Книга - And The Bride Wore Prada

And The Bride Wore Prada
Katie Oliver


She’s dated Mr Darcy…After being hounded by the paparazzi ever since news of their engagement got out, Gemma and Dominic are flying to Scotland for a much-needed romantic getaway. But they didn’t expect to find Dominic’s ex, Natalie, and her husband Rhys, on the very same flight! Landing in a torrential blizzard and with only one hire car (let alone a limo!) between them, the four share a lift….but as the snowdrifts move in, stranding them in an isolated castle, it seems they’ll be reunited for longer than planned!Now it’s time to say ‘I do!’In the face of adversity, Gemma does what any self-respecting celebrity fiancée would do: starts planning a last-minute wedding while she has Dominic to herself! After all, where better for a discreetly decadent wedding than in the middle of nowhere, miles from the nearest celebrity news desk? But marrying an A-lister away from prying eyes was never going to be easy. Will Gemma make it up the aisle? And, more importantly, now she’s miles away from Vera Wang, what is this fashionista going to wear?!And the Bride Wore Prada is the sensational first book in Katie Oliver’s long-awaited ‘Marrying Mr Darcy’ series, the follow-up to her best-selling ‘Dating Mr Darcy’ trilogy.Also by Katie Oliver:Prada and PrejudiceLove and LiabilityMansfield Larkand, coming soon:Love, Lies and LouboutinsManolos in Manhattan







She’s dated Mr Darcy…now it’s time for Gemma to prepare to say ‘I do’! And the Bride Wore Prada is the sensational first book in Katie Oliver’s long-awaited ‘Marrying Mr Darcy’ series, the follow-up to her best-selling ‘Dating Mr Darcy’ trilogy.


Also available by Katie Oliver



Prada and Prejudice

Love and Liability

Mansfield Lark


And the Bride Wore Prada

Katie Oliver







Copyright (#u44e47848-f6df-5205-a73d-ce4f46fc636d)

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © Katie Oliver 2015

Katie Oliver asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474024617

Version date: 2018-07-23


Contents

Cover (#u4306f31d-9ea8-58e0-b221-aae89bc0a05f)

Blurb (#uad881f5d-10e7-5c6e-b400-3184b95d572c)

Book List (#u4e8f9413-a6f5-52cf-aeea-4f9d7ebe38d6)

Title Page (#u0ca1bb23-c520-53f9-90d3-bd43d0bdf9be)

Copyright

Author Bio (#u3e9ea7fa-8034-5930-a599-3e16128758af)

Dedication (#u0b49ec98-248d-5251-989e-db6ab261f682)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher


KATIE OLIVER

loves romantic comedies, characters who ‘meet cute’, Richard Curtis films, and Prosecco (not necessarily in that order). She currently resides in northern Virginia with her husband and three parakeets, in a rambling old house with uneven floors and a dining room that leaks when it rains.

Katie has been writing since she was eight, and has a box crammed with (mostly unfinished) novels to prove it. With her sons grown and gone, she decided to get serious and write more (and hopefully, better) stories. She even finishes most of them.

So if you like a bit of comedy with your romance, please visit Katie’s website, www.katieoliver.com (http://www.katieoliver.com), and have a look.

Here’s to love and all its complications...


To my wonderful readers, who've supported me, encouraged me, and told me how much they enjoy my stories, this one's for you. With thanks to Clio Cornish, my fabulous editor, and to the writers at HQ Digital UK for their unstinting support and friendship.


Chapter 1 (#u44e47848-f6df-5205-a73d-ce4f46fc636d)

‘Flight 6072 to Inverness – Two-Hour Delay.’

Natalie clutched her Vuitton cosmetics case and stared at the electronic arrivals and departures board in dismay. She glanced over at her husband Rhys. ‘That’s us, then.’

Rhys took her arm and led her over to a row of seats – horrible, crowded, uncomfortable seats – in Heathrow’s British Airways departures lounge.

‘Nothing for it but to wait,’ he told her. ‘Have a seat and I’ll go and fetch us a coffee.’

With a sigh, she sank into a chair. The skies outside the airport were a gloomy, lowering grey, and despite her warm coat and boots and the promise of Christmas in the air, Natalie felt the chill in her very bones.

‘You know, Rhys,’ she grumbled, ‘we could be in the Galleries lounge right now, drinking martinis, if we’d only flown first class.’ She looked at him hopefully. ‘You could still upgrade our tickets.’

‘It’s a short flight,’ Rhys pointed out. ‘Hardly worth paying double. And it’s a bit early for martinis. Besides,’ he reminded her as he glanced round the crowded airport, ‘we can’t be extravagant with our expenditures. Dashwood and James department stores are still regaining their footing. We don’t want the press saying that we’re wasting company money.’

‘But it’s our bloody money,’ Natalie said crossly, and sneezed. ‘Yours and mine! We own half the company.’

‘Twenty-five percent,’ Rhys corrected her. ‘And don’t forget ‒ public perception is very important. It’s all about financial restraint.’ He lifted his brow. ‘What’ll you have, coffee, or tea?’

‘Coffee,’ Natalie answered, her expression sulky. ‘Cream. One sugar. If you think we can afford it.’

He didn’t answer; he’d already turned and plunged into the crowds to fetch their coffees.

Public perception. Financial restraint. Crikey, Natalie thought irritably as she fished out a wodge of tissue from her jacket pocket and blew her nose – bloody allergies – she and Rhys had been married less than six months, and already she was beyond tired of those words. It was annoying, living one’s life under a glass dome, having one’s every move watched and criticised—

A commotion just ahead caught Natalie’s attention, and she glanced up. The click and whirr of flashbulbs and the sound of raised voices carried across the airport.

Natalie frowned. What in the world—?

Through the crowd she glimpsed a woman with a glossy fall of dark-red hair and a tiny black dress clicking purposefully across the airport in a pair of dagger-sharp heels. Next to her, a man, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses and his dark hair stylishly cut, linked his arm through hers.

Oh my God, Natalie thought, startled. It couldn’t be. But it was. It was Gemma Astley and Dominic Heath!

‘Dominic,’ one of the reporters called out as he lunged in front of the rock star, microphone outstretched, ‘is it true that you and Gemma are getting married soon?’

‘Yeah.’

‘When?’ a female reporter shouted. ‘Have you set a date?’

‘No comment.’

‘Is it true there’s to be a secret wedding at your Scottish estate in Inverness?’

‘Not much of a secret if you lot know about it, is it?’ Dominic shot back. ‘Now fuck off.’

Natalie stood and waved to catch his eye – he and Gemma were headed for the VIP lounge, no doubt – but the throngs of people and camera-wielding paparazzi around them made eye contact all but impossible.

‘Dominic!’ she called out. ‘Gemma!’

But they neither saw nor heard as they swept past. Disappointed, Natalie sank back down in her seat and wondered if it were true.

Were Gemma and Dom finally getting married?

If so – and if they’d be on same the flight to Scotland with her and Rhys – then perhaps the four of them could get together for a drink, or dinner.

Or perhaps not. After all, Natalie reflected with a frown, Gemma hadn’t bothered to share this latest news with her, nor had she invited them to the wedding. No surprise there, really; after all, she and Gem hadn’t spoken in nearly four months. But they used to tell each other everything.

And it really hurt to be excluded.

Oh well, Nat reminded herself, at least she and Rhys would be spending the holidays with her good friend Tarquin at his family’s castle in the tiny village of Loch Draemar in the Scottish Highlands.

It promised to be a fun and relaxing few weeks of roaring fires, delicious food (hopefully minus turnips or haggis), and brisk walks across the heath, not to mention nice long fireside chats with Tark and Wren, and she was really looking forward to it.

She looked up as a family trundling wheeled suitcases behind them trudged past in Gemma and Dominic’s wake. ‘I want a sweet, Mummy,’ a little girl with ginger hair complained. ‘You said I could have an ice lolly.’

‘Sam, it’s two degrees outside,’ her mother said, exasperated. ‘You can’t possibly want an ice lolly.’

‘But, Mummy, I do. And you promised.’

‘You did promise,’ a slightly older boy pointed out. ‘In the car, you said Sam might have one if she only stopped singing “The Wheels on the Bus” for five bloody minutes—’

‘That’s enough out of both of you,’ their father interjected. ‘Come along, or we’ll be late boarding our flight.’

As they walked by and merged into the crowds, the ginger-haired girl still sulking, Natalie eyed them wistfully. How lovely to have a family of your own, she thought. A sweet little girl or boy – or perhaps, one of each – for whom she could buy lots of darling little outfits, and lots of darling little shoes, and lots of darling little toys...

She sighed. She really, really wanted a baby. And although Rhys was amenable to the idea, he thought it best that they wait a bit, and enjoy being a couple before they started a family. After all, he’d pointed out, they’d only just got married. And although Natalie knew he was right in theory ‒ that they should travel and dine out and enjoy one another’s company before they added children to the mix – still, the pull of motherhood grew stronger within her every day.

Her sister Caro had a new baby. Such a sweet lamb little Phillipa was, too – so soft and cuddly and smelling of baby powder and...well, to be honest, Natalie thought as she wrinkled her nose, of poo, sometimes. She didn’t much look forward to that. Still – the image of Rhys, bent over a changing table as he put a nappy on their baby girl or boy, made her absolutely melt...

‘Excuse me. Sorry to bother you, but...aren’t you Natalie Dashwood?’

Startled out of her reverie, Natalie looked up to see a woman with short-cut brownish hair and blue eyes regarding her quizzically. A laptop bag hung off her shoulder.

‘Well, I was,’ Natalie said, her expression guarded. ‘I’m Natalie Dashwood-Gordon, now. Sorry, have we met—?’

She smiled in apology. ‘Oh, no. Only...I spotted you across the way and thought I recognized you. I saw you waving to Dominic Heath just now.’

Natalie nodded. ‘I tried to catch his eye, but with all the paparazzi...’

‘Yes, horrible buggers, aren’t they?’ The woman indicated the empty seat next to hers. ‘Do you mind? It took me two bloody hours to get through the security lines.’

‘Of course not. Please, sit down. My husband’s just gone to fetch some coffee.’

‘Ah, yes. Rhys Gordon. You two are married now, aren’t you? I read about it in the tabs,’ she added as she slid the laptop strap from her shoulder and sat down.

Natalie nodded politely. ‘Yes. We got married five months ago.’ She sneezed again. ‘Sorry,’ she apologized as she withdrew another tissue from her pocket. ‘Allergies.’

‘Quite all right, I have them too. So you’re still practically newlyweds! How lovely.’

‘Yes. It’s almost five months now.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Thank you.’

The woman leant forward. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but you tied the knot at Dominic’s family home in – oh, where was it—? Warwickshire?’

‘Yes. We had a lovely wedding at Mansfield Hall.’

‘The photo spread in Town and Country was gorgeous,’ she agreed. ‘Still,’ she added with a tiny frown, ‘getting married at your ex-boyfriend’s family home... That must’ve been a bit awkward.’

‘Not really,’ Natalie said, with a trace of defensiveness. ‘It’s true Rhys and Dom don’t like each other, but they managed to be civil for the duration of the wedding reception.’

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ The woman glanced in the direction of the VIP lounge. ‘Rumour has it that Dominic and Gemma are off to Scotland to get married in a secret wedding ceremony.’

‘Is that right? I wouldn’t know.’

‘Really?’ She regarded Nat in mild surprise. ‘But I thought...well, aren’t you and Dominic’s fiancée good friends?’

Natalie hesitated. ‘We are. Well, we were. But we’ve...lost touch.’

‘Ah,’ she said, her face etched in sympathy. ‘Running in loftier circles now, is she?’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s it, exactly.’

‘Here we are, darling ‒ coffee, cream, one sugar.’

