast of biting wind whipping her face, India’s mood changed, as suddenly, all her reasons for being here today came to mind. She trudged on, thinking bleakly of what awaited her back at the house. She’d gone to the glen to flee reality, to try to find some peace, if only for a little while. But it had been a short-lived reprieve.

They crossed the rickety wooden bridge, the dogs splashing through the ice-cold water of the shallow burn, then shaking themselves vigorously on the other side.

As they began the short trek up the steep hill that led to the gardens and the lawn, India thought of the future, and what it would hold for her now that she was alone. Serena, her half sister, was her only close family now; she barely knew her cousins. A stab of loneliness made her catch her breath, but she pushed the thought aside, and directed her focus to the man beside her. His presence was rather forbidding, despite his rakish American good looks and determination to escort her home.

She quickened her pace and reached the top of the hill ahead of him, exhaling small white wisps into the cold wind. She leaned against the huge trunk of the ancient oak tree that stood tall and alone and gazed over at Dunbar. To her astonishment the sight filled her with an unexpected feeling of expectation rather than gloom.

All was not lost, some unknown voice seemed to say.

A sudden surge of new strength coursed through her, followed by a mantle of peace that descended strangely upon her from out of the mist. The tight knot that had been in her stomach ever since she’d arrived at Dunbar slowly began to unwind, and for an instant she could have sworn someone was next to her.

But the moment passed, disappearing into the penumbra so fast she wondered if she’d been dreaming. It was all too easy to be entranced by the mysticism of the place. Too easy to sigh, too easy to hope, too easy to dream dreams that could never, would never, come true.

Scotland had a soothing effect on Jack. Ever since his first visit four years earlier he’d loved it. The rough natural beauty, the unspoiled landscape and heather-covered hills bathed in soft shades of white and purple had enchanted him, and he’d felt an immediate connection. Now the auburn tones of autumn were fading into winter, as the trees bared their branches, and frost sparkled, a fairylike blanket covering the fields. Damp leaves were being burned nearby and the smell brought back childhood memories of Tennessee, of his parents, both dead long since, and Chad, his little brother, running, kicking leaves up in the air to the sound of their mother’s laughter.

He reached the top of the incline shortly after India and stopped, lowering his shotgun, drinking in the magnificence of the sight before him.

Across a vast stretch of manicured lawn stood Dunbar House, stately and majestic, its clean architectural lines softened by the gentle pink hue of the local stone, still visible among the fading shadows. A herd of Highland cattle, barely discernible through the mist, grazed peacefully in a field to the right of the east wing. Not a sound disturbed the magic tranquillity that reigned, serene and timeless.

It was an awesome sight, one that sent shivers running through him. “Does this place belong to your family?” he asked at last.

“Yes.” Her eyes, like his, were fixed on the house. “There have been Dunbars here forever. At least since the late 1200s. They were baron raiders then, roaming the countryside in hordes, stealing their neighbors’ sheep.”

“The house is amazing. When was it built?”

“The mid-1700s. William started it, building on to a previous smaller structure, but it was finished by Fergus Dunbar, a cousin who inherited when William’s son Rob was killed at the Battle of Culloden.”

“What was the old house like?” he asked, suddenly curious.

“I think it was a small hunting lodge, but I’m not quite sure.” She seemed anxious to go, but Jack stood still, entranced.

“It would make a fabulous hotel,” he remarked thoughtfully.

“Hotel?” Her head shot round, her expression horrified. “What a dreadful idea. I can’t think of anything worse. Dunbar has always been a home.”

“It was just a thought,” he countered apologetically. “Tell me more about Fergus.”

“Fergus did rather well for himself,” India said, moving toward the lawn. “During the uprising in 1745 he supported the English, and made lots of money. Since the rightful heir, Robert Dunbar, was conveniently dead, Fergus inherited and added on to the house. There’s a picture of him in the portrait gallery. I can’t say I like the looks of him, though. He’s always given me the creeps.”

“Why?” Jack asked, amused. “What did he do that was so bad?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged as they walked. “Some say he was a traitor. Lots of people around here were Jacobites, although they couldn’t admit to it. But even though they didn’t fight for Bonnie Prince Charlie, they never would have done anything to aid and abet the English.”

“Is that what Fergus did?”

“According to legend.” Again she shrugged and smiled. “I suppose stories get enhanced as the years go by. But he certainly made enough money to hire Adam to complete the house.”

