Monkshood

Bothwell’s eyes narrowed. ‘I asked the question first,’ he said, with harsh insistence in his voice.

Melanie swallowed hard. ‘Very well, then. I – I own this house.’ She put a hand to her lips. ‘This is – Monkshood, isn’t it?’

There was a moment when she thought she had been mistaken after all; when she began to think frantically that she had made some terrible mistake, and had indeed invaded someone else’s private property.

And then he said, slowly and clearly: ‘Yes, Miss Stewart, this is Monkshood. But you are not the owner. I am!’

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_ccf43531-396d-583b-8e7e-a41db18f4153)

MELANIE was speechless for a moment and she stood staring helplessly at Bothwell as though he were some kind of malignant spirit. Then, gathering her scattered senses, she said carefully:

‘I think there’s been some mistake, Mr. Bothwell. Angus Cairney was my mother’s cousin. She was his only relative, and as she is dead, Monkshood was left to me.’

Bothwell’s light eyes were veiled by the long black lashes that were the only feminine thing about an otherwise harshly masculine face. The long sideburns that grew down to his jawline accentuated the darkness of his features and added to his air of command. In different clothes he would have fitted well into a more primitive era of history, and Melanie had the distinct impression that even today Sean Bothwell was a law unto himself.

‘I see,’ he said now. ‘And who told you Monkshood was yours?’

‘Why – why, the solicitors, of course.’

‘What solicitors?’ His tone demanded no prevarication on her part and she found herself saying:

‘McDougall and Price, naturally.’

‘Ah!’ He ran a hand down his cheek thoughtfully. ‘They contacted you in London?’

‘My solicitors, yes.’

Melanie stiffened. She was allowing her own surprise at finding him here to weaken her resolve, and he was simply using her to gain whatever information he could get. Straightening her shoulders, she said:

‘And now perhaps you’ll tell me why you should imagine Monkshood belongs to you?’

Bothwell turned those light eyes upon her and she moved a little uncomfortably. She would not admit to being afraid of him exactly, but he did disturb her in a way no man had hitherto disturbed her. It was his attitude; she could not be certain what he might say or do next, and it was most disconcerting. She had always found men reasonably easy to handle, but Sean Bothwell was different somehow.

‘Angus Cairney was my father,’ he said now, his eyes narrowed and speculative.

Melanie fell back a step. ‘What?’ She shook her head helplessly. ‘But – but the solicitors! They didn’t even know he was married!’

Sean Bothwell gave her a derisive stare. ‘He wasn’t,’ he said deliberately.

Melanie felt the hot colour surge up her cheeks at his words and she twisted her fingers together nervously. She was sure he was enjoying her discomfiture, but that didn’t prevent her feeling of mortification. Compressing her lips, she tried desperately to find something to say, but his statement was irrefutable.

As though relenting a little, Bothwell took his eyes from her confusion and glanced round the room. Taking out his case, he put a cigar between his lips and lit it before walking across to the windows. They were shuttered here, as in all the downstairs rooms, but it was possible to see through the slats. He stared out broodingly for a while, giving her time to collect herself, and Melanie was somewhat relieved. Even so, she dreaded the moment when he would turn and their conversation would have to continue.

Eventually he moved away from the window and she felt his eyes flicker over her again. Melanie felt an awful sense of inadequacy assail her, and wished for the first time that she had waited for Michael to accompany her to Cairnside. Surely this situation could never have happened if he had been with her. He would have insisted on her making proper inquiries and making an official visit here to look round. He would never have countenanced an impulsive invasion into someone’s privacy. And yet she had not known what old emotions she was rekindling when she pushed open the door of Monkshood.

‘Well?’ he said finally, spreading his hand expressively. ‘What do you intend to do with it?’

Melanie stared at him, pressing her lips together to prevent them from trembling. ‘I – I – oh, I don’t know,’ she said, bending her head. ‘I – I no longer feel I have any right to the place!’

His eyes narrowed chillingly. ‘Oh, come now, Miss Stewart! Spare me the platitudes! I’m quite aware that I’ve shocked your little system to the core, but don’t allow it to colour your judgment. I’m sure McDougall and Price would agree with me in that at least!’

Melanie bit her lip. ‘Your – your father made a will—’

‘I guessed that. I would imagine it was made some time ago, however.’

‘Yes.’ Melanie looked away from him, unable to suffer that bleak appraisal. ‘Perhaps he left a second—’

Bothwell shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘He had probably forgotten he had made the first. He was an old man, Miss Stewart, not much concerned with worldly matters.’

Melanie shook her head. ‘My mother only mentioned him a couple of times. I never met him.’

‘Your mother must have been his only relative. He never married.’

‘But your mother—’ began Melanie impulsively, only to halt uncertainly as his expression darkened.

‘My mother was already married – to someone else,’ he advised her harshly. ‘I do not think the details of my conception need concern you.’

Melanie turned away. ‘I feel terrible …’

‘Why should you?’ His voice was cold. ‘We cannot be held responsible for the actions of others.’ He walked towards the door, drawing on fur-lined leather gloves. ‘I’ll leave you to investigate your property. Just one point, when you decide to sell the place, I’d like first refusal.’

‘Oh, please,’ Melanie turned to him again, holding out her hands in a gesture almost of supplication. ‘Please, don’t go. I – well – I wish you would stay.’

His eyes surveyed her broodingly. ‘Why?’

Melanie loosened her fur hat, taking it off and allowing her hair to swing in a dark silky curtain against her flushed cheeks. ‘We – we’re almost related, aren’t we? Surely we can be friends. I’d like your advice.’

Bothwell leaned indolently against the door post. ‘You do not strike me as the kind of woman who would take advice from anyone,’ he observed dryly.

Melanie quelled her indignation. ‘Why do you say that?’

He frowned. ‘Surely there was someone back home who advised you not to come to Cairnside at this time of the year, wasn’t there? You’re wearing an engagement ring – didn’t your fiancé express any doubts on your behalf, or is the ring merely a decoration, designed to arouse speculation?’

Melanie looked down at the square-cut diamond Michael had bought her. She was so used to wearing it, she had not thought he would notice. ‘I am engaged, yes,’ she said slowly. ‘And my fiancé did suggest that I should wait until the spring to come here, but surely you can understand my anxieties about a house standing empty all winter?’

Bothwell straightened. ‘You could have had someone look after it for you. The solicitors would no doubt have been pleased to arrange it.’

Melanie compressed her lips. ‘I didn’t think of it,’ she replied.

Bothwell shook his head. ‘Exactly why did you want to come here yourself?’

Melanie sighed. ‘My reasons wouldn’t stand up to your cold-blooded assessment of the situation,’ she answered impatiently.

Bothwell looked wryly at her. ‘Try me!’

Melanie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I wante4 to see the house because I’ve never owned a house before. I’ve never even lived in a house, so far as I can remember. We always had flats or apartments, and I suppose foolishly I thought I might make a home here.’

‘I see.’ Bothwell drew deeply on his cigar. ‘And your fiancé? Is he agreeable to moving north?’