Rhys stood before her, holding out a Costa cup.

‘Thank you,’ Nat murmured, and took the cup. ‘While you were gone, Gemma and Dominic went past with a boatload of paparazzi in their wake.’

He grimaced. ‘Glad I missed that.’

‘Oh – where are my manners? Rhys, let me introduce you to... I’m sorry,’ Natalie apologized as she turned back to speak to the woman in the seat next to hers, ‘but I didn’t catch your name—?’

But the seat was empty. The woman with the short brown hair and the laptop was gone.

Natalie frowned, perplexed. ‘That’s odd. She was just here, sitting next to me, chatting. She was very nice. But she’s gone now.’

‘They probably called her flight. Or she went to the loo.’ He sat down and sipped his coffee. ‘The queue at Costa was ridiculous, that’s what took me so long.’

‘I wonder if it’s true?’ Natalie mused as she resumed her seat next to him.

‘If what’s true?’

‘I wonder if Dominic and Gemma are finally getting married? I tried to catch Dom’s eye, but he never noticed me with all the reporters and photographers clustered round.’

‘Is Gemma still engaged to that rock star twit?’

‘Of course she is! Why wouldn’t she be?’

‘I’d hoped she’d come to her senses. Besides, they’ve been engaged for a donkey’s age, haven’t they?’ Rhys observed as he sipped his coffee.

‘Only five months,’ Natalie pointed out, ‘as long as we’ve been married. That’s not so long. And knowing Dominic, I’m sure he’s in no hurry to tie the knot.’

He lifted his brow. ‘Haven’t you talked to Gemma, then? What does she say?’

‘Well, that’s just it,’ Natalie admitted, and frowned down at the lid of her coffee. ‘I haven’t spoken to her, really, since she and Dom got engaged.’

It’d been four months since they’d talked, to be exact. Four whole months! Gemma, Rhys’s very capable personal assistant at Dashwood and James, had quit her job shortly after Dominic asked her to marry him. Although Gemma and Natalie had gotten off to a rocky start – Gemma thought Nat was a posh, pampered princess, and Nat thought Gemma was a rude cow – they’d eventually become, if not best mates, at least good friends.

Yet it seemed all that had changed, now.

Gemma, as her father Milo would say, had come right up in the world. She’d gone from being Rhys’s PA (and an underage topless model in Ladz magazine) to become Dominic Heath’s now-famous fiancée. Her photograph appeared with equal frequency in the pages of high-end fashion magazines and tabloids. She ran in altogether different circles now – circles that included rock stars, Brazilian models, former Spice Girls, and paparazzi...

...circles that plainly didn’t include her any longer, Natalie thought, hurt by Gemma’s exclusion a bit more than she cared to admit.

‘Not put out with you, is she?’ Rhys asked.

‘No!’ Nat said indignantly. ‘Why would she be? I’m sure Gemma’s just...busy, with lots to do now that she’s engaged to Dom.’

‘Yes,’ Rhys said, although he didn’t sound particularly convinced as he opened the latest issue of Top Gear he’d bought and began to flick through the pages. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

And as Natalie stood up and went to toss her half-empty coffee cup in the bin, she had to agree – she wasn’t completely convinced, either.


Chapter 2 (#u44e47848-f6df-5205-a73d-ce4f46fc636d)

‘Bloody hell, babes – please, no more perfume,’ Dominic Heath grumbled. ‘You’ve bought out the entire duty-free shop as it is! You’re fucking bankrupting me.’

Gemma ignored him and reached for a purple bottle of scent. ‘Ooh, look, it’s your ex-wife’s new scent, Positively Posh!’ She paused to squeeze the atomizer and took an appreciative sniff. ‘It’s nice. It smells like freesias and roses.’

‘It ought to smell like disappointment and an empty wallet,’ Dom retorted, ‘because that’s all I ever had when we were together.’

‘That’s not what Keeley said,’ Gemma pointed out as she put the bottle back on the shelf. ‘She said you were always borrowing money from her—’

‘Never mind that,’ Dominic cut in, annoyed. ‘Can we talk about something besides my cow of an ex-wife?’

‘Fine.’ She dumped her purchases on the counter in front of the till and fixed him with a gimlet eye. ‘Let’s talk about our wedding, then.’

Dominic let out a long-suffering sigh and handed over his AmEx black card to the clerk at the till. ‘I told you, babes, I’m leaving all that wedding crap up to you.’

‘It’s your wedding, too,’ Gemma pointed out, ‘and so I need your input. I mean it, Dom,’ she warned him as she gathered up her purchases and thrust them into his arms, ‘this isn’t only about me, you know. You’re the groom. You have certain responsibilities.’

‘Responsibilities? Like what? I say ‘I do,’ slap a ring on your finger, get bladdered afterwards, and have an X-rated honeymoon with my new bride. Job done.’

‘There’s a bit more to it than that!’ she snapped. ‘There’s the wedding toast, and choosing a best man, and then there’s your boutonnière—’

‘All right, all right,’ he grumbled. ‘No need to go on about it endlessly. We’ll talk about it on the jet.’

Normally, ‘the jet’ referred to Dominic’s private Lear. But since it was side-lined with mechanical problems, they’d been reduced to flying to Inverness for the holidays on a commercial flight. They were flying first class, of course, Gemma consoled herself as she trailed after Dominic into the VIP lounge, but still...it wasn’t the same as having your own private plane, was it?

No. It bloody well wasn’t.

‘And what about our children?’ she added when they were seated in side-by-side, heated massage chairs.

‘Hmm?’ Dom murmured, his eyes half closed and his thoughts lingering on that morning’s Page Three girl. Candi, her name was, and her tits had been very sweet indeed...

‘I want kids. Two. Possibly three,’ Gemma mused, ‘a girl, a boy, and another girl. Rafaella, I think, and Dylan, and Phoebe.’

‘Dylan? I’m not naming my kid Dylan! That’s a naff name,’ Dominic objected. ‘I’m not wild about Phoebe, either. I’ve got an Aunt Phoebe, and she’s a right bitch.’

‘And we’ll need to get the baby registered for Wetherby as soon as it’s born,’ Gemma went on, oblivious. ‘The waiting list is miles long.’

‘What? Is the waiting list so long we’ve got to register the baby for school before it’s even in bloody utero?’ Dominic demanded. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘That’s what we have to do if our baby’s to have a proper education.’

‘Poor little mite. Not even conceived yet, and the wheels are already in motion.’

‘Are you saying I’m wrong to want our baby to have a proper education?’

‘No. I’m just saying that you barely got through the local comprehensive, Gems, and I ‒’ he paused ‘‒ well, I’m not exactly a Man Booker prize candidate, am I?’

‘Maybe not,’ she agreed, ‘but you’re a famous rock singer, with lots of fans and hit records to your credit.’

‘And lots of dosh, too,’ he added with a satisfied smirk. ‘Don’t forget that.’

‘But we don’t know if little Rafaella or Dylan or Phoebe will have your artistic talents, do we? So we need to make sure they receive an excellent education.’

‘I had an excellent education,’ Dom pointed out, ‘and it didn’t do me much good.’

‘That’s because you didn’t apply yourself. And you wanted more out of life than being the next Locksley heir.’

‘True,’ he agreed, and sat up. ‘Well – at least the old man’ll be happy to know he’ll soon have a little heir-in-waiting in the old bun-warmer. He’s always banging on at me and Liam, wanting to know when we plan to produce a grandchild.’

Gemma leant forward and brushed her lips against his. ‘We can get started on making a baby tonight, if you like,’ she murmured, and smiled seductively.

‘How about sooner, babes, like...on the plane?’

Gemma giggled. ‘And tell our little girl or boy that they were conceived in an airplane loo? No!’

‘Why not? We can christen the kid...Lufthansa. Or Ryanair. Or if it’s a girl, EasyJet.’

Gemma slapped his hand away from her thigh. ‘I want our baby to be conceived in romantic surroundings, Dom, in a canopy bed piled with blankets, with a roaring fire in the fireplace, and snow coming down outside... not inside an airline loo, balanced atop a stainless-steel sink with a faucet up my arse.’

‘Every detail can’t always be perfect, you know,’ he grumbled. ‘What’ll you do ‒ post a picture to FacePage before we do the deed? I can see it now: ‘Look, everyone ‒ here’s the bed where Dom and I are about to conceive little Lufthansa’? Or maybe you can add a new relationship status – ‘currently being roundly shagged’?’

‘Oh, do shut up,’ Gemma said crossly as she picked up her mobile and thumbed through her text messages. ‘I’m not that bad.’

‘No. You’re worse. You’re obsessed with social media. The only way I can get your attention lately is to send you a bloody text message.’

But Gemma didn’t hear him. She was too busy posting a status update to FacePage to notice.

Thank God they haven’t cancelled the flight, the woman thought as she shoved her laptop into the already crowded overhead bin and squeezed into the last remaining seat in economy class. Otherwise I wouldn’t get to Scotland until after Christmas.

She glanced out the window. Snow fell steadily and had just begun to cover the Tarmac. Another hour of this and all flights out of Heathrow would be cancelled.

A family came down the aisle and sat across from her. The mother settled into a seat with her little girl beside her, and her husband sat just in front with their son. The girl had ginger hair and was perhaps nine or ten, complaining about the injustice of being denied a promised sweet. Her brother ignored her and played a game on his father’s mobile phone.

The woman reached for her iPod and earphones. Thank God for noise-blocking technology. She had far too much work to be doing to sit here and listen to children complaining and video games beeping and parents shushing their little darlings for two-plus hours.

Still, as she busied herself drafting a few notes on her mobile before the flight attendant asked them to shut off all electronic devices, her glance strayed once again to the girl and her brother. They were cute kids, she thought. For a moment – just for a moment – she allowed herself to imagine having a little ginger-haired girl, or a tow-headed little boy, of her own...

She pressed her lips together and turned her thoughts back to the matter at hand. Work. She had plenty to be doing, she reminded herself firmly, and a deadline to meet. She forced her attention back to her mobile screen.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! The little girl just behind her was kicking the back of her seat in time as she sang a (very loud) CBeebies song.

She let out a long, aggrieved sigh.

Bloody deadlines. Bloody economy. Bloody children.


Chapter 3 (#u44e47848-f6df-5205-a73d-ce4f46fc636d)

‘What d’you mean, you don’t have a hire car?’

Dominic Heath, his face inches away from the man’s standing behind the hire counter, spoke in a deceptively calm voice despite the dangerous glint in his eyes.

The hire agent’s smile was apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Heath, but we haven’t a car reserved for you.’

‘Well, get me another one.’

‘Regrettably, we have no other cars available at this time. They’ve all been hired out.’

‘That can’t be,’ Dominic ground out. ‘My agent, Max Morecombe, arranged for a car – along with a driver ‒ for my fiancée and me two weeks ago.’

With a nod and a nervous smile at the rock star and his glowering girlfriend, the agent tapped once again at the keys of his computer. ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ he said a moment later, ‘but I see no reservation under ‘Dominic Heath.’ Did he perhaps arrange it under another name?’

‘Try Rupert Locksley.’

More tapping, more frowning, and another regretful shake of the hire agent’s head followed. ‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’

‘Try “Dr Feckle”. Or “Mr Clyde”.’

The agent looked at him oddly, but nodded and tapped. ‘Erm...no luck with either. Sorry.’

‘Right, then. Get me another car,’ Dominic demanded.

‘As I just explained, sir, there are no other cars—’

‘So what the fuck am I supposed to do in the meantime?’ the rock star raged. ‘Sleep in this poxy airport lounge all night? Get me a bloody CAR!’

Natalie, alerted by Dominic’s raised voice as she waited with Rhys to get their hire car, glanced over.