“One of the Adam brothers?”

“Yes, the most renowned architect of that period.”

“He did a fine job.”

India glanced at him, her eyes softening. “I think so, too. It’s so serene, so…I can’t quite explain it.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

Their earlier antagonism seemed to have dissipated mysteriously in the cloak of gray mist surrounding them. By the time they reached the house and headed for a small door in the east wing, it was nearly dark.

Jack shuddered again for no reason and turned, glancing back across the lawn at the huge oak tree etched majestically on the dim horizon. Then his gaze moved to India, who was twisting the stiff brass doorknob on the heavy oak door.

“I guess you’ll be okay now.” He hesitated, catching a sudden glimpse of welcoming light that gleamed from behind the half-open door. “I think I owe you an apology,” he added reluctantly. “I didn’t think there would be anyone else out there today. My mistake.” He hadn’t meant it to sound so stiff, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt obliged to apologize to anyone. “I guess I’ll be on my way. Would you mind if I call a cab? I don’t know if I’ll find my way back through the glen now that it’s dark.”

He glanced up at the sky. Evening was closing in fast, and all of a sudden he wanted to stay. He saw a flash of irritation cross her face followed by distant politeness. It increased his desire to remain and he was now determined to go inside and see the house.

Usually, when Jack decided he wanted something, he made sure he got it. Now, for some perverse reason, he wanted to stay at Dunbar. This woman, this amazing house and the aura of peaceful mystery he instinctively sensed here intrigued him. She’d walked into his life on what, for the last twelve years, had been its worst day, and in some inexplicable fashion she’d marked it.

“Come on in. The telephone’s in the library.”

As India waited expectantly in the doorway, shrouded in a halo of pale light, her thick mane of chestnut hair glinting softy, Jack found himself thinking of mythical knights and princesses and of Gaelic lore.

Then she stepped aside and he entered the cluttered cloakroom filled with old mackintoshes and Wellington boots. The dogs scampered inside. India sent them scuttling down a passage, then closed the door quietly behind them.

He laid his gun down on a wooden bench and slipped off his jacket, hanging it next to hers. Then he followed her up the worn carpeted staircase and along a wide passage lined with ancient volumes. He glanced up, fascinated by the carved bookcases. The coat of arms seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Nor could he explain his sudden sense of anticipation. He’d felt it before on two previous occasions in his life, both of which had been momentous. But perhaps it was just the mist and the enchantment of the place that were juggling his senses. This was Scotland, after all.

He smiled to himself as they reached the end of the corridor, realizing that, whatever the feeling was, it felt good. He stepped forward and opened the door for India, allowing her to pass through into the library, and was immediately struck by the room’s warm, inviting atmosphere. The fire burned nicely amid seventeenth-century blue-and-white Delft tiles surrounding the grate, and, as in the passage, ancient volumes covered the walls from floor to ceiling. It was another example of that delightful shabby chic—as Diana Kinnaird referred to it—that enchanted him in Scotland and at which the British excelled.

“You Brits have a wonderful way of making everything feel as though it’s been around forever,” he remarked with a smile as they moved into the room, glancing at the tea tray strategically placed on a huge ottoman that stood between two sofas upholstered in bottle-green velvet. Some fringed paisley cushions and a cashmere throw were strewn on one, and a huge English sheepdog snoozed peacefully in the corner of the other.

“It’s in our genes.” Her eyes sparkled with sudden amusement. “Good quality, well-worn, not necessarily expensive but always comfortable. The phone’s over there by the way,” she added, pointing to a partner’s desk that dominated the wall on the opposite side of the room. It stood alone between two high windows framed by sagging drapes whose faded pattern melted lazily into the shadows. All of the pieces blended congenially. The faded chair covers, the books, the mahogany furniture and even the threadbare Kurdistan rug before the fireplace appeared undisturbed by the passage of time.

“The number should be on that blue pad next to the phone,” she remarked, moving toward the fireplace and rubbing her arms. “It was really getting freezing out there.”

“Lying on damp ground in mid-November isn’t going to warm you up,” he remarked, picking up a somewhat wilted pad with numbers scribbled all over it. He narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the writing. Some of the figures had been crossed out, others written over. The whole thing was so indistinct he wondered how on earth the inhabitants of this place knew where they were calling.

“Can’t you find it?” India asked.

