Monkshood

Melanie sighed again. Everything should have gone so smoothly, but as it was … She shrugged. Who knew what might happen? She could get snowed up here, and then what would she do?

A roaring fire was burning in the grate in the dining-room, but the room was empty. The hotel fires burned logs and as well as giving off a tremendous amount of heat they smelt sweetly of pine. She was standing, her back to the fire, feeling wonderfully warm and glowing, when the door opened again to admit Bothwell.

Dressed this morning in knee-length black boots, close-fitting black trousers that moulded the muscles of his thighs, and a laced leather waistcoat over a bronze shirt, he looked powerful and disturbing, and Melanie attempted to return the challenging look he sent in her direction. The idea of being snowed up here with this man was infinitely more frustrating than she cared to admit.

‘Ah! Good morning, Miss Stewart,’ he greeted her, nodding his head politely. ‘I trust you had a good night.’

Melanie moved away from the fire. ‘I slept beautifully, thank you, Mr. Bothwell.’

‘Good. I thought you might. The beds here are noted for their comfort.’

Melanie bit her lip. ‘It was quite a novelty, having a couple of hot water bottles again. I’m afraid I’ve got quite spoilt with electric blankets!’

Now why had she said that? she asked herself impatiently. Last night she had found the warmth of the hot water bottles rather comforting. Maybe it was his complete self-confidence that aroused this streak of perversity inside her. At any event, she need not have troubled herself. Bothwell was superbly at his ease, as he said:

‘It’s a great pity when people forget that their bodies were given them to use and not to abuse. I find electric blankets destroy the body’s natural powers of self-heating.’

Melanie held up her head. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she returned shortly. ‘However, not everyone has your will power, I’m afraid. I’m weak enough to succumb to comfort before anything else.’

He shrugged. ‘That’s your affair, of course. But if that is how you feel, then I should have thought you would have chosen a less – shall we say – demanding time of the year to visit Scotland!’

Melanie coloured. ‘I’m quite prepared to face any kind of conditions,’ she retorted, his cool insolence getting under her skin in spite of her efforts to remain calm.

‘Indeed?’ He drew out a case of small cigars and placed one between his lips. Before flicking his lighter he said: ‘Do you mind?’ and at her abrupt shake of her head he lit the cigar and inhaled deeply. ‘I’m glad you feel like that, Miss Stewart,’ he continued smoothly, ‘because it seems that you may have to share our hospitality for slightly longer than you had originally intended.’

Melanie stared at him. ‘Why?’

He studied the tip of his cigar. ‘Weather conditions in this area are unpredictable. Unless you intend to leave soon, you may not be able to leave at all.’

Melanie moved impatiently. ‘I can’t leave until—’ She halted abruptly. ‘Is there any chance of getting my car?’

He half smiled. ‘I very much doubt it.’

Melanie heaved a sigh, suppressing a faint sense of panic that ensued at the knowledge that she might well become an unwilling prisoner here. ‘I see. Well, we shall just have to make the best of it, shan’t we?’ Her eyes held his for a long moment before falling before that gaze.

‘My dear Miss Stewart, if you are prepared to make the best of it, who am I to complain?’

‘I shouldn’t like to put you out,’ she retorted, stung by his indifference.

‘You will not put me out, rest assured, Miss Stewart. I am perfectly used to the vagaries of your sex! If it amuses you to drive several hundred miles to stay at an hotel in the heart of the Highlands in these conditions, that is your affair!’

Melanie’s colour deepened. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said sharply.

He smiled at her agitation. ‘All will be revealed in time, no doubt,’ he remarked dryly. ‘Until then – you must excuse me!’

He turned to go when she called him back. ‘Mr. Bothwell!’

‘Yes?’ He turned, his expression sardonic.

Melanie straightened her shoulders. ‘Perhaps you will let me know when I may take a bath,’ she said scathingly.

Bothwell’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Ah, yes, of course, Miss Stewart. My apologies! The boiler died on us last night. However, it is going now and if you would like to take a bath after breakfast …’ He spread a hand expressively.

Melanie nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘I gather your brave protestations of being ready to face any hazard do not encompass cold baths!’ he remarked dryly, and went out of the room before she could think of any scornful reply.

Melanie was still standing, biting her lips grimly, when the door opened again and the two elderly women came in. They looked across at her speculatively and deciding it was up to her to attempt to make contact, Melanie smiled and said: ‘Good morning! Isn’t the weather appalling!’

One of the two women returned her greeting while the other said: ‘We’re used to these conditions. We live here, you see.’

Melanie raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh! Do you?’

‘Yes.’ That was the other woman. ‘My sister and I retired several years ago and as we’ve often holidayed in this part of Caledonia, we thought it would be rather a pleasant place to retire to.’

‘I see,’ Melanie nodded. ‘I expect you prefer it when it’s a little warmer, though, don’t you?’

The two women exchanged glances. ‘Oh, we like it all the year round,’ one of them volunteered. ‘Winters here are like they used to be. Plenty of snow, and log fires, and roasting chestnuts …’

‘… and lots of berries on the holly,’ put in the other. ‘Are you staying here over Christmas, Miss – Miss—’

‘Stewart,’ supplied Melanie automatically. ‘Melanie Stewart.’

The two women exchanged glances again, and then one of them said: ‘We’re called Sullivan; Jane and Elizabeth Sullivan.’

‘How do you do?’ Melanie shook hands with them politely when it became obvious that it was expected of her. ‘But no, I’m not expecting to stay over Christmas. I have to be back in London in a little under a week. I have a job there, you see.’

‘Oh?’ Elizabeth Sullivan looked expectant. ‘What kind of a job do you do, Miss Stewart?’

Melanie shrugged. ‘Actually I illustrate children’s books.’

‘Really?’ the sisters were obviously intrigued. ‘How interesting!’

Melanie smiled. ‘Yes, it is rather. I enjoy it, anyway. What I really want to do, though, is write the stories, too. And illustrate them myself, naturally.’

‘Naturally.’ The two women were clearly impressed. ‘And why have you come to Cairnside, Miss Stewart?’ asked Jane Sullivan. ‘Are you researching material?’

Melanie sighed. Was everyone here so inquisitive, or was it simply a case of friendly interest? Either way, she had either to answer their question or snub them as she had attempted to snub Bothwell.

Deciding she could not in all decency ignore their query, Melanie said carefully: ‘I – I’ve come to see a house near here. Monkshood.’

‘Monkshood!’ The two sisters looked at one another again. Then Elizabeth frowned. ‘Would that be the house belonging to the late Angus Cairney?’

Melanie’s eyes brightened. ‘Why yes, that’s right. Do you know it?’

Elizabeth shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘I know of it, yes,’ she amended slowly. She looked at Jane for support. ‘You know the house, too, don’t you, Jane?’

Jane Sullivan fumbled with her handbag. ‘Och, it’s that ugly old place near the village, isn’t it?’