

Winter's End

PUBLISHED BY:  
Clarissa Cartharn

Copyright © Text Clarissa Cartharn 2013

Copyright © Cover design Cyma Rizwaan Khan 2013

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Winter's End

Clarissa Cartharn

Sometimes it takes a third to mend two broken hearts

Tormented by the rumours plaguing her once loveless marriage, young widow Emma Winston escapes to Breakish in the Isle of Skye with her two children. But her hopes of a new beginning is shattered as she finds herself torn between the man she once loved, her brother-in-law Richard Winston and wealthy, handsome playboy, Chris Cameron who threatens to destroy everything she's accomplished if she doesn't accept his offer of a convenient marriage.

Will Emma finally learn to follow her heart?

CONTENTS

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

ALSO BY CLARISSA CARTHARN

RED COLLAR

CHAPTER 1

# Chapter 1

She was once told a good life almost always kept wrinkles at bay.

She caught her reflection in her hallway mirror and momentarily paused at her task, assessing herself and the relevance of the proverb in her life. The tautness in her face successfully disguised her thirty-four years, making her appear to be much younger than she really was. She would have to attribute it to having good genes.

But good life, she had had also. Twelve good years with her husband, Robert. He was the kind of man every woman dreamt of. Tall, handsome, dark-haired with an adorable cuteness which agreed tremendously with the fairer sex.

As she returned to the past, her memory drawing in the small coffee shop next to the town library, it still felt all too surreal that he could have fallen for a girl like her.

Her long, red curly hair was strewn haphazardly over her shoulders. They were layered at odd lengths; the best she could do with a pair of sewing scissors. Her glasses were plopped at the end of her nose as she flipped through another page of her renaissance romance novel.

" _Hi," said a voice._

She looked up to meet the most charming blue eyes she had ever seen.

" _Hi," she returned almost inaudibly._

" _Is this chair taken?" he asked._

" _Ummm...no," she said hesitantly, her only hint of surprise visible in her own brown eyes._

"Great," he concluded. "Then you don't mind if I join you?" And without waiting for an answer, he pulled out a chair and slumped into it.

She blushed as she realised that he intended to share her table. And as for company?

" _I'm Robert," he said._

" _I'mmmm sssorry," she mumbled, her demure becoming even more apparent._

" _Robert," he repeated with a smile. "My name."_

She quickly composed herself before she could cause any further embarrassment to herself. "Emma," she whipped out.

" _Emma," he repeated softly, tasting the sound of her name on his lips. "Emma, just Emma?"_

She smiled. For now, she thought.

She took a brief glance at what she was wearing. A long, plain dark skirt with an earth coloured tee shirt. Her once red hair was now darkened to auburn and held back into a pony tail with a few strands flying loose around her face. The box she held up in her arms did nothing to help alleviate her poor impression of herself. She sighed. Did Robert really fall in love with this? What had he seen in her to have chosen her over all the women that relentlessly stalked him?

"I suppose I'm attracted to you because you don‎'t," she remembered him say. "You don't seem to care less of what I do. And I guess that's kind of attractive. Don't you think?"

She smiled. She did care but she was far too shy to let him on to it. Instead she entwined her fingers with his as they strolled through the park by the riverside.

She looked away in the hope he didn't see how much she loved him. She focused on the robin that tweeted in the tree above them, chiming his last hours for the day and on the toddlers that babbled nonsensically in their adorable prams as their physically overdriven parents took their routine jog through the park lanes.

" _In fact, there has been something I have been meaning to ask you." His voice carried elements of seriousness which she had not anticipated._

"What is it, Robert?" she asked, equally concerned. She noticed he carried the same frown that he usually wore during his architectural exams. He had an ardent passion for architecture. He would walk with her through the town and point out various buildings and proudly recite their history.

" _Gap House," he had once said as they stood before the building in Bayswater. "Designed by Luke Tozer. It's only 2.4 metres wide really. He built it for his family. Must have been ridiculed whilst doing it. Instead won the RIBA Manser Medal for residential architecture. He saw something in it which others didn't and he went for it." He had looked down at her, his eyes swelled with desire._

That same desire had returned once more to his deep sea blue eyes as they stood now in the middle of the park, surrounded by energy driven mothers, babies and birds.

" _What is it, Robert?" she repeated._

" _Emma...," he stammered. "Emma..."_

"Yes, Robert." She attempted to remain calm. There was very little that shook Robert and so his wavering stamina was becoming quite concerning.