‘Oh, dear,’ she murmured, and touched Rhys’s sleeve. ‘Dom and Gemma seem to be having a problem.’

He followed her glance. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, his expression dour. ‘And I’ve no doubt Dominic is the problem. He always is.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Natalie agreed. ‘Just the same, I think I’ll go over and see if I can help.’

Rhys shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. Although I wouldn’t bother.’

Natalie left and made her way across the crowded floor to the car agency counter. Gemma, her attention focused on finding the perfect wedding gown on her mobile phone, didn’t look up as she approached.

‘Hullo, Dom,’ Nat said warily as she joined him at the counter, ‘what’s wrong?’

He looked up, a scowl on his face. It morphed into surprise as he caught sight of her. ‘Natalie! What are you doing here?’

‘Rhys and I are on our way to Loch Draemar to visit Tarquin and Wren. You remember Tark, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, of course I do. He’s that Scottish bloke with the castle and shedloads of money, isn’t he?’

She nodded. ‘He’s invited us to stay for the Christmas holidays. I’m really looking forward to it.’ She glanced over at Gemma, still texting and oblivious to anything around her, and back at Dominic. ‘Why were you shouting just now? What’s wrong?’

‘What’s wrong?’ he echoed. His face darkened. ‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong! This poxy hire car agency doesn’t have a car reserved for Gemma and me. And now there’s not so much as a clown car available for hire, thanks to Max’s screw-up and this bloody blizzard!’

Natalie cast an apologetic glance at the hire agent and drew Dominic aside. ‘We’ll just be a moment.’

Gemma, alerted by Dominic’s raised voice, looked up from her texting long enough to see her fiancé having a cosy tête-à-tête with Natalie, his ex-girlfriend.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Natalie,’ she said as she put away her mobile and strode over, ‘what are you doing here? I didn’t expect to see you in Scotland.’

‘Obviously not,’ Nat said, and sniffed.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘How could you possibly know what I’m doing, when you haven’t spoken to me in months?’

Gemma had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘I’ve been busy,’ she said defensively. ‘There’s lots going on.’

‘So much going on that you couldn’t even tell me you’re about to get married?’ Natalie hissed.

‘Shh! It’s a secret!’ Gemma hissed back.

They glared at each other.

‘All right, you two,’ Dominic interrupted, ‘do you mind having your hen fest or catfight or whatever the fuck it is some other time? I still have no idea ‒’ he scowled at the man behind the counter ‘ ‒ how we’re getting from here to Northton Grange with No. Bloody. Car.’

Gemma sighed. ‘You’re right, Dom.’ She met Natalie’s eyes. ‘Sorry, Nat, it’s been crazy, it really has. But that’s no excuse to ignore one of your best mates.’

‘It’s okay,’ Nat said. ‘The most important thing right now,’ she added briskly, ‘is to find you both a ride. I’ve an idea ‒ why don’t you come along with us? Rhys is just getting our hire car now. We can take you as far as Loch Draemar, at any rate.’

‘Ooh, would you?’ Gemma said, her expression hopeful. ‘You’d really save our bacon. I don’t fancy sleeping in the airport. Thanks, Nat.’

‘No problem. Wait here, I’ll just go and let Rhys know there’s been a change of plan.’

‘You want to do what?’ Rhys hissed after Natalie explained the situation. He cast Dominic, glowering at him from in front of the hire counter, a black look. ‘I don’t want to share our car with that bolshie little shit.’

‘It’s only until we get to Draemar,’ she pointed out reasonably, and added, ‘We can’t very well leave them stranded here at the airport, can we?’

‘Is that a rhetorical question?’ Rhys gritted.

‘Rhys!’

He sighed. ‘Bloody hell! All right, tell them to get their things and come along. I want to get on the A96 as soon as possible, or we’ll never make it to Tarquin’s castle by nightfall.’

The snow came swirling down in thick flakes as the unlikely foursome made their way across the car park to the waiting hire car.

Dominic loaded their luggage into the boot next to Nat and Rhys’s, then climbed into the back seat of the Ford Mondeo alongside Gemma and slammed the door, grumbling under his breath.

‘Have you something to say, Dominic?’ Rhys enquired as he eyed the rock singer balefully in the rear view mirror.

Dominic glared back. But, ‘Thanks for the ride, mate,’ was all he said.

With a grunt, Rhys started the engine, and began their journey down the A96 through the snowy Scottish countryside.

The woman clutched the steering wheel with white-tipped knuckles, her face set in a pale mask of concentration as she manoeuvred the hired Fiat along the ice-slick roads. She forced her attention on the Tarmac, barely visible through the windscreen now under the heavy curtain of snowflakes falling relentlessly down.

Without warning, the wheels lost traction, sliding on a patch of snow-covered ice. With a sharp intake of breath, she gripped the wheel tighter and slammed on the brakes, remembering as she did that you were meant to tap the brakes gently and turn into the skid, not against it; but it was already too late.

The car veered sideways. Panicked, she tried to regain control, but the Fiat slid off the road, down an embankment and into a snowdrift-covered ditch.

She let out a piercing scream.

The lorry was huge, and came hurtling straight at them in the rain. Headlights loomed, blinding their faces as each of the drivers twisted the wheel in a futile, too-late attempt to avoid a head-on collision.

The horrific shriek of metal shearing and glass shattering was the last sound she heard before the impact threw her from the car.

Her screams still echoed in her ears as she lifted trembling hands away from her face. The windscreen was covered now in white; the wipers had stopped working, frozen into immobility. Must get out, she thought disjointedly, her heart doing odd things in her chest. Can’t stay in the car.Carbon monoxide poisoning, blocked tailpipes...runaway lorries...

She struggled to open the door, shoving it back against a pile of snow until she was able to wedge herself out of the car on trembling legs. She groped for a pair of mittens in her coat pocket and pulled them on. Cautiously she edged round the front of the car to inspect the damage, clutching at the fender, when she heard the driver’s door swing shut behind her with a thud of finality.

And as it shut, she realized her keys were still in the ignition, and her purse and her laptop were still on the passenger seat...and the bloody Fiat was bloody locked.

Oh, fuck. What do to? She was alone in the middle of a blizzard somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, with a car she couldn’t get into and only a threadbare puffa jacket and a pair of mittens – already sodden ‒ to keep her warm.

She stood and clutched at her elbows as a wave of unadulterated panic washed over her. Her mobile phone, locked away in her handbag in the car, was useless, as was any hope of calling someone to come and rescue her.

Why, why, why hadn’t she listened to the nice man at the hire car counter in Inverness and waited the storm out in a nearby hotel?

Because you never listen, she told herself, you never bloody listen.

Grimly she pulled her jacket collar closer against her chin and trudged forward through the snow – because what else was she to do?

There was nothing for it but to walk, to follow the snow-covered sliver of Tarmac and keep moving.

She’d slogged through the snow for perhaps ten minutes when she glimpsed a house – no, it looked like a bloody castle – looming up ahead, half hidden by the snow and the trees. Her fingers were numb and she couldn’t feel her legs beneath her. Was she really seeing a castle, she wondered, or was she having some sort of...of snow hallucination?

You go to sleep, don’t you, she thought, just before you freeze to death?

The snow was intermingled now with a sharp, icy rain, and she stumbled forward for several more minutes, grown slow and stupid with the cold. She thought she saw a stone cottage a few yards ahead. Or was it, too, a figment of her snow-fevered imagination?

It was a gatehouse of some sort, she realized dazedly, and thank God there was a light on inside.

She didn’t realize she was crying until she felt the tears, frozen on her face. Something under the snow – a fallen tree trunk or a rock – made her stumble. With a cry she fell hands-first into a snowdrift as her ankle gave way and twisted beneath her. Now her trousers were as sodden and wet as her gloves and her ankle began to throb. She shivered and dragged herself back up, then staggered, wincing with pain, towards the door.

‘Help,’ she croaked as she pounded weakly on the door, ‘someone let me in, please...’


Chapter 4 (#u44e47848-f6df-5205-a73d-ce4f46fc636d)

‘I saw the sweetest family at Heathrow,’ Natalie ventured an hour later. The atmosphere in the Mondeo, she couldn’t help but notice, was decidedly tense.

Dominic said nothing and glowered out the window. Rhys, his jaw set, was silent as he focused on navigating the slippery, snow-covered road.

And Gemma was too busy texting and posting on her mobile phone to notice anything – or anyone – around her.

Desperate to lighten the mood, Nat added, ‘This family had a little girl and a little boy. The girl was put out because she wanted an ice lolly. In this weather! Can you imagine? Isn’t that too funny?’

Evidently no one else thought it was funny, or even particularly interesting, as no one bothered to respond. Natalie gave up and subsided with a sigh into silence.

‘I’ll say this much,’ Rhys observed grimly a moment later. ‘It’s bloody treacherous out here.’

Nat leant forward and touched his arm. ‘Will we make it safely to Loch Draemar, do you think?’ she asked in a low voice. Anxiety etched her face.

‘We should do,’ he allowed, his words cautious as he kept his eyes on the windscreen, ‘barring no unforeseen surprises, like an accident or an engine malfunction—’

He’d no sooner uttered the words when a stag leapt out of the surrounding forest and slid to a stop before them, legs wildly cartwheeling, blocking the road. With a startled curse, Rhys wrenched the wheel sideways to avoid hitting the animal.

Natalie gasped. Gemma shrieked. And Dominic snarled, ‘What the fuck are you doing up there, Gordon? You made me lose my place in the latest issue of Luxury Car Gear.’

Rhys shot him a murderous glare. ‘I’m driving, in the event you hadn’t noticed, in a bloody blizzard, whilst trying to avoid the very large elk that just leapt in front of us.’

‘Oh.’ Dominic peered ahead. ‘Well, try not to kill us all in the process, if you don’t fucking mind.’

‘It’s you I’d like to kill,’ Rhys growled, ‘you poxy, ungrateful little shit—’

‘Ooh, look!’ Natalie exclaimed, anxious to de-escalate the hostilities as she clutched at Rhys’s sleeve. ‘Our friend’s leaving.’

It was true. The elk, having decided that the car and its occupants were of less interest than the prospect of food, turned and, with a dip of his majestic, antlered head, leapt back into the nearby woods and disappeared.

‘Could we get on with it, please?’ Dominic demanded. ‘I’d like to get to the village before nightfall. Gem and I still need to find a hotel room, you know.’

‘Perhaps,’ Rhys said, his voice dangerously calm, ‘you’d like to drive?’

‘Not my hire car, is it?’ Dominic fired back. ‘I can’t drive it, as I’ve got no liability. Sorry, mate.’

Rhys pressed his lips together. It was only Natalie’s whispered reminder that Dominic so wasn’t worth spending the night in a Scottish gaol that kept him from shoving the gearshift right up the rock star’s skinny little arse.

And Gemma, who’d returned once again to her texting and posting and uploading, took no notice of any of them.

Helen’s feeble knocking finally alerted someone inside the cottage, and the door swung open. She was vaguely aware of a man who helped her stumble inside, and the moment he led her to a sofa in front of a deliciously warm fire and threw a quilt over her, she fell into a deep and exhausted sleep.

She dreamt of shattering glass and overturned lorries and headlights rushing straight at her, and she heard the sound of her own screams echoing in her head...

With a start she woke up. ‘Where am I?’ she muttered, disoriented. She didn’t recognize the stone fireplace, its maw blackened and its mantel hewn of wood, or the floor lamp with its tasselled shade. Her ankle throbbed dully.

A man knelt down, his voice gruff as he said, ‘Be glad you’re not out there. Worst blizzard in five years.’

‘Who ‒ who are you?’ she asked.