He looked up and grinned. “Sorry, but this writing is pretty hard to make out. Maybe you know which number it is.”

“It should be about the third one down.”

“That says old MacFee, I think,” he said doubtfully.

“That’s right. He’s the local taxi driver. There is only one in the village.”

“I see.” Jack picked up the old-fashioned black telephone and dialed the rotary numbers, his fingers unused to the holes. There were several double rings, but no answer. He watched India, perched on the arm of one of the sofas, her long slim legs extending from below an oversize Aran sweater. He let the phone go on ringing, enjoying the sight. There was something composed and graceful about her, yet coupled with it was a restrained energy, rather like a thoroughbred ready to shoot out of the gate. To his utter discomfort he suddenly imagined what her eyes would look like when filled with deep emotions, such as pleasure.

He gave himself a good mental shake and hung up abruptly.

“It seems old MacFee isn’t home. If you don’t mind, perhaps I could try again in a few minutes.”

“Of course. In the meantime, would you like some tea?” The invitation lacked enthusiasm.

“Thanks. That’d be great.” Truthfully, he didn’t like tea, but perversely he accepted.

“Mummy’s writing is awful,” India remarked, reaching for the pad, a sad little smile curving her lips as she sat down on the sofa near the blazing fire. “Shove over, Angus, you take up far too much room. There’s a perfectly good rug for you to lie on.” She gave the dog a gentle nudge and Angus slid reluctantly to the floor, where he stretched out lazily before the fire.

India scrutinized the phone pad. “I’m afraid the other taxi service from Pennickuik isn’t on here. Anyway, I can’t remember the man’s name.” She looked up and raised her shoulders in a shrug. “If worse comes to worst I’ll drive you back. It can’t be far.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” He settled back comfortably into the sofa and laid one leg casually across the other knee, in no hurry to leave, determined to discover more about this fascinating house and it’s beautiful inhabitant.

India poured carefully from the large silver teapot and cast a surreptitious glance at the man sitting opposite, wondering how long she’d have to entertain him when there was so much she needed to deal with before tomorrow. He looked far too at ease, as though he planned to stay for a while. She tried to think who he reminded her of. Perhaps a taller, broader, American version of Pierce Brosnan. She laid down the pot, conscious that the pale yellow cashmere sweater and olive cord pants suited him rather well, and wondered how old he was. Mid-thirties, she reckoned, handing him a cup and looking at him full face.

Maybe it wasn’t Pierce Brosnan after all, she decided, reaching for the milk, but his face seemed somewhat familiar.

“How long are you staying at Dalkirk?” she asked, wishing she’d rung for the taxi herself. Maybe he’d dialed the wrong number.

“A few more days. I come here from time to time. Peter Kinnaird and I are partners and friends.”

“I suppose you must be in the hotel business, then?”

“Yes, I am. Say, I’ll take some more of that tea, it’s very good.” His fingers touched hers lightly as he handed her back the cup. “Peter and I merged some of our interests a few years ago. Asia and South America mainly. Instead of competing we’ve joined forces.”

“How productive.”

“Yes, it is. I also happen to like Peter quite a bit, so we have a good time doing business. What do you do?”

“I’m an interior designer.”

“Really? Private or commercial?” Jack asked, giving her his undivided attention, the force of his gaze making her shift her eyes quickly to the tray.

“Both, but mainly hotels. I did one of Peter’s, actually. The Jeremy in London. Perhaps you know it?”

“I sure do. I was at the opening, but I don’t recall you being there.” His eyebrows came together in a thick dark line over the ridge of his nose, giving him a severe look, and India got the feeling he’d be a difficult client.

“Unfortunately I couldn’t go. One of my closest friends chose that same weekend to get married.”

“Most unfortunate.” He shot her a quick smile. “You did a great job on the hotel. That statue in the hall, so linear and sleek in such a traditional setting, created an amazing effect. I like that look of understated luxury. You salvaged all the original architectural quirks, too, yet behind the scenes you created a modern hotel running like clockwork. That’s a hell of a challenge.”

India blushed under his gaze, aware that, for some strange reason, his praise meant something to her. Carefully she stirred her tea before answering. “I enjoy it. I could get lost in it if I’m not careful. There’s always a new challenge, and the fine line that has to be maintained when placing modern elements in classical surroundings is half the fun.”

“Peter told me the design company was out of Switzerland. Do you work for them?”

“No, I live in Switzerland. La Dolce Vita is mine.”