" _Emma," he said softly. "We...we've been seeing each other for what? Almost two years now?"_

One year, eight months and two days, she thought. But she was darned if she was going to say it aloud. "Yes, two years about."

" _And I now have a good architectural position with Cunningham & Price. And you are a...a..."_

"An English teacher at Carlingford High," she completed for him. "Yes."

" _Yes, yes," he babbled. "I know I'm not making much at C & P but I definitely intend to find something much better. Much, much better."_

" _Robert, I know that. You don't have to..."_

"Emma?" A voice interrupted them.

She turned immediately. "Richard."

" _Emma."_

"Mummy," said a voice breaking into her thoughts. She saw the reflection of her ten year old boy standing behind her, observing her curiously. "You okay?"

She bounced the box she was carrying and turned to him. "Yes, of course Jai. Now, have you finished setting up your room?"

"I have. I thought you might need some help with yours. It's hardly even close to finishing." He took a turn about the lounge room still filled with boxes of all their odds and ends. Their brown couch was pushed far back to the wall to make room for all the cardboard boxes and their television set which sat on the floor, unplugged, its wires dangling over the top of its huge screen.

"What about Hannah? Where is she?" she asked, suddenly noticing that the five year old was nowhere to be seen. It was unusual given that Hannah was always bound with so much energy she hardly could keep her feet at the same place for too long.

"Up in her room."

"In her room? What is she doing there? She can‎'t be fixing it up. She'll get hurt." Emma immediately swung to the staircase to charge up.

"Stop worrying, Mum," said Jai as he opened another box to check its contents. "I've already checked up on her. She's playing with her dolls."

She looked up hesitantly. She wondered if she shouldn't call her down. Hannah could be a handful once she was fired up and she really didn't need that now of all times.

"Probably, I'll check on her later then," she contemplated. She needed to finish with the kitchen above all things. That's where everyone called in when the hunger bugs bit them.

"When are you going to finish with your bedroom?" Jai asked, following her into the kitchen.

"Once I set up the kitchen. In the meantime, you could help Hannah set up hers. You might strike being more useful there instead of chasing me up on my bedroom."

"I'm just wondering where you would be sleeping tonight if you don't get it done. It is getting dark, you know."

"I know. Hannah and I will manage on our mattresses by the fire in the lounge. We'll be camping. Perhaps even a picnic. Just us two women," she teased.

Jai scowled. "Well, I'm in. Like it or not."

She ruffled his hair adoringly before he could race-up to Hannah's room.

"Order us some pizza tonight?" he said as he walked out of the kitchen

The firewood spit in the flames dancing in the small walled cove. Emma looked at the dark figures of her children lying next to her. Pizza boxes were piled one on-top another, evidence of their late night feast. Crumbs of their meal were still visible in the now empty boxes. Her mind instinctively turned to the possibility of rats and cockroaches. She sighed. If there were any, they would probably have been the more established residents of the old house than she.

Her eyes roamed over its beige walls and white ceiling, the shadows of the flames of her stone fireplace dancing on them. There were cracks in the corners of the ceilings, revealing the age of the building. She had been told by the realtor that it was a period home, built in the early eighteen hundreds. It contained four bedrooms, quite generous in size but in essence it was much smaller than the seven bedroom mansion she shared with Robert in London.

Her eyes scanned lower down to the pile of cardboard boxes stacked in the corner of her lounge room. In the dim light, she made out one that appeared to be almost spilling over with books. She smiled. Jai loved his books. She remembered how he had bickered with her when she alluded to donating some of them. There were just too many.

She crawled over to the box and began to sift through the upper pile, arranging them in a neat stack on the carpet floor. She had better. There was a good chance the box would topple over. She had to admit that despite his love of books, Jai had simply thrown the books in the box without a thought.

Humming a tune softly to herself, she dug her fingers in again to dish out another handful. As she turned to place them onto her pile, she caught sight of a worn out cover. It was all too familiar. "A Comparative Study on John Keats' Ode on a Grecian Urn." She swiped a gentle hand over the cover. It was now well-worn out from overuse and its grey cover had dulled over the years. But the illustration of the Grecian urn was still as impressive today as the first day she had laid eyes on it. It seemed to her that like the poem, the image was also captured in the timelessness of the poem it represented. As she sat staring at it her mind drifted back into her memories and into her apartment she used to share with her roommate at twenty-two...