She stared at him, mesmerized. He was a giant...a scowling, dark-ginger-haired giant with a dark-ginger beard who might have stepped from the pages of a fairy tale, one about woodsmen and children who foolishly nibbled on houses made of candy...

‘The groundskeeper.’ He offered no further information. ‘And who are you?’

‘Helen,’ she said after a moment. ‘My car hit an icy patch and slid off the road at the bottom of the drive.’

‘It’s nae a night to be driving.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ she responded, suddenly defensive, ‘but I had no choice.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m working. I have responsibilities. Deadlines. Things I can’t put off until the weather improves.’ She paused and added, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Colm.’

She pushed herself up, wincing as pain shot through her foot with the movement. ‘Have you an aspirin? I think I may have turned my ankle.’

He said nothing, but straightened with a grunt and disappeared into the kitchen. Judging from the sound of banging pots and water running and cabinets opening and closing, he must be making tea. She hoped he was making tea. She’d kill for a cup of strong, hot Earl Grey right now.

Five minutes later she heard the kettle whistle, and the clatter of china and silverware. He returned in a moment with a tray in hand, laden with mugs, spoons, and pots of demerara sugar and cream...and a couple of aspirin.

There was even, she was surprised to note, a plate set out with a lemon wedge.

He put the tray down on the coffee table and glanced up. ‘How d’you take yer tea?’

‘Lemon, lots of sugar. No cream,’ she answered, and waited as he ladled in three heaped spoons of sugar, plonked in the lemon wedge, and stirred the lot with a spoon.

He thrust the mug at her.

‘Thank you.’ Gingerly she took it, and had a sip. She closed her eyes in ecstasy. It was the most perfect cup of tea she’d ever tasted, and she told him so.

In answer, he grunted.

Not exactly a candidate for a London talk show, then, she thought uncharitably. ‘Where is this place?’ she asked, curious.

‘Draemar. Loch Draemar, to be exact.’

She’d never heard of it. ‘Ah. And who owns the castle on the hill?’

His eyes came to rest on hers. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘What is this, twenty questions?’ Irritation coloured her voice. ‘I’ve told you, my name is Helen. Why won’t you answer my question?’

He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Why d’ye need to know?’

My God, but he’s the most suspicious man I’ve ever met, Helen thought. She reined in her annoyance and said calmly, ‘I’m on my way to Northton Grange. Do you know it?’

‘I do. There’s naught there but a church and a cemetery. And a rock star’s estate.’ He said this last with contempt.

‘So you do know it.’

‘I know of it. Not the same thing at all,’ he retorted, and turned away.

‘Wait,’ Helen protested. ‘Where are you going?’

He didn’t respond, just disappeared from the room. He came back a moment later with her handbag and laptop and dumped them both unceremoniously on the table next to the tea things.

‘My purse,’ Helen exclaimed, and reached out to snatch it up and scrabble through it in search of her mobile. It wasn’t there. ‘Shit,’ she muttered, ‘my phone must’ve slid off the seat onto the floor.’ She glanced up. ‘Did you happen to see it?’

‘If it’s not there,’ he retorted, ‘I didn’t see it. I brought what I found.’

She met his impenetrable eyes. ‘Right. So you did. Well, thank you, for that—’ she broke off, puzzled. ‘But...how did you get in? The car was locked.’

He raised his brow. ‘Aye, it was locked,’ he agreed, and eyed her levelly. ‘But the rear hatch wasn’t.’

And although he didn’t say it, Helen knew – just knew – that he was thinking to himself what a stupid, rattle-brained Londoner she was, wandering about in a life-threatening blizzard, when the rear bloody hatch of her car was unlocked the entire bloody time.

‘You’ll want to call in the morning to get someone to tow your car out,’ he said, his words gruff. ‘I can’t do it, the tractor won’t make it down the ravine. And there’s nae a phone here.’

She said nothing, but she wasn’t surprised he hadn’t a telephone. The cottage, with its huge stone fireplace, deep-silled windows, and ancient furnishings, was like something out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Or The Hobbit.

After all ‒ why would a man like Colm have anything as modern as a telephone?

‘It’s late.’ He found another blanket and a pillow and tossed them on the sofa, then turned away. ‘Take that aspirin now, the tea should be cooled enough, and try and get some sleep. If there’s naught else, I’ll say goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, and thank you for this—’

But he’d already turned and trudged upstairs, where he went into his room, and shut the door.

And as he did, it occurred to Helen that he never had told her who lived in that castle up on the hill.


Chapter 5 (#ulink_e5e22954-4236-5d4f-bdb4-a0203fbfe269)

‘Oh, look, down there!’ Natalie exclaimed, and pressed her face to the car window. ‘Someone’s wrecked their car.’

Rhys followed her pointing finger. A car had indeed slid down an embankment and lay half buried in a snowdrift.

‘I do hope whoever was inside is all right,’ she said, her eyes anxious. ‘Should we check and see, do you think?’

Rhys shook his head. ‘It’s too far down the embankment, and it’s much too dark to investigate now. I’ll tell them up at the house. We’re nearly there.’

Sure enough, the lights of the castle’s turrets shone through the snowy darkness, beckoning them onward. Trees marched thickly along the edges of the road; the blackness beyond was impenetrable.

‘About bloody time,’ Dominic muttered.

He and Gemma had been unable to get a room in the tiny village of Loch Draemar, as no one had booked them in at the hotel. There was only a bed and breakfast down the road, and, the proprietor informed them in a thick Scottish accent, it was fully booked.

‘Thanks for letting us come along with you to Tarquin’s, Nat,’ Gemma offered, and cast Dominic a dark look. ‘It’s a good thing you waited.’

Rhys negotiated a curve in the drive and kept his attention on the road. ‘I didn’t expect there’d be anything available at such short notice. It is nearly Christmas, after all.’ He glanced in the rear-view mirror at Dominic. ‘Didn’t you arrange for a room beforehand?’ You wally, he almost added, but didn’t.

‘Of course I did!’ Dominic snapped. ‘Well, my agent did, anyway. Max said he took care of all of that. Bastard.’

Ten minutes later, Rhys stopped the Mondeo in front of quite the most impressive castle Natalie had ever seen outside of a fairy tale.

It had all the requisite things a proper castle should have – battlements, turrets, multi-paned windows, and a wooden door with metal hinges...even, it appeared, a moat – frozen now – and a drawbridge.

‘It’s gorgeous,’ Nat breathed as she leant forward in her seat, entranced. ‘Like a princess’s castle.’

They’d scarcely flung open the car doors and stepped out cautiously onto the snow-covered drive when the front door swung open. Light spilled out in a warm, welcoming path across the snow.

‘Fàilte! Welcome to Draemar,’ Tarquin called out, standing in the doorway with his arm around his petite wife, the aptly named Wren. ‘We were worried you wouldn’t make it through this blizzard.’

‘Tark!’ Natalie exclaimed, and catapulted herself into his and Wren’s arms. ‘It’s so good to see you both again, you have no idea!’

‘Aye, you too. It’s a nasty night for traveling.’

‘It was a dicey trip,’ Rhys admitted as he shook hands with Tarquin and Wren, ‘but somehow, we made it.’

Wren smiled warmly as she leant forward to kiss his cheek. ‘And we’re very glad you did.’ She turned with a quizzical but welcoming smile to Dominic and Gemma, hovering uncertainly in the darkness behind Nat and Rhys. ‘And who is this? Oh, my goodness ‒ isn’t that Dominic Heath? The rock star?’

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ Natalie apologised, ‘where are my manners?! Yes, it’s Dominic, and Gemma, his fiancée. They ran into a bit of trouble at Heathrow. It seems Dom’s agent forgot to book them a hire car, or rooms in the village hotel, and so they’ve no place to stay tonight.’

‘Oh! How awful.’ Wren eyed them in sympathy. ‘Then you must stay here, of course.’ She glanced over her shoulder at the enormous face of the castle. ‘It’s not as if we haven’t plenty of room to spare,’ she added wryly.

‘Thank you,’ Gemma said. ‘That’s very kind.’ Dominic mumbled his thanks and thrust out a hand to Tarquin and Wren.

‘Please, all of you, come inside,’ Tark urged. ‘You must be tired, and cold, and famished.’

‘I wouldn’t say no to a sausage roll and a cup of Builders,’ Dom muttered.

The main hall was enormous, with a sweeping staircase and a minstrel’s gallery overlooking the entranceway. An ancient carpet in faded shades of green and blue and red silenced their footsteps as they came inside. Overhead, a chandelier glimmered like a magnificent, jewelled bauble.

‘Ooh, what a gorgeous chandelier,’ Gemma breathed, awed.

Rhys glanced up, then back at Natalie. His eyes narrowed. ‘It ought to be. It cost £11,000. Plus shipping.’

Natalie blushed. ‘I’ll never hear the end of that, will I?’ She cast Rhys a reproving look and went to link her arm through Wren’s and glanced round in awe. ‘How on earth do you manage a place this size?’ Nat asked, curious. ‘It’s simply...enormous!’

‘Oh, we’ve a full staff,’ Wren explained as she and Tarquin led them into an elegantly appointed drawing room. ‘Draemar employs thirty-nine people.’

‘Thirty-eight,’ Tarquin corrected her. ‘One of the kitchen maids was sacked this morning.’

‘Not Lucy, I hope?’

‘No. It was the new girl. Betty, I think.’

‘Shit, this place is a regular Downtown Abbey,’ Dom observed, impressed despite himself. Draemar Castle made his own estate in Inverness look like a bloody Wendy house.

A fire blazed in the great black throat of the massive fireplace as they entered the drawing room, and sofas and chairs were arranged in small groups throughout the room. A serving cart set out with an assortment of Scotch whisky stood under one of the tall, multi-paned windows.

After inviting them to sit down and pouring them each a generous measure of the amber liquid, Tarquin rang for refreshments and settled himself on a sofa next to his wife. ‘I’ve arranged for smoked salmon and sandwiches. Will that suffice, do you think?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Or would you all prefer something a bit more substantial?’

‘That sounds perfect,’ Natalie assured him from the depths of a massive wing chair. ‘With cheddar, and that lovely brown granary bread...?’

Wren smiled. ‘Of course! You can’t have a decent Scottish meal without it.’

‘Where are your father and mother, Tark?’ Natalie asked. ‘Will they be joining us?’

‘Alas, no. They’ve gone to the Greek islands for the holidays. Said they’d had enough of cold, snowy weather and wanted to spend Christmas slathered in sun cream, drinking ouzo.’

‘I can’t say I blame them.’

‘That’s why we invited you and Rhys to spend Christmas here with us. And Dominic and Gemma, now, of course.’ He slid his arm around Wren’s shoulders. ‘It gets a bit lonely rattling around this old place when it’s just the two of us.’

‘I can imagine,’ Nat agreed. ‘I could get lost for days just trying to find the loo.’

Tarquin laughed. ‘You only need to tug on the nearest bell-pull,’ he advised, ‘and someone will come along to fetch you back to civilization.’

‘How many rooms in this place?’ Dominic asked, glancing around in curiosity.

‘About 150, at last count, and twenty or so bedrooms.’

‘And have they all been christened?’

Tarquin looked at him blankly. ‘Christened?’

‘Yeah, you know,’ Dominic said, and raised his brow suggestively. ‘Christened.’

He reddened. ‘Oh. Erm...I’m sure I don’t know.’

Gemma rolled her eyes. ‘Really, Dom! What a stupid question. Is sex all you ever think about?’

‘Are weddings all you ever think about?’ he shot back.

‘Wren,’ Natalie said quickly, ‘have you and Tark any plans to start a family? You always said you wanted lots of children.’

She shrugged, and a flash of sadness crossed her face. ‘We’ve been trying for two years, Nat, but so far, no luck.’

‘Oh, it’ll happen,’ Natalie assured her. ‘All in good time, that’s what they say.’