“I thought you lived here.” He raised a surprised eyebrow.

She hesitated a moment, then decided to tell him. “Dunbar belongs—rather, belonged to my mother.” For the last couple of hours she’d managed to put the strain and sorrow of the past few days aside. Now it returned in a torrential rush, reality pounding her once more.

“How come you say belonged? Has she sold it?”

“No.” India looked away. “She died, four days ago.”

In the silence that followed she folded the small linen napkin deliberately, determined to wink away the tears that pricked her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his expression dramatically altered, “I shouldn’t have asked—” The nonchalance was gone, replaced by deep consternation and compassion.

“It all happened very suddenly. She had a heart attack. Mercifully she didn’t suffer or have a long illness, and I’m awfully thankful for that,” she added, trying not to think how much she would miss Lady Elspeth.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated again softly.

For a short while they sat, the silence broken only by the crackling of a log shifting in the fire and Angus snoring faintly before the hearth.

Then India rose, her face shielded by her hair as she kneeled down next to the fire and removed the fireguard. She reached blindly for a log, trying desperately to hide the tears she could no longer hold back.

Jack moved swiftly to her side. “Let me do that.” He reached out, placed his hand over hers and took the log gently from her.

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” she mumbled, her voice quivering, tears trickling slowly down her cheeks.

After placing the log down on the hearth, Jack reached out his thumb and gently brushed away the tears. “You’ve had a rough day. I’m sorry I bothered you. I’ll leave and let you rest.” For an instant their eyes met and sorrow gripped him at the intense pain he saw written in hers. “It’s hard to lose someone you really love. It takes time,” he said quietly.

She nodded. “Thank you. I’m so sorry, I just…”

“You don’t need to explain, I understand.” He slipped a hand over hers, squeezing it before getting up. Then he took a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her silently before leaning forward and placing the log on the fire. He picked up the poker and prodded the fire, the flames picking up again. “It took me a very, very long while to recover,” he murmured, as though speaking to himself.

India rose and stood next to him, her face pale. “Was it one of your parents, too?”

“My wife.” He gave a vicious jab with the poker. A log fell at an odd angle and the flames rose higher once more. “She died twelve years ago today.” He placed the instrument carefully back on its stand, and for a while they stood next to each other, staring into the flames, each lost in their own world, but bonded by their grief.

The magic of the moment receded into the shadows when she turned away and sat down. He sighed, understanding her inner battle to come to grips with her feelings. He wished there was something he could do to help, but knew only she could come to terms with her own grief.

Then she looked up and gave him a small determined smile. “Would you like to see some of the house since you’re here?”

“Certainly. It’d be a pleasure,” he answered, returning the smile, relieved. Then he followed her out of the library into the large and drafty stucco hall.

He was agreeably surprised when an hour later it seemed as though only moments had passed. He was more than a little enchanted by India’s company, intrigued by her knowledge and what appeared to be her complete unawareness of the effect she had on a man. They’d wandered through endless rooms, turning lamps on as they went, while she told him stories, some amusing, others sad, about the ancestors who stared down at them from the Raeburn and Gainsborough portraits on the walls. With each tale her expression changed and watching her had become a fascinating diversion in and of itself.

They talked of hotels they knew, places they enjoyed and books they’d both read, and by the time they returned to the library, Jack was perplexed. He could not recall having established such an easy intimacy, in such a short time, with anyone.

“Gosh, it’s seven already,” India exclaimed as the hall clock chimed in the distance. “Would you like a drink before you go?”

“Sounds great,” Jack replied, old MacFee and the taxi forgotten.

“Go ahead,” she said, pointing to a silver tray laden with decanters that stood on an eighteenth-century Boule desk in the far corner of the room.

“Beautiful desk,” he remarked, pouring himself a whiskey. “What can I get you?”

“It is lovely, isn’t it? It’s said to have been bought at auction during the French Revolution. I’ll have a glass of sherry, please.”

Jack brought the drinks over to the fire and handed her a glass. “What are you working on now?” he asked.

“I have to be in Rio for the opening of La Perla, a hotel I finished a couple of months ago. There are still some last-minute touches to go over before the grand opening.” She leaned forward and stroked Angus’s head between the ears.

“That’s the Cardoso Group’s new place in Ipanema, isn’t it? Nelson Cardoso’s a friend of mine. That’s a big job,” he added, impressed.