Vivaldi played softly in the background. Emma drummed her feet as she stood at her bench-top slicing her carrots into juliennes.

"You sure you'll be fine?" said the young blonde woman, slipping on a pair of red heels.

" _I'll be fine, Lauren," she replied, glancing over at her. "You look beautiful."_

" _Thanks." Lauren gave one last appraisal of herself in the lounge room mirror. "You should come, you know. It's Pete's party after all. And you know him."_

" _I know."_

" _Learn to get out of this flat once in a while."_

Emma smiled. "I know."

Lauren sighed. "Very well then." She blew a kiss in the air. "Don't stay up. I'll be late."

Emma walked her over to the door. "Have a nice time."

" _You can still come..."_

Emma giggled and pushed her out of the door. "Bye, Lauren."

Closing the door behind her, she looked around at the tiny flat. The walls were peachy in colour and beautiful ornaments and candles grazed the lamp stands, shelves and coffee tables. A pair of lemony curtains was tied back and bordered the long French doors leading to the balcony.

It was seven in the evening and the lights of the city that sparkled into the flat, shown like stars. Her potted plants of geranium and begonia in her balcony were in full bloom and added to the romantic aura of the star studded night.

She sighed, realising that she was left all alone to embrace the serenity of her evening. She took a few steps forward to return to her cooking when a couple of desperate knocking interrupted her.

" _Who is it?" she called out._

" _Emma, it's me," replied Lauren._

Emma opened the door to an angst Lauren.

"Forgot my wallet," Lauren screamed out as she rushed towards her bedroom. "Changed my bag, forgot the wallet."

She ran back out, gave Emma a peck on her cheeks and raced out the door.

Emma shook her head in disbelief and closed the door. She was about to return to the kitchen when she saw Lauren's keys on the hall table. Emma winced. It looked as if she would have to stay up then. Probably sleeping on the couch would be a better idea, she thought, her hands on her hips as she weighed out her options.

Another knock rapped at the door and she breathed out a sigh of relief.

" _Lauren," she started, opening the door. "Did you forget..."_

There standing at the door was a six feet three young man. His short hair was neatly dressed and swept to the side. His glasses accentuated his blue eyes. He wore a stylish trench coat over his dark, striped suit.

Her jaw dropped open. No man had ever stood at her door looking like that.

# Chapter 2

" _Hello," said the man._

"Hello," Emma managed.

" _I hope I'm not bothering you. But I'm looking for Emma Abbott."_

Emma's eyes turned dark and suspicious. She looked him over again but with a different eye. "Why?"

The young man smiled. "I'm sorry. I didn't introduce myself. My name is Richard. Richard Winston."

Emma stared at him blankly, not recalling his name at all.

"I'm Robert's brother," he added, hoping to clear up her obvious confusion.

Emma's eyes lit up, her mouth breaking into a smile and her tensed shoulders loosened up. "Robert's brother? Why don't you come in?"

She led the way into her flat. Richard closed the door behind him.

"Hi." She smiled. "I'm sorry about that. I'm afraid I didn't recognise the last name."

Richard returned her smile. He took a glance at her flat, the sounds of Vivaldi in the air softening it even more. "You live alone?"

" _No," she said as she moved to the kitchen. His musk was strong, manly and captivating. Her legs began to quiver from the attraction she felt for him; almost like a high-school teenager. She knew she had to put some distance between them. "My room-mate, Lauren is out to a party." She grabbed a bunch of celery sticks and began slicing them nervously. "So what brings you here?"_

" _Oh...," he said. "I came to give you this." He held out his hand containing a book._

She recognised the brown, carved urn on it. 'A Comparative Study on John Keats' Ode on a Grecian Urn.' Her heart sunk. "You've come to return it. Has Robert finished with it?"

"I suppose he has," he said, placing the book on the bench top. "Robert couldn't come to return it himself. He said he..." He cleared his throat. "He had some engagement of some kind," he blurted.

" _Oh," said Emma, slightly disappointedly._

" _He... he said he would have come by personally. But something came up suddenly," Richard said in an attempt to comfort her. It was clear she had been looking forward to seeing his brother._

" _That's alright. Thank you though. For bringing it by."_

He put his hands into the pockets of his trench-coat. He had his eyes cast down to the wooden floor as he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another.