‘That’s what Dominic says,’ Gemma said, and cast the rock star a dark look. ‘Isn’t it, Dom?’

‘I told you, babes, we’ll have whatever kind of wedding you want. Just don’t drag me into it until it’s time to say ‘I do.’’

‘Oh, are you getting married?’ Wren said, and leant forward. ‘How exciting!’

‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ Rhys muttered.

‘Yes, in Northton Grange,’ Gemma replied. ‘Dom has a place there. We want to have a nice, quiet wedding in secret.’

‘Yeah,’ Dominic said, and snorted. ‘A ‘nice, quiet wedding’ with twelve bridesmaids, six groomsmen in kilts, a horse-drawn sleigh, and 500 of our closest friends.’

“And a Prada wedding gown,” Gemma added, her expression smug. “I found the perfect dress online.”

“Prada?” Natalie breathed. “Ooh, you have to let me see it, please!”

“I want to see it, too,” Wren said. “May I?”

As the three women clustered around Gemma’s mobile phone and bowed their heads to worship at the altar of Prada, Rhys turned to Tarquin. ‘So tell me, Laird Campbell,’ he ventured, ‘how does one celebrate Christmas in a Scottish castle? Do you roast an entire pig in that enormous fireplace? Fell a sixty-foot tree and drape it in swathes of tartan?’

Tarquin laughed. ‘Nothing so grandiose as that. We eat a lot and drink too much whisky and take long walks on the heath with the dogs afterwards to burn it all off.’

‘Just like we do at home,’ Natalie said.

‘Exactly.’ He glanced over at Rhys curiously. ‘I thought you were born here. Have you never spent a Christmas in Scotland?’

‘A few, when I was a kid.’ He cast a glance around the vast drawing room. ‘But I didn’t exactly grow up in a castle.’

‘Where did you grow up?’ Wren asked as she resumed her seat. ‘If you don’t mind my asking,’ she hastened to add.

‘Edinburgh, in a tower block in Wester Hailes.’ He drained his glass. ‘It was difficult, but Mum did her best. I made up my mind to get out of there just as soon as I could.’

‘Well, I must say ‒ you’ve done very well for yourself in the interim,’ Tark observed. ‘Well done, you. More whisky, gentlemen?’ he offered, and at their nods, leant forward to pour Rhys and Dominic each another generous measure.

Later, after they’d gone upstairs to their gorgeous – but cold – room in the west wing, Natalie twined her arms around Rhys and snuggled next to him in the enormous canopied bed.

‘Isn’t this lovely?’ she murmured against his chest as she gazed into the flames leaping in the fireplace.

‘Ummm.’

‘And aren’t Tark and Wren the sweetest couple? I just adore them both.’

‘Ummm hmmm...’

Natalie took her fingertip and drew it tentatively across Rhys’s chest. ‘Rhys, darling—?’

‘Hmmm?’

‘I’m feeling a bit...amorous. Are you?’

There was no answer.

‘Are you?’

Silence.

‘Rhys,’ she exclaimed, indignant, ‘are you even listening to me?’

She lifted her head and looked over at him enquiringly in the flickering firelight. He was sound asleep.

‘Poor man.’ She leant down and tenderly kissed his forehead. ‘All that driving in the blizzard did you in, didn’t it?’ she whispered. She snuggled up behind him, breathing in his reassuring male scent, and fell at once into a dreamless, untroubled sleep.


Chapter 6 (#ulink_af2c571b-5b6a-5dae-94f5-6b9d85f1affa)

Helen woke to sunlight streaming into her eyes. She stretched and sat up, blinking. She was on a sofa, in a tiny living room. For a moment she was disoriented and couldn’t work out where she was; but the banging of pots and pans in the kitchen and a man’s muttered cursing brought everything back – the snow, the embankment, getting locked out of her car, her aching ankle – and she realized that her reluctant host must be fixing breakfast.

He returned a moment later with a tray and thumped it down on the coffee table before her.

‘Good morning,’ she ventured.

‘There’s toast, a boiled egg, and tea, if you’ve a mind to eat.’

‘Thank you, that’s very kind—’

‘I’ve work to be doing, paths to shovel and fallen branches to clear off the drive. After you eat, you’ll have to go.’ His eyes – hazel, she noted irrelevantly – met hers without apology.

‘Go?’ she echoed, disconcerted. ‘But my car—’

‘It’s still in the ravine, where it’ll stay until it’s towed out. In the meantime,’ he reached for his parka, hanging on a peg by the door ‘I’ll start the truck. I’ll take you up when you’ve finished.’

His peremptory manner irritated her. ‘Take me up where, exactly? Can you tell me that much?’

‘To the castle. You can call for a towing truck from there. Not that anyone’ll be out to get your car anytime soon,’ he added.

‘Right,’ Helen said tightly, and swung her legs – still clad in yesterday’s trousers – over the side of the sofa. ‘Would it be possible to have a shower before I go? Or is that asking too much?’

He jerked his head towards the narrow staircase. ‘There’s a bathroom at the top of the stairs. Mind you don’t use all the hot water.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ she snapped.

Colm cast her an unreadable look and slammed out of the back door without reply.

Natalie dreamt she was Snow White, walking through a thickly treed Scottish wood as birds twittered and swooped around her. She was hopelessly lost.

Suddenly a bluebird flew down from a branch and landed on her shoulder.

‘Have you seen the castle?’ she asked the bluebird. ‘I can’t seem to find it, and I really need the loo.’

In answer the bird twittered into her ear, and the soft tickle of its tiny beak and feathers made her giggle.

‘Such a funny little creature,’ she murmured, and rolled over in bed.

‘Little? I’ve been called a lot of things, darling,’ Rhys said against her skin as his lips moved along her neck to the slope of her shoulder, ‘but little’s not one of them.’

‘Rhys!’

She sat up on her elbow, clutching the blankets to her chest.

He raised his brow. ‘Who else would it be?’

‘I was just dreaming about the sweetest little bluebird,’ she began as he pulled her back down next to him and nuzzled the skin behind her ear. ‘I was lost, and it was dark, and I really needed to find a loo...ooh,’ she sighed, ‘that’s nice...’

‘I thought,’ Rhys said as he began to unbutton Natalie’s nightgown with leisurely motions, ‘that we might christen this room, you and I.’

‘Christen it?’ she echoed, and giggled. ‘Rhys! You mean…?’

He gave her a lazy smile and lowered his mouth to kiss her. ‘Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.’

‘Good thing there’s lots of blankets on this bed,’ Dominic grumbled as he burrowed under the duvets and pulled Gemma closer, ‘otherwise we’d be a pair of effin’ icicles by now.’

Gemma, still half asleep, mumbled something incoherent. She’d been dreaming that she’d just topped 300,000 followers on Tweeper...

‘Babes.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Babes...’

‘Ahrm.’ She snuggled deeper into her pillow. She desperately wanted that blue celebrity checkmark on her Tweeper page, and she was close, so very close to getting it...

‘Babes!’ Dominic hissed.

Gemma’s eyes flew open. ‘What?’ she snapped. ‘I’m trying to sleep, Dom!’

He slung an arm around her and kissed her bare shoulder. ‘Don’t you want to start trying for that baby, then?’ he asked.

She levered herself up on one elbow and stared at him. ‘You mean…you mean you’re ready for us to have a baby?’

Dominic slid his hand along the warm curve of her hip and nodded. ‘Yeah. Yeah, Gems, that’s exactly what I mean.’

Fifteen minutes later, Helen emerged from the cottage and made her way cautiously – her ankle still twinged a bit, despite the aspirin she’d gulped with her morning tea ‒ to the waiting truck, an ancient Range Rover.

Although Colm had started the engine earlier, the interior was still frigid, and Helen could see her breath as she climbed inside.

Bloody cold. Bloody man. Bloody Scotland.

Colm, who was looking at something under the bonnet, slammed it shut and opened the driver’s-side door. As he slid behind the wheel, his shoulders filled the cab’s interior.

Without a word – not that Helen had expected him to make anything like conversation, God forbid ‒ he shifted into gear, and the Range Rover lurched forward as he drove them up the snow-covered road to the castle perched at the top of the hill.


Chapter 7 (#ulink_68166db1-eb98-56c3-b93e-76ecbef240ce)

‘Crikey!’ Natalie exclaimed the next morning as she and Rhys stood in the dining room doorway. ‘You could land a plane on that table.’

As he followed her gaze, Rhys realized that for once, his wife wasn’t exaggerating. The dining table, its polished mahogany expanse stretching half the length of a football pitch, could easily accommodate fifty.

The sideboard was laid out with a generous assortment of eggs, kippers, stacks of toasted brown bread, baskets of scones, a fruit platter, and silver urns of coffee and juice and pots of jam and marmalade.

‘Looks like quite a spread,’ Dominic announced as he scanned the plates and platters of food with satisfaction. ‘Time to tie on the old feed bag, eh?’

Natalie eyed him quizzically as she slid into the seat Rhys held out for her. ‘I thought you stayed away from carbs and calories, Dom. You’re always watching your weight.’

He took a seat across from her, next to Gemma. ‘I’m on holiday, Nat. Besides,’ he glanced over at Gemma and leant over to kiss her ‘I’ve worked up a right appetite since we got here.’

Gemma blushed. ‘Shut up, Dominic.’

‘Yes,’ Rhys said as he cast a dark glance at the rock star, ‘please do.’

‘Good morning, everyone,’ Tarquin said as he entered the dining room with Wren. ‘I trust you all slept well?’

‘Fabulously,’ Natalie confirmed.

‘Never better,’ Rhys agreed.

‘Not at all,’ Dom said smugly as he eyed Rhys.

Tarquin turned behind him with a smile and added, ‘We have another stranded traveller on our doorstep this morning. This is Helen Thomas, everyone.’

Curious, they focused their attention on the woman who hovered just behind Tarquin. She had short-cropped brown hair and a hesitant smile and she looked a bit ill-at-ease.

‘Hello, everyone,’ she said, and waggled her fingers. ‘Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but my car slid down an embankment last night. I’ve come to use the telephone, to see if someone can come and tow it out—’

She broke off as she caught sight of Dominic Heath and Gemma, and her eyes widened. ‘Oh. Oh, my. Isn’t that—?’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Thomas,’ Tarquin said quickly. ‘Let me introduce everyone.’ He went around the table, starting with Natalie and Rhys, and finished with the rock star and his fiancée.

Dominic barely glanced up from his toast. ‘Yeah, hello,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘Could someone pass the butter, please?’

‘But how awful!’ Natalie exclaimed, and eyed Helen with sympathy. ‘You must have been petrified. Are you all right—?’ She broke off with a frown. ‘Wait...I remember you! We spoke in the lounge at Heathrow.’

‘Oh...yes! So we did,’ the newcomer said, with equal surprise. ‘You’re Natalie Dashwood. I mean Natalie Dashwood-Gordon,’ she added hastily. ‘How very nice to see you again.’

‘This is the lady I wanted to introduce to you at the airport,’ Natalie explained to Rhys. ‘But she disappeared.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Helen apologized, ‘but nature called. As it does, especially just before one plans to board a flight.’

‘Won’t you join us for breakfast?’ Tarquin enquired. ‘You’re more than welcome, and there’s plenty on hand.’

‘Oh, no thank you,’ Helen said. ‘I won’t intrude. I’m not hungry, at any rate. The gatekeeper was kind enough to fix me a cup of tea and a boiled egg.’

‘Kind? That’s not a word one usually associates with Colm Mackenzie,’ Wren observed, and exchanged an amused glance with Tarquin. ‘He’s avowedly antisocial.’

‘Yes,’ Tarquin agreed. ‘Not a very friendly chap, and he keeps to himself; but he’s a hard worker, for all that.’