“Yes, it was. I’m glad it’s over, though I enjoyed it. Nelson’s easy to work for, but the going back and forth got a bit trying by the end.”

“How long will you be in Rio?”

“Actually, I’m going to Argentina first. I promised Gabby O’Halloran—she’s an old friend from boarding school—that I’d redecorate the casco on her family’s estancia. It’s about an hour and a half out of Buenos Aires. I’ll probably stay there for Christmas.”

“You be careful in Rio. Last time I was there all the safes in the hotel were burgled. It’s incredible the things that happen in that city. They have to be seen to be believed. Funny you should mention Buenos Aires. Astra’s just bought into a partnership in a hotel down there.”

India sat up and looked at him. “Astra?”

“Yeah, my company.”

“You own the Astra Group?”

“Uh…yes. Is that good or bad?”

“Neither, it was just a comment.” She seemed embarrassed at having shown surprise.

“We’ve gone into partnership with the owners of the Palacio de Grès. Are you familiar with it? It was a private residence that had already been partially restored. They’d begun building the hotel behind it. Then the funding went dry and they realized they’d need experienced management as well, so they came to us. We liked the deal, and what do you know? Off on another venture.” He laughed, hoping to distract her.

“As a matter of fact, I visited the house once as a little girl,” India remarked. “The owners, Señor and Señora Carvajal y Queiroz, were friends of my parents. They must be very old now if they’re even still alive. I remember being fascinated by its beauty. It’s a unique example of its kind in South America.”

“Hernan Carvajal is the present owner. He told me he was left the property by his grandparents. I guess they must have been your parent’s friends.”

“What a treat to have the opportunity of working with such a wonderful setting. Are you going to preserve the house as the common area?”

“Exactly.”

“But tell me, how has the new hotel been conceived?” She leaned forward, eyes alive with sudden interest.

“As I said, we’re building vertically behind the house.” He put down his glass and leaned forward, pushing the tea tray aside. Then he began drawing with his forefinger on the velvet surface of the ottoman. “Let’s say this is the main house, okay?” She nodded. “When you go in, you have the black-and-white marble hall—”

“Which will be your perfect reception area!” she exclaimed, finishing the sentence for him. “You know, the old salon overlooking the gardens would make a perfect setting for tea. Even a bar,” she added thoughtfully. “Something in the style of what they have at the Alvear but—”

Her sentence remained in midair as the library door flew open, followed by a draft of cold air. Jack watched in astonishment as Lady Serena Hamilton marched into the room. What on earth would she of all people be doing here? he wondered, watching as she threw her suede jacket carelessly over a chair and walked toward the fire.

“I’m exhausted,” she exclaimed, rubbing her hands. “The weather’s simply foul and that wretched man at the funeral home is utterly incompetent. Ah, tea. Just what I need.” Jack saw India stiffen. Then, glancing at Serena, who’d turned abruptly toward him, he rose reluctantly from the sofa.

“Jack!” she exclaimed, smiling archly. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Hello, Serena,” he countered. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Her arrival couldn’t have been more unfortunate. As had been their one-night stand, he reflected grimly, wondering how she was going to play out the scene.

India watched, intrigued, as Jack and her half sister sized each other up, like two opponents, waiting to see who would strike first. She noticed that under the urbane surface Jack’s eyes had turned hard and unyielding. Like chips of blue ice, she realized with a shock. The relaxed individual of moments before had become a formidable adversary.

“You two know each other?” she asked, looking from one to the other, disconcerted by the underlying tension.

“In a manner of speaking.” Jack glanced at her. “I made Lady Serena’s acquaintance at a cocktail party the Kinnairds gave a while back.”

“Acquaintance?” Serena lifted a shapely eyebrow and threw him an arch smile before flopping onto the sofa next to where Jack had been seated. He remained standing and moved close to the fire. “You still haven’t told me what brought you here today.” She made a moue with her well-defined crimson lips.

“He brought me home from the glen,” India interjected, wishing at once that she hadn’t.

“The glen? What were you doing there?”

“I went for a walk,” she answered curtly, annoyed that she had to explain. She watched Serena stretch out her long legs, encased in black leather pants and boots, toward the fire. Angus stirred and turned over before the hearth.

“I took a potshot at her.” Jack smiled ruefully and glanced at India. “Since I nearly killed her, the least I could do was walk her home.” He leaned back against the mantelpiece and assessed Serena as he might a potentially dangerous situation. “Now you tell me. What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” she answered smugly.