She watched him briefly. "Well... thank you," she said at last, breaking their awkward silence.

He looked up at her and hesitated before speaking. "Right...," he said. He made a slight move to the door and then stopped. "How... how is it that you know Robert?" he asked.

" _I met him in the coffee shop at the corner near the town library a couple of weeks ago," she answered. "He was doing an elective in poetry and we just got talking about it."_

" _Oh...," he said. He walked back slowly to the bench-top._

"I told him I was a literature major and he asked me for some help in his assignment," she continued. "Would you like a drink?"

" _Um... o.k."_

" _Red wine?"_

" _Um... yeah. That'll do fine."_

She fumbled through her cupboard and brought out a bottle of cheap merlot.

"I'm sorry." She shrugged, holding up the bottle. "It's all I have. I always keep a couple for my cooking."

"No... no, it's absolutely fine," he assured her.

She poured him a glass. "So we started meeting up a couple of afternoons. His latest assignment was on John Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn". I told him I had a great book based on that... and well... now you're here."

He settled himself on a stool at the bench-top and then took a sip of his wine as he watched her julienne the celery.

" _You won't have a glass?" he said._

She shook her head, giving him a small smile. "I don't drink."

" _But you cook?"_

She raised her head and thought for a moment. "Have you had dinner, Richard?"

Emma woke with a jerk. Startled, she wondered what it was that caused the loud noise, shattering her dreams. She heard angry voices coming from the kitchen.

"Jai?" she called out.

"Jai dropped a chair, Mummy," returned Hannah in her tiny voice.

She heard a muffled angry voice berate her.

"Jai?" she said again. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, Mum." He popped his head out the doorway. "Just making breakfast for Hannah and me."

She lay back tiredly onto her mattress. What time is it?

She reached out onto her side to search for her wrist watch. Her hands grazed the edges of a book. She picked it up and looked at it. She let out a small sigh. She must have fallen asleep thinking of Richard.

She remembered the last conversation she had had with him. He had been angry when he discovered that she was selling the seven bedroom mansion she shared with Robert in London to move to the Isle of Skye in Scotland.

He had marched out into her garden with thunderous footsteps. She hadn't seen him or she would have retreated quickly. Instead, he had caught her by surprise, his angry shadow blocking the sunlight over her as she was crouched low onto the ground, weeding her garden.

" _I want to talk to you," he said heavily._

" _Richard," she blurted. "Why...? What's wrong?"_

He didn't answer but stared down at her small frame.

" _Alright," she said, standing up. "Let me just get washed and I'll meet you in the lounge room."_

" _You look fine," he said, grabbing her by the elbows and pulling her into the house and into the library._

" _Richard!" she shouted angrily. "What is the meaning of this?"_

He swung her roughly before him.

" _You're selling the house."_

Her face clouded. "How did you know?"

" _So it is true."_

" _I meant to tell you. But not just yet."_

" _You didn't even ask me. You just up and went and put the house on the market," he said in a low, threatening voice._

" _Mind you, Richard," she said sternly. "I don't need to ask you."_

" _And so you've decided to move to the Isle of Skye?"_

She moved away from him. She couldn't bear him looking at her so angrily. She pulled her garden gloves off her hands and threw it onto her desk. "We've found a house and we will be moving in a week," she whispered almost to herself. "We had enough from the estate to purchase it. We made the final settlement last week."

" _What about the kids, Emma?" he said, still staring at her, his grey eyes almost scorching a hole into her soul._

" _The kids are alright."_

" _And me? What about me?"_

" _What about you, Richard?" she said, lifting her eyes cautiously at him. "You'll go on with life as usual. Date, find a wonderful partner hopefully, and move on. We all have to move on. Robert's death has shaken us all but..."_

"I'm not talking about Robert!" he boomed. "Those kids mean the world to me. I was there when they took their first steps. I held their hands and took them to their first day at school, their first game. Hell, I've been there for them than Robert ever was."

"I know that," Emma insisted. "And I'm grateful. So was Robert. He has said so on so many occasions. But you can't blame Robert for being a poor father. He had been busy trying to establish himself as a respectable architect."

"Robert! Robert! Robert!" he screamed. "You've always defended him- no matter what he did!"

" _He was my husband!"_

" _And he was my brother!"_

They stared at each other, their faces flamed with fury. But it was Richard who succumbed first. He turned away and walked slowly to the door. Stalling at it, he fidgeted with the door knob.