‘He wasn’t very forthcoming,’ Helen agreed, ‘but he let me in last night after I got lost. I was wandering out in the blizzard, terrified and half frozen. I locked myself out of my hire car, you see,’ she added ruefully.

‘What rotten luck,’ Tarquin observed.

‘At least you got a hire car,’ Dominic muttered. ‘Bloody Max. I’m giving him the sack when we get back to London.’

‘Well,’ Tark observed, ‘if it had to happen, I’m glad it happened here, with Draemar castle near at hand.’

‘Not half so glad as I am,’ Helen murmured as she cast Dominic and Gemma a thoughtful glance, ‘believe me.’

‘If I can’t persuade you to join us for breakfast, then let me show you to the telephone, so you can make your call,’ he offered, and with another bright smile and a nod, Helen followed him out of the dining room.

‘What shall we do today?’ Natalie wondered a few minutes later, and glanced around the dining room table as she took up her napkin and spread it on her lap.

‘I thought I’d give you the grand tour,’ Tarquin offered as he returned to take his place at the head of the table beside Wren. ‘If you like.’

‘Can’t wait,’ Rhys said, and helped himself to scrambled eggs from the platter the footman held out. ‘I imagine it must take all day to show the entire castle.’

‘Nearly,’ Tark agreed. ‘Especially if we visit the dungeons.’

‘Dungeons!’ Gemma exclaimed, wide eyed. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. Many a prisoner was held captive here. The stories these walls could tell...’ his voice trailed off. ‘Afterwards,’ he added, ‘we’ll have lunch, and the gentlemen can indulge in a smoke and play a few hands of cards, or shoot billiards.’

‘Whilst us ladies adjourn to the drawing room for tea and gossip?’ Natalie teased.

‘How boring!’ Wren said, and grimaced. ‘No. We’ll go up to the screening room and drink wine and munch on popcorn and watch – what is it you call them? ‒ chick flicks all afternoon.’

‘Now that sounds more like it,’ Gemma approved.


Chapter 8 (#ulink_215e44c7-5130-5799-9098-4a5fa667cbac)

In the entrance hallway, Helen perched on a loveseat next to the telephone table and placed her call.

As she waited for Top Towing to answer, she studied her surroundings with curiosity. Portraits of Campbell family forebears, most dressed in tartan, lined the walls and marched along the length of the gallery above; a few were hung at intervals along the curved wall of the staircase.

Like Tarquin, they had long noses, reddish-brown hair, and serious expressions. But then, Helen supposed, sitting for one’s portrait in the Campbell clan tartan was a very big deal. How strange, she mused, to think that Tarquin’s predecessors, all long dead, were on view on these castle walls, and that his own portrait would one day join them...

The requisite castle décor, consisting of suits of armour and medieval implements of war, held pride of place in the odd nook and cranny – maces, battle-axes, halberds, pikes, and swords, among other unnamed but equally menacing weapons. It was a gruesome yet fascinating display.

‘You want it towed out today, you say?’ the voice on the other end of the telephone asked doubtfully.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m that sorry, but we’ve dozens of calls already. It’ll be tomorrow at the soonest afore we can send a truck out to Draemar.’

‘Tomorrow!’ Helen echoed, dismayed. The prospect of spending another night at the gatehouse with Colm was too much to bear.

‘Aye, and it might be even later,’ the despatcher informed her cheerfully. ‘They’re sayin’ another foot of snow’s headed our way tonight.’

She glanced out the window. With the sun currently sparkling on the drifts of snow outside, and birds darting back and forth in flashes of brown and blue, the prospect of more snow seemed unlikely.

But then again, this was Scotland, and in the dead of bloody winter...

‘Just make sure I’m at the top of the list,’ Helen snapped, and rang off.

Now what was she to do? She couldn’t bear the thought of another minute spent in the company of that miserable, tight-lipped Scotsman who acted as if her very existence was a personal affront.

Still, she reflected as she hung up, for once events had conspired to her advantage. After all, she was sharing a roof – and quite a vast roof it was, too – with Dominic Heath and his fiancée, Gemma.

She couldn’t have arranged a better set of circumstances if she’d tried.

The sound of footsteps and low voices approaching echoed across the hallway. Helen risked a peek around the corner as Dominic and his girlfriend emerged from the dining room and made their way towards the stairs. She ducked her head back. They hadn’t seen her, thank God.

‘…glad you finally agree with me on this, Dom,’ Gemma was saying, her voice low but distinct.

‘I told you, babes, I want kids just as much as you do,’ he replied. ‘The time has to be right, that’s all.’

‘Well, then,’ she pointed out, ‘good thing we’re getting married in a few weeks’ time. A Christmas wedding in Northton Grange will be incredibly romantic, don’t you think? Even if we practically had to elope to manage it.’

Helen hardly dared to breathe. It would be embarrassing – not to mention awkward ‒ to reveal her presence now. She only hoped that they didn’t see her sitting here, blatantly eavesdropping...

‘We can’t have the paparazzi bollocksing everything up, can we?’ Dominic replied.

‘No, of course not. I want a proper wedding, with all the trimmings – and no bloody paps,’ Gemma said firmly. ‘I want bridesmaids in tartan gowns, and groomsmen in kilts, and a horse-drawn sleigh, and—’

‘And a Prada wedding gown,’ Dominic finished. ‘Yeah, I know, Gems. You’ve told me often enough. But if it were up to me, we really would elope. Or get married in a chapel at Gretna Green.’

‘Gretna Green?’ she demanded, and came to a halt, just yards from where Helen sat. ‘Have you lost your mind, Dominic? A girl only gets married once in her life, and her wedding should be perfect.’

‘Yes, of course it should! But damn it, babes, be reasonable!’ Dominic hissed. ‘Christmas is less than a month away. There’s no time to put a massive wedding together – not the kind of over-the-top wedding you fancy, at any rate – in a few weeks!’

‘Oh, very well. I’ll scale it back, then. I’ll only have six bridesmaids, instead of twelve. And I suppose I can make do without groomsmen in kilts...although I fancied having at least two, to hold the crossed swords over our heads as we exit the castle to leave on our honeymoon.’

Dominic didn’t bother to point out that they were in the middle of the Scottish bloody highlands, surrounded by snow with another foot on the way, and that the likelihood of pulling off even a scaled-down version of the dream wedding his bride-to-be wanted was slim to non-existent.

But he’d learnt to pick his battles. And this, he decided resignedly, wasn’t one of them.

‘Good thinking, babes,’ he told her instead, and leant forward to kiss her.

Helen heard the sound of smooching, followed by more smooching, and Gemma’s giggles. She winced. Dear God, but this was excruciating...

‘C’mon, Gems,’ Dominic growled, ‘let’s go upstairs and christen our bedroom again.’

‘But, Dom,’ her voice was scandalized ‘we can’t! It’s practically the middle of the day! We’re supposed to mix and mingle with the others. They’ll wonder where we’ve gone to—’

‘Screw ’em,’ he said, and smacked her on the bottom. ‘They can mix and mingle with each other for a bit. Let’s you and I go and make a baby.’

When they’d disappeared up the stairs to their rooms, Helen re-emerged from the shadows and wondered what she ought to do. She needed to call Tom, and soon; but she hadn’t anything to tell him, really.

Besides, she couldn’t very well call him on the house phone, in the middle of the great hall of Draemar Castle.

As she hovered indecisively at the foot of the staircase, Wren appeared, striding briskly towards the baize door that led to the kitchen.

She came to a stop. ‘Oh, hello! Helen, isn’t it? Had you any luck getting hold of a towing service?’

Helen shook her head. ‘They can’t send anyone until at least tomorrow. Or later, if the snow we’re expected to get arrives tonight.’

‘Oh, what a nuisance...I’m so sorry. Of course you must stay here with us,’ she decided. ‘We’ve plenty of room.’

‘I don’t want to be a bother—’ Helen began.

‘Nonsense, it’s no bother. I won’t hear of you staying at the gatehouse with Colm. He won’t welcome the company, and I’m sure you’ve no wish to spend another evening being glowered at.’

Helen laughed. ‘Not especially, no. Dreadful man, isn’t he?’

‘Well, he has his moments, I suppose,’ Wren allowed, ‘and he is a hard worker. Nevertheless, if he were clean-shaven and attired in proper evening kit, I vow he’d make a very credible Mr Rochester. Or Mr Darcy, come to that. He’s very much the broody, mysterious, nothing-much-good-to-say type, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ Helen agreed. ‘Yes, he is.’

‘We’re about to meet in the drawing room for a tour of the castle,’ Wren went on, ‘if you’d care to join us?’

Helen nodded. ‘I’d like that very much. Thank you.’

And as Wren excused herself and resumed her path to the kitchens, Helen made her way across the hall to the drawing room to join the others.


Chapter 9 (#ulink_4d05121b-ad4c-5c73-8ddf-3e3797aabe21)

Later that day, after Dominic and Gemma re-emerged from their rooms, Tarquin and Wren led everyone on a tour of the castle, through the keeping room, buttery, bottlery, kitchens, dungeons, and great hall, and down the formidable length of the long gallery, until they trooped, exhausted, back to the drawing room for afternoon tea.

‘I can’t believe your father actually rode his horse up the staircase,’ Natalie said as she sank into a chair.

‘It’s true.’ Tarquin followed them inside. ‘There are still hoof marks on the treads. Grandfather gave him a good hiding for it, believe me.’

‘What I don’t understand,’ Gemma ventured as she accepted a cup of tea from Wren and balanced it on her lap, ‘is why butter wasn’t kept in the buttery? You said it’s where ales and meads were stored; so why not call it the ‘meadery’ or the ‘winery’? Makes no bloody sense to me.’

He nodded. ‘It’s all a bit confusing, isn’t it? Butter was kept in the larder, and bottles – ‘butts’ to use the Latin term – of ale and mead were stored in the buttery.’ His smile was wry. ‘One couldn’t drink the water back then, apparently.’

‘Yes,’ Rhys agreed, ‘I’ve heard the meat was so spoiled it had to be drowned in herbs and sauces.’

‘That’s a common misconception,’ Tarquin replied, ‘but it isn’t true. Animals were slaughtered and eaten within a few days, and the meat was likely fresher than what we buy at the market today. Spices were expensive; a cook wouldn’t waste them on rancid meat. I doubt it would’ve masked the taste, at any rate. So beef and mutton and pork were layered with salt to preserve it, or soaked in salt brine, or smoked and hung up to dry.’

‘You’re so knowledgeable, Tark!’ Natalie exclaimed, impressed. ‘I’d no idea.’

‘You have to remember, I grew up here,’ he replied, and shrugged. ‘Tour groups were always trooping through the castle – still do, on occasion ‒ which my father absolutely abhors. I used to tag along, when I wasn’t away at school. I learnt the tour guide’s script off by heart.’

‘This place must’ve been great fun for hide-and-seek,’ Gemma remarked. ‘All those rooms, and dungeons, and nooks and crannies...’ She shuddered and sipped her tea.

‘Well, the east and west wings were closed off when I was a boy,’ Tarquin said. ‘And my sister and I were strictly forbidden to play in the dungeons. So that limited our battlefields and hiding places considerably.’

Helen, who stood admiring a collection of family photographs on a table near the fireplace, picked up one of the framed pictures. A handsome young man with the Campbell family’s dark-ginger hair and a wide, engaging smile looked back at her.

‘Who’s this?’ she asked, curious. ‘He looks rather like you, Tarquin.’

He rose and came to stand beside her, and took the picture from her hands. ‘Ah. That’s Andrew. My oldest brother.’

‘Phwoar, he’s gorgeous,’ Gemma approved as she got up and joined them, peering at the photograph over Tarquin’s shoulder. ‘Is he married? Does he live nearby? Will we meet him?’

