Kidnapped: His Innocent Mistress. Nicola Cornick

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СКАЧАТЬ warm again I drew my shawl a little closer about me. The seabirds were soaring and calling out in the bay. From here my road turned eastwards, away from the coast and into the mountains to Torridon and Kinlochewe and on to Glen Clair. I had lived by the sea all my life. It was in my blood. And though Glen Clair was only a day’s drive inland, it felt as though I would be leaving a part of me behind.

      I stood up, stiff and a little cold from the sea breeze, and made my way back towards the inn parlour. I could hear the chink of harness where the drover’s cart stood waiting in the yard. Mrs Campbell would be starting to fuss.

      She was. The maidservant had brought in plates of crab soup and crusty rolls for our luncheon, and just the smell was making me hungry, but Mrs Campbell was too nervous to eat. She sat fidgeting with her soup spoon.

      ‘There is not another cart back to Applecross for nigh on a week,’ she was saying, ‘and my cook and maid cannot manage a Sunday dinner alone. What am I to do?’

      I laid a hand over hers. ‘Dear ma’am, please do not concern yourself. I can await the carriage here on my own. I am sure the landlady will stand chaperon for a short while.’

      Mrs Campbell’s anxious face eased a little. ‘Well, if you think that would serve—’

      ‘There is no landlady,’ Mr Sinclair said helpfully. ‘The landlord is a widower.’ He had come in from the stable yard with his dark hair ruffled by the breeze, and he smelled of fresh air and horses and leather. It was not unpleasant. In fact it was rather attractive, and I was annoyed with myself for thinking so.

      I frowned at him to compensate. ‘I am sure there must be someone who could help me?’

      ‘I could help,’ Mr Sinclair said. ‘I could escort you on to Glen Clair.’

      I looked at him. ‘That would not be appropriate,’ I said. ‘Given that…’ I paused. Given that you are a scoundrel who tried to seduce me last night. I did not say the words aloud, but I could see from the bright light in his eyes that he was reading my mind. He waited, head tilted enquiringly.

      ‘Given that we would not be chaperoned,’ I said.

      He smiled. ‘But we are cousins of a kind,’ he said, ‘so it would be entirely proper.’

      Mr Sinclair had a habit of silencing me.

      ‘So we are cousins now, are we?’ I said, when I had recovered my breath. ‘How very convenient.’

      His smile deepened. ‘I swear it is true,’ he said. ‘I am third cousin twice removed to Mrs Ebeneezer Balfour on my mother’s side. You may check the family bible if you do not believe me.’

      ‘Oh, well,’ I said sarcastically, ‘that is quite acceptable, then.’

      Mrs Campbell frowned. ‘I am sorry, Catriona,’ she said, ‘but I do not think that so distant a connection is entirely reliable.’

      ‘No,’ I said, trying not to look at Mr Sinclair, who looked the absolute antithesis of reliable. ‘Perhaps you are correct, ma’am.’

      We were saved from further dispute by the arrival of the carriage from Glen Clair. With a cry of relief, Mrs Campbell swept me up, carried me out into the yard and installed me in the coach without even permitting me to finish my crab soup.

      ‘All will be quite well now, my love,’ she said, ignoring the fact that the coachman was the most villainous-looking fellow that one could imagine. ‘You will be safely in Glen Clair by nightfall, and I know your family will be delighted to see you.’ She kissed me enthusiastically on both cheeks. ‘Pray write to me often.’

      Mr Sinclair was handing my bags up to the groom, and suddenly I felt very alone. Neither the coachman nor the groom seemed inclined to speak to me, and neither had vouchsafed anything beyond a surly greeting.

      Mr Sinclair came alongside the window to bid me farewell, and for once the impudent light was gone from his eyes. He looked sombre and very serious.

      ‘I wish you good fortune, Miss Balfour,’ he said, quite as though we might never meet again.

      ‘Do you ever go to Glen Clair to call upon your third cousin twice removed, Mr Sinclair?’ I asked impulsively.

      He smiled then. ‘Very rarely, Miss Balfour,’ he said. ‘But you will see me in Glen Clair before the month is out.’

      I felt relief and a strange sense of pleasure to hear it, but naturally I was also rather annoyed with myself for making it appear that I actually wanted to see him again. I tilted my chin haughtily and gave him my hand in what I hoped was a dignified manner. But he simply turned it over, kissed my palm, and gave it back to me with quizzically lifted brows. The colour flamed into my face and I wished Mr Sinclair at the bottom of the loch.

      ‘Thank you,’ I said frostily, ‘for the service that you have rendered me, Mr Sinclair.’

      ‘A pleasure, Miss Balfour,’ he said. He smiled straight into my eyes. ‘Should you reconsider my offer, you need only send to me.’

      ‘A refusal so often offends, Mr Sinclair,’ I said. ‘You must be a brave man indeed to risk a second rebuff.’

      He laughed. ‘You have not seen Glen Clair yet,’ he said cryptically.

      ‘So you are the lesser of two evils?’ I enquired. ‘I shall bear that in mind.’

      His laughter was still in my ears as the carriage lurched out of the inn yard and away along the cobbled street that fronted the quay. I craned my neck for a last view of the sea, until the road turned inland towards the high mountains and the last shimmer of sparkling blue was lost from my sight. And though I tried not to think of Mr Sinclair paying court to the ladies of Edinburgh, the thought of him stayed in my mind for most of the long journey to my new home.

      Now, it may appear to readers of my narrative that I am much concerned with modes of transport, but it could not escape my notice that the carriage sent from Glen Clair was much inferior to that of Lord Strathconan. As I sat down on the straw-stuffed seat a thick cloud of dust arose and settled on my skirts in a clinging grey film. I was sure that I saw a flea jump out of the cushions.

      It seemed that with every rut in the track the coach threatened to shake to bits. I began to feel a little travel sore, so to take my mind from the journey I tried to concentrate on the view as we lurched along the road. Afternoon was well advanced by now, for our progress was slow, and the sun was dipping behind the high mountains. The heather on the slopes merged with the bracken into a purple and amber mist. Above the rocky peaks soared a single eagle, the sun bright on the gold of its head. The road wound its narrow way along the valley bottom beside a trickling burn fringed by pines. It was very beautiful, but to me, accustomed to the friendly scatter of the homesteads at Applecross, it seemed an empty landscape and a deserted one. I imagined that the jagged peaks and the bare hillsides might drive some men mad with loneliness.

      The sun had long vanished behind the mountains, the purple shadows were fading to shades of grey and I was very hungry when we turned down an even narrower lane, rattled over a wooden bridge across the stream and drew alongside a broad loch that I realised must be Loch Clair at last. I sat forward, searching the dusk for my first glimpse of the house, but there was nothing ahead—no lights, no sign of life but the last flickering silver of the light on the water.

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