This, India reflected, wasn’t strictly true. Serena lived—or was supposed to be living—at her flat in Edinburgh, though, according to their mother, she and her dreadful boyfriend, Maxi von Lowendorf, had been frequent visitors of late. It was strange, for Serena and her mother had never got on too well. India sighed, wishing she herself could have been here more often. Her mother had sounded troubled the last time they’d spoken on the phone, and India wished Lady Elspeth had told her more of what was preying on her mind. Now it was too late.

“Oh, now, about that tea…” Serena reached forward, then gave a tight, disappointed smile. “Oh, it’s cold and there’s no cup, of course. Never mind, I’ll just do without,” she said with a long-suffering sigh.

“I’ll get another pot,” India replied, glad of an excuse to escape. “And I’ll grab an extra cup, too.”

“Would you, darling? That’s awfully kind,” Serena murmured with a condescending smile.

India left the library and walked smartly along the corridor to the pantry. One never knew if Serena meant what she said or if she was being sarcastic. She grimaced, wishing she could like her half sister more.

In the pantry she removed a cup and saucer from the cupboard and then passed by the kitchen, drawn by the delicious smells of fresh baking that had reached into the corridor.

“Mmm,” India exclaimed. “That smells wonderful, Mrs. Walker.” Laying the cup down on the counter, she went over to the kitchen table where the housekeeper was wielding a wooden spoon in a large enamel bowl with zealous determination. “What are you making?” she asked, switching on the kettle.

“Preparing fer tomorrow,” Mrs. Walker answered with a sad shake of her gray head, her hazel eyes bright in a face creased with kindly wrinkles. “I wouldna’ want yer poor dear mother te’ feel ashamed, bless her soul.” She cast her eyes heavenward. “It’ll be quite a gathering. Lady Kathleen called earlier te’ see if we needed anything from the village before she comes back. Always thinks she has te’ be doing something, ye know. She’s awf’y upset about yer dear mother, but so are we all.” She laid the bowl down on the gnarled wooden table, and scraped the remains of the sponge cake batter off the sides of the spoon with a spatula. “Waste not, want not. That’s my motto and I’ve always lived by it.” She gave a satisfied last scour. “Well, as I was saying, Miss India, I said to Lady Kathleen, dinna’ you worry. Thirty years I’ve served the Dunbar family, first yer uncle, Sir Thomas, and the Lord knows he was no easy man, and then yer dear mother, may she rest in peace. It’d be a fine thing, I told her, if I wasna’ able te’ see te’ our ain guests.” There was an audible sniff.

“I’m sure she meant well. Kathleen’s always so thoughtful,” India said tactfully before leaning over the table and surreptitiously passing a finger around the edge of the bowl.

“Och, Miss India! Away with those fingers now!” Mrs. Walker swiped at India’s hand with a dishcloth.

“Scrumptious, Mrs. Walker, you haven’t lost your touch,” she answered mischievously, licking the tips of her fingers.

“Dearie me, when will ye ever grow up.” Mrs. Walker shook her head, smiling fondly. “I dinna’ like te’ think what yer poor mother would say.”

India grinned, picked up the cup and the steaming teapot and headed for the door. “I have to get back with Serena’s tea. We have an American guest in the library. By the way, he ate four of your scones, plus jam and clotted cream.”

“Would that be Sir Peter’s American? I’ve heard there’s one staying over at Dalkirk.”

“One and the same.”

“Aye, I thought so.” She nodded knowingly. “There’s nae too many of them about these parts. Mr. Hunter, the butcher, told me personally that Miss MacGregor had heard from Mrs. MacC.—the housekeeper from Dalkirk, ye know—that the American gentleman’s an awf’y nice-mannered young man. He brought her a special bottle of perfume all the way from America, and he never forgets te’ leave a wee something for the staff.” She gave another firm nod. “There was a lot of talk in the village when Sir Peter went into business with him, but it seems it’s all worked out fer the best.” Mrs. Walker began piling dirty dishes, and a plate slid dangerously from her arthritic grip. India stopped herself from rushing to the rescue and pretended not to notice, knowing Mrs. Walker’s pride would be sorely hurt.