Tarquin set the photograph back down, his expression unreadable. ‘I’m afraid not. He died, Miss Astley, years ago. He drowned off the coast of West Africa. His body was never recovered.’

An awkward silence descended over the room. Gemma went pale. ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ she began, stammering with embarrassment. ‘I didn’t know—’

‘Of course you didn’t,’ Wren said soothingly as she came up and slipped her arm around Gemma’s shoulders. She led her back to the sofa, and the warmth of the fireplace. ‘How could you possibly know?’

‘I remember reading about it in the papers,’ Rhys said. ‘Terrible tragedy. It must’ve been a difficult time for you and your family, Tarquin.’

‘It was a long time ago.’ With a shrug, Tark turned away from the table and returned to his seat by the fire, and stretched his legs out. ‘Eighteen years, to be exact. I was ten when it happened, and Andrew was twenty. He’d been away from home for a couple of years, traveling. He was always a great one for traveling. So we weren’t close. It devastated my father and mother, of course.’

‘I can imagine,’ Helen murmured. ‘It must be a horrible thing to lose one’s child.’

‘What happened, exactly?’ Natalie asked Tarquin, her face creased in concern. ‘Why was your brother’s body not recovered?’

‘Well, the beaches of the Sierra Leone are amongst the best in the world, unspoiled and vast, but the waters are rife with strong currents. Andrew was sailing when his boat capsized. He was an excellent swimmer, and he struck out for shore; but he got caught in a riptide, and was dragged out to sea.’

For a moment, the only sound was the snap and hiss of the flames in the fireplace.

‘Helen’s joining us for dinner,’ Wren said briskly, rising to her feet, ‘and she’s staying here tonight.’

‘The towing service can’t send a car until tomorrow,’ Helen added. ‘I hope you don’t mind the imposition.’

‘Not at all, and it’s no imposition,’ Tark said, and smiled. ‘The more the merrier, as they say. And we wouldn’t dream of inflicting Colm on you for another day, would we, Wren?’

‘I should say not!’

Over the ripple of laughter that followed this pronouncement, they looked up to see the groundskeeper standing in the doorway, a grim expression on his face.

Helen stood up guiltily. ‘Colm!’

He strode across the drawing room and thrust something at her. ‘This is yours.’

She looked down as she took the object into her hands. ‘It’s...it’s my mobile phone! You found it!’

‘Aye. It was on the floorboard of your hire car. I went to see if I could pull it out with the tractor, but it’s too far down the embankment.’ He turned to go.

‘Colm – wait.’

He paused. ‘Aye?’

Helen suppressed a wave of irritation. Damn the man! Why did he always make everything so bloody difficult? ‘The towing service can’t come out for another day or two. I’ll be staying here tonight, and possibly tomorrow night, as well. I just...wanted to let you know.’

He shrugged. ‘Good, then.’ He dipped his head at the others. ‘I’ll be off now.’ And he left.

‘Well,’ Natalie said tentatively when he’d gone, ‘that was awkward.’

‘I really put my foot in, didn’t I?’ Tark sighed. ‘Poor chap. I’d no idea he was standing there.’

‘Oh, not to worry,’ Wren assured him, ‘Colm’s got a hide like leather. You could fling spears and arrows at him, and like a rhinoceros, they’d just bounce off.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ Helen murmured. ‘I don’t know him very well, of course, but he strikes me as a man who feels things very deeply and holds a grudge for ever.’

‘How long has he worked here?’ Rhys wondered as he reached for another egg and cress sandwich. ‘Has he been with the family a long time?’

Tark shook his head. ‘He turned up three months ago, looking for work. Our groundskeeper, Mr Finney, had just retired, so the position was open. It was the most amazing good luck on our part. His too, I imagine.’

‘Yes,’ Helen murmured thoughtfully, and took a sip of her tea. ‘Wasn’t it just?’


Chapter 10 (#ulink_a38e4881-8a86-5975-a7aa-230ec9e21f8d)

Late in the day, as she stepped into a beige silk chemise to dress for dinner, Natalie went pale.

‘Oh,’ she breathed, and sat down suddenly.

Rhys, knotting his tie in front of the mirror, paused. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, concerned. ‘You’ve gone as white as the bedspread.’

‘It’s a duvet,’ she corrected him faintly, ‘and, yes, I’m fine. I just felt a bit...dizzy, for a moment.’

‘Shall I fetch a doctor?’

‘No, don’t be silly.’ Natalie pushed herself to her feet. ‘It’s probably low blood sugar, or all that walking I did this morning. And I didn’t eat much at lunch.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ he accused. ‘And why didn’t you? You’re not on another one of those ridiculous diets, I hope?’

‘I simply wasn’t hungry, Rhys, that’s all,’ she said with a trace of irritation. ‘And I ate a huge breakfast.’

‘You did rather pack it away this morning.’ He came to stand behind her and slid his arms around her waist. ‘Are you nearly ready to go downstairs for dinner, darling?’

‘Almost.’ And as he nibbled her earlobe, Natalie’s irritation melted away, and she closed her eyes, and smiled, and forgot all about her momentary dizziness.

As she rummaged through her suitcase in search of an outfit to wear to dinner, Helen despaired. She hadn’t anything remotely suitable for dining in a castle. Hell, she didn’t even have a properly pressed pair of trousers.

Natalie, she thought suddenly. They were roughly the same size, although Helen was a bit shorter. Perhaps she’ll have something I can borrow...

Then she remembered the sheath she’d bought at Heathrow in one of the duty-free shops. She found it and pulled it out. The black wool hadn’t wrinkled, amazingly enough; and although it was plain, she could dress it up with a bit of jewellery and some heels. But she had to hurry, it was nearly seven...

Ten minutes later, Helen surveyed herself in the cheval mirror with satisfaction. Not bad, she decided, and raised a brow at her reflection. She’d do.

She grabbed her mobile and headed downstairs.

In the great hall, she paused at the foot of the stairs. The sound of voices echoed from the drawing room where everyone had gathered for a drink before dinner. They wouldn’t miss her for a few minutes more.

With a quick glance over her shoulder, she took out her mobile and scrolled to Tom’s number. No time like the present...

‘Bennett here.’

‘It’s me,’ Helen said in a low voice.

‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘Scotland,’ she retorted, ‘as you very well know. It’s been snowing almost nonstop, and my hire car went down a bloody embankment last night.’

‘Shit! You’re all right, I hope?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said dryly, ‘not that you care.’

‘Not true.’ He paused. ‘Where are you, exactly?’

‘You’ll never believe it, but I’ve landed at Draemar Castle, where the celebrity lovebirds are staying with the Campbell family even as we speak.’

He let out a soft whistle. ‘And how did you manage that?’

‘The embankment I hove over just happened to be on the castle property,’ she told him, and cast another wary glance around her. ‘I’d no idea Dominic and Gemma were even here until this morning. I’ve been invited to stay until my hire car’s repaired...which might be a few days.’

‘Perfect. So...have you got anything for me?’

‘Not much. The wedding’s to be in four weeks. Gemma’s demanding a horse-drawn sleigh, and kilts, and masses of white roses, and all manner of ludicrous, romantic fol-de-rol.’ Scorn undercut her words.

‘Where’s it to be, then? At the castle?’

‘No. Northton Grange. It’s a tiny village in the highlands—’

‘Yeah, where Dominic’s got that estate he never goes to,’ Tom finished. ‘So when are they going on to Northton G? Soon?’

‘Oh, I imagine they’ll leave just as soon as this bloody snow stops falling.’ She glanced around her with a shudder. All those medieval instruments of war and knights in armour unnerved her. ‘And you can bet your arse that when Dominic and Gemma leave this pile of mouldering Scottish stone, I’ll be right behind them—’

At the sound of a footstep nearby, Helen broke off. She whirled around to see Colm standing there.

‘I’ll call you later,’ she murmured, and rang off. She glared at him. ‘What are you doing? How dare you creep up on me like that! You startled me.’

‘I think the better question,’ he said grimly as he took her by the arm and drew her aside, ‘is to ask what the hell it is you’re doing, Ms Thomas.’

Helen met Colm’s narrowed eyes. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she snapped, and shook his arm off. ‘Why are you here, anyway, skulking around like a – a ghost? Shouldn’t you be outside, seeing as you’re the bloody groundskeeper?’

‘You were giving out information to someone, information about a Campbell houseguest. Who were you giving it to, I wonder? And why?’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said scornfully. ‘You have a very active – and a very misguided ‒ imagination.’

‘Don’t lie, Ms Thomas.’ He clipped off her name like something distasteful. ‘I know what I heard.’ He leant his face closer, inches from hers. ‘And I know who you really are.’

As she stared into those hard hazel eyes, she suddenly understood how a snake must feel when the snake charmer mesmerized it. She was powerless to move or speak.

‘Helen! There you are. We’re just about to go in to dinner.’

Guiltily, Helen turned around. Wren and Tarquin stood in the drawing room doorway; their expressions were polite, but curious.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled, flustered. ‘I was...I was just—’

‘I was just telling Ms Thomas that we’ve more bad weather coming in,’ Colm said. ‘It’s started up snowing again. I’ve stacked extra wood outside the kitchen door.’

‘Good. Thank you.’ Tarquin hesitated. ‘Listen, Colm, about my remark earlier, I owe you an apology—’

‘Dinnae know what you’re on about,’ Colm said, his words short. ‘I’ve brought wood enough inside to keep the fires lit through the night. G’night to you both.’

He didn’t wait for a reply, but thrust a flat cap on his head and left as abruptly as he’d come.

‘Aren’t you hungry, Helen? You’ve scarcely touched your dinner.’ Natalie’s voice was low and concerned.

Startled, Helen looked up from her plate of roast mutton and turnips. ‘No. I think perhaps I ate too many cucumber sandwiches with tea,’ she admitted, and smiled.

‘More wine?’ the butler offered.

She nodded. As he poured a deep red Syrah into her wine glass, Helen wondered how much – if anything – Colm had overheard. Damn the man, he was as silent as a wraith, for all his size. She scowled. He seemed to take pleasure in creeping up on her unexpectedly and scaring the bejeesus out of her.

‘I know what you mean,’ Natalie agreed, and laid her fork aside. ‘I’m not very hungry, either. I feel...’ she paused ‘...I feel a little sick to my stomach.’

‘You do look a bit green,’ Helen observed, her face creased with concern. ‘Here, let’s go and sit down.’

As the men stood and adjourned to the billiards room for port and cigars, Helen, Wren and Gemma assured Rhys that his wife would be well looked after, and led Natalie into the drawing room, to one of the sofas by the fire.

‘I do hope you’re not coming down with the flu,’ Wren murmured, and insisted on calling the local doctor. ‘You really do look awfully pale.’

‘I’m fine,’ Natalie assured her. ‘I only need to sit down for a bit.’

Still, she didn’t object as Wren picked up the telephone receiver and rang Dr McTavish’s surgery.

After speaking to the doctor for a few minutes, she rang off. ‘Well, he can’t make it out tonight; the roads are already impassible. He said it sounds as though you’ve either got a bad case of indigestion, or flu. Although he says you’d have a fever, if it’s flu. Let me just go and fetch a thermometer so we can be sure,’ she decided.

‘Don’t be silly!’ Natalie protested, and straightened. ‘I’m fine, really.’

Just then, there was a commotion at the front door. A blast of cold air, followed by stamping feet and the dogs erupting into a frenzy of barking, signalled that someone had come into the great hall.

Colm, Helen thought, her heart sinking. He’s come back to tell the family who I really am.

‘Hellooo,’ a young woman’s voice trilled. ‘Tarkie? Where are you? Is this any kind of a welcome home for your long-lost sister?’