" _I sometimes feel sorry for you, Emma. You never knew what you had. You never realised what you could have had," he said in a low voice._

He slammed the door shut so loudly she jerked.

Her eyes flew open.

"Jai?"

Emma folded the last of her washing. She ran her hands on the smoothly, pressed little shirt belonging to Hannah. She smiled to herself as she laid it into Hannah's dresser. She could hear her tiny voice outside.

"It's my turn." She was wailing at Jai.

Emma looked towards the whirring sound that had caught her attention. The tiny automated toy helicopter spun towards the trees that bordered the house.

"If you destroy it Jaiden Winston," Hannah screamed. "I'll break every toy you have."

Jai laughed. Emma smiled. It was a hollow threat and they both knew it. Hannah adored her older brother and there was nothing she would actually do to hurt him.

"Fine, fine," said Jai, bringing the chopper down slowly. "Just be carefully, okay. You trashed the last one I had."

Her door bell chimed. Emma quickly glanced at the clock on Hannah's bedside table. It was two o'clock already? She picked up the now empty laundry basket and raced down the stairs. Tossing the basket into a lounge chair, she quickly moved to open the door.

"Mr Collins," she said. "It's so good to see you."

"Good afternoon, Mrs Winston," he said, wiping the sweat off his forehead. He was a short, pudgy man with a receding hair line. His streak of grey hair however kind of suited him. It tend to soften the frown lines and aging wrinkles which otherwise falsely made him appear harsher in his professionally tailored suit.

"Good afternoon, Mr Collins," she replied. "Is it hot outside?" She noticed he was dabbing profusely at his forehead with a plain, magenta handkerchief.

"No, not at all," he answered. "But you sure did find a lonely spot to move to, Mrs Winston."

Emma smiled. "It's not really that far. The nearest primary school is only ten minutes away. You've come through Portree?"

"Ashaig," he put simply. "By charted flight."

"Is there something important you needed to discuss with me, Mr Collins?" she asked, slightly worried. "I couldn't imagine what it could have been when you called to schedule an appointment this morning."

"No, no," he assured. "There is nothing of any concern. Just procedural matters for the sale of your property." He took a quick glance at the cottage. "It's pretty small in comparison, Mrs Winston. Are you sure you're comfortable here?"

"I am fine, Mr Collins," she said. "Can I offer you a cup of coffee?"

"I'll take one, thanks."

"I'll bring it into the study."

"No, no," he said. "Let's take it in the kitchen."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Absolutely," he replied, following her slowly into the kitchen.

Emma turned the kettle on and then pulled out a couple of cups, setting them neatly onto the table.

Mr Collins settled himself into a chair as he continued to study the little kitchen with an appraising eye. The cupboard had little white wooden doors, the walls were lime green and a pot of maidenhair fern stood at the end of the kitchen bench. A white island took prominence at the centre of the kitchen with four white stools lacing the length of it.

"I have your approval, then?" Emma said, noticing how he was carefully studying her cottage.

"It is small, Mrs Winston."

"You've said that before, Mr Collins," she said. "And it is small, in comparison. Otherwise, it is quite large enough for the kids and me. And I was never the one for entertainment." She sighed. "That was Robert's thing. That's why he bought that large mansion in London. I've always preferred something smaller..." She realised she was rambling. "I'm sorry Mr Collins," she added quickly. "Here you go." She slid forward his cup of coffee. "Cream, no sugar. The way you like it."

Mr Collins cleared his throat and accepted his cup graciously. He sipped from it; the hot fluid warming him in the inside. It felt a little comforting now that the cold from the outside was beginning to seep into the house.

"It gets dark here pretty quickly," he said, noticing the glow of the sun dimming in the distance.

"It's much the same as in London, Mr Collins," she said. "It's just that we're so busy there, we don't realise it... or appreciate it." She turned to the window to watch the setting sun.

For a brief while, they both sat quietly enjoying the crimson rays of the sun shining through Emma's kitchen window. The back door slammed shut followed by a string of argumentative young voices.

"Hello, Mr Collins," Jai greeted as he walked past briskly and into the living room, followed closely at his heels by a disgruntled Hannah.

"The kids look well-settled," said Mr Collins, observing them. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a file. Shuffling through the papers marked with colourful tabs thanks to his efficient secretary, he checked them once more before handing them over to Emma.

"Just sign and date them wherever there's a Sign Here tab," he indicated.