She left the kitchen with a bright smile and heavy heart, dreading what the morrow might bring. She hoped desperately that the estate could afford to keep Mrs. Walker and the others on. There was old Tompson, and Mackay, the gardener. And the tenants. What would happen to them if—She pulled herself up short. There was no use worrying, she reflected, reaching the library. She heard voices just beyond the door and realized she’d completely forgotten about Jack and Serena, her mind so taken up with other things. She hesitated before entering and felt a pang of inexplicable disappointment. Somehow Jack hadn’t struck her as Serena’s type. She paused to gather her composure and heard Serena’s smug voice.

“I suppose India was terrified. She probably didn’t realize she was getting in the way. She’s not used to our way of life, poor thing.”

“The whole incident was entirely my fault,” Jack replied in his pleasant American drawl. “It was my careless behavior, not hers, that caused the incident. I should have been paying more attention.” His was a voice used to giving orders and not being thwarted, she noted, amused despite her anger at Serena’s snide comment.

She entered the library and lay the cup on the tray, surprised that he’d admitted the blame so frankly, and feeling a glimmer of satisfaction at his deft handling of Serena.

“Thanks, darling.” Serena smiled benignly. At thirty-six she looked good, the slim figure from her modeling days in London still intact, and though her clothes were too flamboyant for India’s taste, she could carry them.

India wondered suddenly just how “acquainted” they actually were. Serena’s arched eyebrow and Jack’s discomfort, though quickly disguised, had not escaped her.

And what did it matter anyway? She sat down heavily, suddenly exhausted, the emotional stress of the last few days finally catching up with her.

Serena was telling a long, drawn-out story about the Kinnairds, herself and some of her aristocratic connections. India listened with half an ear to the monotonous monologue, and tried to take a polite interest. But when she caught Jack looking surreptitiously at his watch, she realized it was time to intervene.

When Serena paused for breath, India grabbed her chance. “It’s getting quite late. Please tell me when you feel we should get going.”

“Get going? Where?” Serena demanded, her voice imperious. “Have another drink, Jack, there’s really no hurry.”

“No thanks. I’ve had quite enough.”

The most unobservant person would have picked up the dryness of his tone. But not Serena. India was embarrassed despite herself. “I’m taking Mr. Buchanan back to Dalkirk,” she said formally. “There’s no cab available.”

“You have to be joking. You? You wouldn’t know your way to the end of the drive, let alone to Dalkirk.” Serena gave her a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Why not? I’m perfectly capable of getting in the car and following some directions. I’m sure you can tell me the easiest way to get there.”

“No, no. I can’t possibly allow it.” Serena turned to Jack. “She’s so kindhearted, poor thing, always doing things for others, but I can’t possibly let her go out on a night like this when she barely knows the way.”

“Stop being ridiculous, Serena,” India retorted, trying to mask her anger, writhing inwardly when Serena smiled patronizingly, as though she were explaining something to a very small child.

“I’ll just call the cab again. Maybe old MacFee will be home by now.” Jack stepped toward the desk.

“Good heavens, you won’t find him in at this time,” Serena interjected. “Old MacFee will be on his third round at the Hog and Hound by now. Don’t worry, Jack darling. I’ll take you. I know my way about like the back of my hand. I’m not likely to get lost.”

Jack hesitated, obviously not too pleased. Suddenly India gave up the fight, realizing it was pointless to have a quarrel, and decided to let Serena take him if she so wanted to. Not having to go out in the dark, on a road she didn’t know, and in what looked as though it might develop into a nasty snowstorm, would be a welcome relief. Her head was throbbing, her feet were killing her and all she wanted now was to get some rest. For a fleeting moment she wondered what Serena’s motive was for wanting to go. Maybe they knew each other far better than she suspected. If so, it was none of her business, and the sooner they left her in peace, the better.

Jack opened the door to allow them passage into the hall. Serena grabbed her jacket and barged through, heading straight for the porch, and down the stone steps to the heavy oak front door.

“See you later, India. I’ll lock up when I get back,” she threw over her shoulder.

Jack turned. Serena’s footsteps still echoed between them as they stood face-to-face under the high dome of the dimly lit stucco hall. There was a sudden lull, each waiting for the other to speak.

“You take care,” he said finally, taking her hand, and, to her surprise, raising it to his lips.

She blushed despite herself, thankful for the shadows. “Thanks for bringing me back.” She wanted to say, “And for being so understanding,” but instead she hastily retrieved her hand and tucked it in her pocket. “That’s Serena hooting in the car. The weather seems to be worsening by the minute. You’d better go.”