Chapter 11 (#ulink_cbd3ff33-7924-5a4c-a0fa-ae8c308a3715)

‘Oh, dear,’ Wren murmured, and went nearly as pale as Natalie. ‘Not that dreadful girl again... She’ll soon have the entire household at sixes and sevens!’

Without another word, she abandoned her guests and hurried out to the entrance hall.

‘Well,’ Helen mused as she raised a brow and set her drink aside, ‘what do you suppose that was all about?’

‘I don’t know,’ Gemma replied, and raised her brow, ‘but I say we go and see what’s going on. Are you with me, ladies?’

They rose and made their way out to the hall to find Tarquin already there. A young woman in tartan trews and a jaunty red duffle coat stood inside the door, her feet surrounded by luggage and Vuitton trunks. A tiny, biscuit-coloured dog regarded the Campbell wolfhounds from the safety of the girl’s arms; its expression could only be called smug. A young man stood next to her.

‘Caitlin!’ Tarquin exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’ He glanced at her companion. ‘And who is this?’

‘Oh, sorry.’ She turned to the silent young man beside her. ‘This is Jeremy MacDougal. He drove us up from Edinburgh. We had a bit of a hair-raising trip; thank God he’s got a Land Rover, or we’d never have made it through the snow. Jeremy, this is my brother, Tark.’

The two men exchanged wary glances and shook hands.

Tarquin returned his attention to his sister. ‘I thought you were still at school.’

‘Classes are over for the holidays,’ she said airily, and shrugged out of her coat. Natalie caught sight of the Pringle label before the girl tossed it aside as though it were made of cheap nylon and not costly Scottish wool. She removed her cap and shook a length of red-gold hair loose.

‘I also thought you were going to Ibiza with your friends for Christmas.’ Tarquin eyed the stack of luggage and Jeremy in turn, his expression unreadable.

‘Well, I was,’ Caitlin agreed, ‘but then I thought, with Mam and Dad gone off to Corfu, why not come home and enjoy the peace and quiet? Besides, I broke it off with Robert. I came home to nurse my broken heart.’

‘You don’t seem especially heartbroken to me,’ Tark observed.

‘I’m not,’ she said, and shrugged. ‘I’m only sorry I didn’t dump him sooner.’ She glanced at the women regarding her with undisguised curiosity from the drawing room doorway. ‘Where are your manners, Tarkie-poo?’ she scolded him. ‘You haven’t introduced me to your guests.’

After breakfast the next morning, Natalie felt much better. After howling all night, the winds abated and the snow had stopped; now the sun was out, sparkling on the windswept breast of the newly fallen snow.

‘Rhys, it’s a gorgeous day,’ she said as she knelt on the window seat in the drawing room and pressed her nose to the glass. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

‘A walk?’ he echoed. ‘Natalie, in case you hadn’t noticed, there’s two foot of snow out there.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘but Colm’s cleared the drive.’

Rhys leant next to her and peered out. Sure enough, the groundskeeper had cleared the snow from the length of the drive, as far as he could see – a not inconsiderable amount of work, even with the help of a snow plough.

‘He must’ve been up since the early hours,’ Rhys observed, impressed. ‘All right, then – let’s go. I wouldn’t mind a bit of fresh air and a leg stretch.’

‘Where are you off to?’ Caitlin enquired as she wandered in, coffee mug in hand and Jeremy trailing in her wake.

‘We’re going outside for a walk,’ Natalie answered. ‘Would you two like to come along?’

‘I’ve a better idea. Let’s go sledding!’ Caitlin exclaimed as she set her cup aside. ‘There’s a huge hill on one side of the castle; Tark and I slid down it all winter long when we were kids. I’m sure our old sleds are still around here somewhere. I’ll have Cook pack us up a lovely picnic feast.’

‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ Wren enthused as she and Tarquin joined them in the drawing room. ‘Don’t you think so, Gemma?’

Gemma, her face set in concentration as her fingers flew over her mobile phone, was far too busy with social media status updates to do more than give them a cursory shake of her head. ‘I’m planning my wedding,’ she said grimly, ‘and you wouldn’t believe what a nightmare of frustration and dashed hopes it is!’

‘“A nightmare of frustration and dashed hopes”?’ Dominic echoed as he entered the drawing room. ‘Sounds like my first marriage.’

‘This is serious, Dom!’ Gemma snapped. ‘I can’t get our wedding favour bags made up in tartan, only in primary colours! Have you ever heard of anything so bloody ridiculous? I can’t bear it if the favour bags clash with the bridesmaids’ gowns. Yellow netting and red plaid just do not go together! It’s doing my head in.’

‘Not as much as it’s doing mine in,’ Dominic muttered.

‘And the cake,’ she went on, outraged. ‘That’s the third baker who’s told me a wedding cake shaped like a giant Louboutin shoe can’t be done.’

‘I should think it entirely possible,’ Wren observed, and clucked in sympathy. ‘Why can’t they do it?’

‘Because they’re unreasonable bastards! And because it needs to feed 250 people,’ Gemma added with a scowl, ‘and it needs to be gluten free. And vegan.’

‘Oh, my,’ Wren murmured. ‘There’s your problem, dear. Perhaps your expectations are just a wee bit unreasonable—’

‘Unreasonable?’ Gemma shrilled. ‘Not giving a bride-to-be what she asks for, that’s unreasonable!’

‘Where’re you lot headed off to?’ Dominic asked Natalie in a low voice, a look of panic blooming on his face. ‘Mind if I come along?’

‘We’re going sledding, Dominic,’ Natalie answered as she moved past him to follow Rhys, Caitlin, and Jeremy out the door. ‘Since you’re not the outdoorsy type, you probably wouldn’t like it.’

He grabbed her arm and hissed, ‘I’ll like anything that gets me away from that wedding-obsessed harpy! Please, Nat ‒ I can’t listen to another word about Prada gowns or monogrammed silver bottle-openers or custom-dyed shoes!’

She nodded in sympathy, having been through the very same thing with her sister, Caro, not so long ago. ‘All right, Dom. You’re welcome to come along.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘But you’re going sledding, mind, you’re not standing round texting Max on your mobile the entire time.’

‘All right, all right,’ he grumbled, having planned to do just that. ‘But you’d better hope I don’t break my bloody arm. I need it to play guitar, you know.’

‘In that case,’ Rhys said dourly, ‘I hope you break both your arms.’


Chapter 12 (#ulink_0bc6397b-8a43-5601-bb17-d69d8e96cbb3)

Helen returned to her room after breakfast. She was far too preoccupied with thoughts of Colm – and how much he actually knew – to accompany the others on the sledding expedition.

She glanced out of her bedroom window, smiling momentarily at the sight of Natalie and Rhys, Caitlin and Wren, even Dominic, careening down the snow-covered slope, laughing and shouting like schoolchildren.

‘I know who you are.’

As she heard Colm’s words echoing in her head, Helen’s smile faded.

He’d overheard her call to Tom. What exactly had she said on the phone, just before Colm accosted her? Tarquin’s sister had arrived, thankfully saving Helen from further questions.

But she knew that the canny groundskeeper would bring the matter up again at the first opportunity.

Frowning, she tried to recall what she’d told Tom.

‘Oh, I imagine they’ll tie the knot within the next few weeks. Just as soon as this bloody snow stops falling. And you can bet your arse that when Dominic and Gemma leave this pile of mouldering Scottish stone, I’ll be right behind them.’

Oh well, Helen sighed as she turned away from the window, there was nothing to be done about it now. She’d do her best to stay out of the Scotsman’s way.

And if I make any more calls to Tom, she resolved grimly as she went downstairs in search of the library, I’ll make certain to do it in the privacy of my own bloody room.

Late that afternoon, the sledding party returned to the castle, red-cheeked and half-frozen.

‘How was the sledding expedition?’ Tark enquired as they shed their coats and hats and scarves and collapsed on the nearest sofas and chairs in the drawing room.

‘Brilliant,’ Caitlin declared, and grinned over at Dominic, ‘except for Mr Rock Star over there, who twisted his ankle and had to be pulled the whole way back on a sled, complaining like a wee girl all the while.’

‘It bloody hurts,’ Dom said through gritted teeth as he flung himself into a wing chair by the fire.

‘What’ve you done, Dominic?’ Gemma demanded as she strode into the room and came to a stop, a clipboard and a stack of bridal magazines in her arms. ‘Why is your face all screwed up like that?’

Rhys snorted. ‘His face is always screwed up, if you ask me.’

‘No one did,’ Dominic snapped. ‘So kindly shut it. I turned my ankle, Gem, that’s all.’

‘Wren’s gone to fetch some Epsom salts so you can soak your foot,’ Natalie told him.

‘And his head, while he’s at it,’ Rhys added.

‘I’m warning you, Gordon,’ Dominic snarled, ‘if you don’t shut your gob, I’ll—’

Caitlin’s dog Coco trotted into the drawing room just then and leapt up into her lap. The wolfhounds, incensed by this invasion of their territory by the tiny interloper, set up a chorus of barking.

With a sigh, Tarquin stood and led the dogs, still growling their displeasure, outside.

‘Really, Caitlin,’ Wren said mildly, ‘you know we have dogs here at Draemar. You might have thought to board Coco in a kennel for a couple of weeks.’

‘Why should I do that?’ Caitlin shot back. ‘I’m perfectly aware that there are dogs here, Wren. I grew up at Draemar, after all. It was my home long before it was yours. So why should I be required to board Coco in a kennel, when she belongs here, just as much as I do?’

The two women regarded each other in silent – and mutual – dislike. ‘I’m only saying,’ Wren said in measured tones, ‘that it might have been easier on all concerned if you hadn’t brought the dog along when you came home, that’s all.’

‘Easier on you, you mean.’ Scorn coloured her voice. ‘I’m sure you’d like it best if I never came home at all, wouldn’t you, Wren?’

‘That’s not true!’ Wren snapped. ‘There you go again, Caitlin, putting words in my mouth—’

‘No, I’m only putting the thoughts in your head into words, so that everyone might know how bloody jealous you are of me!’

‘What’s going on here? I heard the two of you shouting all the way across the hall.’

Tarquin, his face a study in anger, stood in the doorway. ‘Can’t I leave you alone with Wren for five minutes without starting trouble, Caitlin?’

His sister gathered Coco up and thrust herself to her feet. ‘Right, blame me, Tark, as you always do. But it was your wife who demanded I keep Coco in a bloody kennel!’

‘That little beast has done nothing but upset the entire household,’ Wren flung back. ‘Just like you!’

‘That’s enough.’ Although Tarquin’s words were calm, even quiet, his fury was unmistakable. ‘This isn’t the time or place for such behaviour,’ he said, eyeing both women with a flinty grey gaze. ‘We have guests to consider. Caitlin, kindly take yourself upstairs, please.’

‘What?’ she exclaimed. Hectic spots of colour rose on her cheeks. ‘Are you sending me to my room, like a...like a wayward child being packed off to bed without her supper?’

‘I’m simply asking you to remove yourself from the present company until you can behave appropriately.’

‘There’s no need for Caitlin to leave,’ Wren cut in, her voice unsteady. ‘I’ll go.’ Her gaze, bright with angry, unshed tears, swept over the assembled houseguests. ‘My apologies, everyone,’ she choked out, and left.

There was an awkward silence. No one moved or knew quite what to do or say.

Natalie got to her feet. ‘I’ll just go and check she’s all right,’ she said, and patted Tarquin’s shoulder as she hurried after her friend.

She caught up to her halfway down the long gallery. ‘Wren – wait, please.’

Wren stopped and turned around. Her face was damp and blotchy with tears. ‘Natalie.’ She groped in her pocket for a handkerchief. ‘You should be downstairs with the others.’





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