Emma scanned them through before accepting the pen he was offering.

"Those are the last of the settlement papers," he said, watching her neatly sign off each designated slot. "Once that is processed, the cheque will be deposited into your account and the matter should be concluded."

She glanced at him before signing the last of the papers. "Why are you here, Mr Collins?" she said, handing back the papers.

He took the documents from her and evened out the edges onto the table. "To settle the matter of your property," he answered, without looking at her. He placed the documents back into his bag. "Why else would I be here?"

Emma frowned, lifting up an eyebrow. "If it's simply the matter of settlement, Mr Collins, we could have done it via a local lawyer. All you had to do was send them over."

The old man sighed tiredly. "Mrs Winston, my family has been serving the Winstons in all their legal matters for almost four generations. I have seen the young Winston boys born and grow into fine men. You can't say that I don't take a personal interest in the welfare of Mr Robert's family especially now that he isn't any longer with us."

Emma smiled and took the old man's hands in hers. "Mr Collins, I understand the prominent respect that you hold for Robert's family but..." She hesitated briefly. "Did Richard send you to check up on me?"

Mr Collins watched her closely with his greying eyes. He moved his hands slightly so that now he was holding hers instead. "You must not think it as an intrusion. Mr Richard means well. He is worried about you and the children."

"I am a grown woman, Mr Collins," she said, withdrawing her hand in part annoyance and part tiredness. "It's time your Mr Richard learns that I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions about what becomes of me and my children."

"Mrs Winston..," Mr Collins started to protest.

"Please, sir," she added quickly. "Let Richard know that I do not intend to leave Skye anytime soon. And if I ever do return to London, it will be when my children and I are good and ready."

# Chapter 3

It was one of those rare days when the sun would shine over the mass of dense dark clouds. She did not know how long the good day would last but she wanted to make the best use of it. She drove down the highway and toward Broadford. Jai sat beside her, his eyes focused on his book. Hannah meanwhile was clearly busy as there was silence reigning in the car, other than her occasional burst of excitements in between the beeps of her Nintendo DS device.

Ten minutes later, the row of shops and busyness of the small town began to emerge in the distance. As Emma neared the co-op, she couldn't help but admire the blue of the sea that bordered the bay.

"How long are we going to be?" asked Jai, looking at a white van pulling out of a parking bay.

"Hopefully not that long," she answered. "We're short of groceries and general cleaning stuff."

"Would it be okay if you dropped me at the library while you're doing the shopping?" he asked.

"Jai...," she started.

"Please Mum," he said. "I really can't be bothered following you and a trolley today."

"Fine." She sighed. It might be for the best, she thought to herself. "What about you, Hannah? Coming with Mum or staying with Jai?"

"Jai," she replied without looking away from her game.

Emma swung at the turn and pulled in front of the library. "Jai, I need you to stay here until I get back" she reminded. "Okay?"

"Yes," he said, hopping out the door quickly in case his mother changed her mind.

"Jai?" she called out through the window. "Stay here. And take care of your sister."

"Mum, chill!" he shouted back as he ran after Hannah who was already racing through the doors of the library. "I heard you!"

Emma watched them disappear between the automatic doors before heading back into the main street and towards the co-operative store. She parked at the closest parking bay she could find. She glided out of her car and walked briskly towards the supermarket. An elderly couple walked by her giving her a curious second glance.

She didn't think much of it and began her routine of hunting for items on her shopping list. A few others smiled at her as she walked by them with her trolley. She smiled back aware that she was now living in a much smaller part of the world than she was used to. She was bound to get recognised sooner or later as the woman who moved from London to Breakish with two kids.

"You're the woman who moved to Breakish with two kids, right?" asked the middle aged blonde cashier. She looked Emma over with a smile as she swiped the shopping items.

Emma returned a small, nervous smile.

"I'm Lisa," the cashier said.

Emma glanced down at her name tag. "Lisa," she read silently.

"I'm Emma," she said aloud.

"I live two houses down from yours," Lisa said. "Where did you come from?"

"London," Emma answered.

"London?" a weaker, older voice answered from behind her. "I've been to London once. A long time ago."

She looked behind her to find an old man approximately in his eighties holding a gallon of milk and a box of cereals. His old wrinkled face held up a frown high on his forehead, a set of spectacles sat at the end of his nose and his thinning grey hair was slicked back. He looked back at her with steel greying eyes.