“Right.” He paused, lingering. “When are you leaving?”

“After the funeral. I have to get back home to Switzerland and work.”

“I guess that’s it then. Who knows, perhaps our paths will cross one day. Thanks for the tea and the tour of the house. I really enjoyed it. Goodbye for now, and good luck.” He seemed to hesitate, then smiled. India wasn’t sure if it was the light or her imagination, but all at once his eyes seemed alight once more with depth and understanding. As though he cared. She told herself to stop imagining things, and watched him head down the stone steps.

Halfway down he turned back, his eyes finding hers through the darkness. “And by the way, just to set the record straight, my name’s Jack, not Mr. Buchanan.”

Her mouth broke into an involuntary smile. “I’ll remember—Jack. By the way, don’t forget your gun and the dogs—and your jacket. Tell Serena to stop at the side door. It’s open.”

“Thanks, I will.”

He disappeared, leaving her to the haunting emptiness of the night and the echo of the front door closing loudly behind him. India shivered, pulled the cashmere cardigan closer about her shoulders, and wandered over the ancient Persian rug, its hues mellowed by the passage of generations of Dunbars. She stopped at the drum table standing alone in the middle of the vast hall and looked down at the vase of roses set there. Once more her heart filled with grief.

They were the flowers her mother had been arranging at the time of her death.

They remained, just as Lady Elspeth had left them. She had placed the last delicate rose in the Waterford vase, then been struck by a massive heart attack, dying as gracefully as she’d lived. India decided to take the roses and dry them. They would be a tiny part of her mother that would remain with her always.

Wandering over to the grand piano, she smoothed the surface of the instrument and sat down, gazing through the shadows at the keys. Slowly her fingers reached out to the keyboard and she began playing, the strains of Chopin enveloping her as she drifted into her mother’s favorite nocturne. India played in the dark, paying a last, solitary tribute to her mother, a woman she loved, yet who’d been somewhat removed from the realities of life.

The notes lingered, reaching up toward the high-ceilinged dome. Outside, snow fell, heavy and silent. The sitting-room lamps flickered, and shadows danced eerily on the stucco walls as India poured her feelings into the music. Love, vexation and anger mingled with a deep, abiding sense of loneliness. Finally her tears flowed unimpeded.

As nocturne came to a close, and the last resounding chords echoed, she lifted her hands from the piano and her tears flowed unimpeded. It was a precious moment she would always remember.

India rubbed her eyes thinking now of the problems ahead—debts, tax issues and God only knew what else. Lady Elspeth had always skimmed over the subject, uneager to dwell on anything disagreeable, and India had no clue how the estate had been left. It was another subject non grata. In a way it might be easier if Serena inherited the lot. As for her mother’s house in Switzerland, India had learned only the other day that it was mortgaged to the hilt. Poor Mummy. If it hadn’t been for the Marchese, her old and faithful admirer who’d helped her take charge of her affairs during these last few years, she would have ended up penniless.

But there was no point in dwelling on the negative.

India closed the lid of the Steinway, then trod wearily up the stairs, the strain of the last few days finally taking its toll.

On reaching the bedroom she flopped onto the faded counterpane of the four-poster bed, but the room was chilly, so she crawled under the covers, relieved that it would soon be all over.

The more she thought about it, the more sense it made that Mummy would have left Dunbar to Serena. After all, she herself hardly knew the place. Tomorrow, by this time, the funeral and the reading of the will would be over. Then she could leave, back to Chantemerle, her house by Lake Geneva, and to sanity.

She huddled sleepily under the quilt, wishing she’d brought a hot-water bottle. Turning on her pillow, she remembered her conversation with Jack. He’d struck her more as a big-business sort of man, yet he’d seemed genuinely enthusiastic and knowledgeable about his new project, the Palacio de Grès.

For a while she lay there, half-asleep, too tired to undress. She listened to the still night, broken only by the lonely hoot of an owl, thinking of all she had to do in Switzerland before leaving for Buenos Aires. But her mind kept returning to the look in Jack’s eyes when she’d told him about her mother. There had been true concern there. Something had occurred in that serene moment, as they stood, side by side, before the crackling flames. Something she couldn’t explain.

Strange, she reflected as sleep finally came, that the only true moment of peace she’d achieved since her arrival at Dunbar had been found in the company of a stranger.