"Matthew," Lisa growled. "Don't mind him," she told Emma. "He is actually quite a sweet old man once you get to know him. Isn't that right, Matthew?" She gave him a side grin as she swiped another item across her scanner.

Matthew Allaway harrumphed in indignation looking away. "You should stop with the chit-chat, so I can get on my way," he grumbled.

Lisa smiled again. "I'm at number 17. If you need anything don't be afraid to knock."

"You live next to Mrs Kinnaird's property then," said the old man, his eyes giving Emma a harsh appraisal.

"Yeah," chirped in Lisa quickly before Emma could answer. "I know," she said as she rolled up her eyes.

Lisa put the items into a shopping bag. "That would be a hundred and fifty three pounds and forty-four p's."

"Do you mind if I use a credit card?" asked Emma.

"Certainly not," said Lisa, pulling forward the mobile terminal and handing it over to her.

Emma punched in her pin. "Lisa," she asked quietly over her eyebrows. "Is there something I need to know about Mrs Kinnaird?"

Lisa stared at her blankly. "No," she muttered at last. "Here's your receipt." She handed Emma the small slip of paper.

Emma took it hesitantly. She bit her lips thoughtfully as she picked up her shopping bags.

"Stay away from the old lady," said Matthew.

Emma turned but Matthew was not looking at her. He was laying his gallon of milk and box of cereal on the counter. Lisa tried to avoid Emma's questioning stare.

"She's trouble. Always have been," Matthew added, turning slightly towards her now. He gave her the same icy cold look that he had given her earlier.

It was almost three o'clock in the evening and Emma was enjoying the last rays of sunlight as she walked up the road. She slowed briefly at property number 27. She could see the large white mansion in the distance. Rows of cypress lined the private road to the estate. From what she had learnt, the vast majority of the land on this side of the road belonged to Mrs Kinnaird and so there wasn't a house to be seen for at least a mile- the one reason she loved to take her usual afternoon stroll in this direction than the one that would lead past Lisa Johnston's house.

She re-assessed the small talk she had had with Lisa and Matthew Allaway. It was obvious that Lisa was uncomfortable about speaking of Mrs Kinnaird any more at the supermarket and Matthew seemed that he had said all that he needed to. But there was something in the way they had spoken of her that irked her greatly.

After having done her shopping earlier that morning, she had picked up the children and drove further down the highway.

"Where are we going, Mum?" said Jai, noticing.

"To Portree," she answered. "I need to speak to Mr MacGregor about something."

Half an hour later, she found herself sitting in the small realtor office. Jai and Hannah waited patiently on the customer couches provided.

"Hello, Mrs Winston," said Mr MacGregor, emerging from the back. "Ciamar a tha sibh?"

"Tha gu math," Emma replied with a smile.

Mr MacGregor smiled. "You're brushing up on your Gaelic, I see?"

"I've learnt a bit," Emma said. And a few other things, she thought to herself.

"Well, Mrs Winston, what can I help you with today? You are well settled at the house?"

"I am. Thank you, Mr MacGregor."

"And the folks around Breakish, Broadford, they treating you well?"

"I couldn't be more welcome," she answered impatiently. "Mr MacGregor," she added quickly before he could continue with his small talk. She was well aware that he knew she had money and he was probably counting on his good fortune that she would buy another property to add to his sales. She was banking on this in the hope that she would get the answers she was looking for. "You said the previous owners were selling because they wanted to move closer to Portree."

"Yes," said Mr MacGregor. "They could no longer maintain the size of the land. Five acres of farm land is no easy feat to manage Mrs Winston."

"So this has nothing to do with the fact that the adjoining property to mine belongs to Mrs Kinnaird?"

Mr MacGregor licked his lips nervously, slightly taken aback. "Why, er, of course not. Mrs Kinnaird is an upstanding member of the community. I don't know who has been talking to you but it's all gossip."

"What gossip?" said Emma, immediately attentive.

Mr MacGregor stammered slightly. "What? No...no gossip. Like I said Mrs Kinnaird is a well-respected member..."

"I know she is a well-respected member," Emma snapped in annoyance. "And that is why no one wants to tell me exactly why people avoid her. Particularly so, of why no one wants to buy a five acre property that was on sale for pittance and on the market for almost half a year."

"Mrs Winston," Mr MacGregor said assuredly. "You're making this out to be more than it is. Sheep farming is on the decline. The previous owners realised that and so they did what was economical to them. They sold out. The property is an hour's drive from Portree which makes it quite inconvenient to most residents in Skye. And expensive for most locals to maintain as well. Aside that, there is also the fact that real estate in Skye tend to sell a little slower than they do in London," he added the last statement a tad more sterner in the hope that Emma would put an end to her curiosity.

The indirectness did not go unnoticed. Emma watched him closely. "You sure there is nothing I should be worried about?"

"Of course not," said Mr MacGregor, rising from his chair. "Listen, I have an appointment in ten minutes. I wish I could help you more but there really isn't anything that you should be concerned about. If there is anything else Mrs Winston, please feel free to drop by anytime." He extended his hand.

Emma took it hesitantly. She hoped, for his sake, that it was true.

"Ted! Ted!" called out the woman as she leant against her window to get a closer look. "Theodore!"

A middle-aged man rushed up the stairs and into the parlour where the woman was. "Yes, Mrs Kinnaird?" he said. He heaved breathlessly, trying to keep his tall and thin stature as upright as possible.

"She's back, Theodore," the woman said excitedly. "Look, there she is walking up the highway."

Theodore glanced slightly at the window and saw the young woman stop briefly near the road leading up to the house. "Ah, yes, Mrs Kinnaird," he said. "I see her."

"Come on, then." She rushed out of the room. "Let's go before we lose her."

"Lose her?" he asked with puzzlement, racing behind her.

The older woman didn't answer. She called out to her housekeeper. "Nancy! Get my shawl."

A woman in her fifties sprinted out the front door with a deep green shawl and after her employer.

"What is it?" She mouthed silently at Theodore.

Theodore gestured a I'll tell you later and hopped into the driver's seat.

Mrs Kinnaird scrambled into the back seat. Nancy hurriedly closed the door after her mistress but did not move away from the car. She was still astounded by all the hastiness caused by Mrs Kinnaird.

Nancy had been working for the Kinnaird's for almost thirty five years. In all this time she had seen the family pass through both joy and sorrow. The old woman Kinnaird was a woman who was so misunderstood by the people of Skye. But how could she blame the residents of Skye? Mrs Kinnaird always had a terrible habit to interact with the locales on her sourest of days. On her better days, she preferred sitting alone at home with her two little dogs in her flower garden.

Theodore started the car and sputtered down the road towards the highway.

"Where to Mrs Kinnaird?" he asked, still unsure of what his employer was doing.

"That way and up the highway," she indicated. "I'll tell you when to turn around."

He turned the car to the left and it slowly moved onto the main road and towards the young woman strolling up the road.

"Slow, Theodore," said Mrs Kinnaird, almost in a whisper. "So I can see her."

The car drove past slowly. Mrs Kinnaird peered at the young woman through the dark, tinted windows. She was wearing a long grey skirt and a pale blue open front cardigan over a cream top. Her long red curly hair was swept into a top knot on the crown of her head. She had her face held down so Mrs Kinnaird could not quite see how she looked. As the car moved away, she sat back into her seat thoughtfully.

"What have you found about her, Theodore?" she said.

"She's a widow from London. Two kids, ten years old and under, one boy and a girl."

"Boy older?"

"Ah... yes," he replied. "Moved here to heal from the grief of her husband's death, I suppose."

"What did the husband do?"

"Was an architect, I heard."

"Her name?"

"Emma Winston."

Mrs Kinnaird sat back quietly. She watched the stream of trees fly past her. She let out a small breath. She could be the one, she thought. The one she had been waiting for all these years.

"Turn around Theodore," she said quietly. "It's time we go home."

Emma glanced at the dark BMW turn out of the driveway and into the main road. It crept slowly by her. She tried not to look at the old woman that seemed to be peering at her with a strange stare through the dark tinted windows. Emma looked down uncomfortably, brushing the loose strands of hair framing her face away in a weak attempt to occupy herself as the car crawled by her. When the car drove away, she shook her head in bewilderment. The old woman was sure strange.

Emma let out a small nervous giggle. Mrs Kinnaird must be wondering if she was crazy strolling along a deserted highway at approaching dusk. She heard the tweeting of birds preparing for the night in the trees around her. The setting sun was emanating a golden glow. She loved the feel of it on her skin as she basked in its amber light. There was still much light in the sky for her to walk a little further on.

She heard the sound of a car come towards her and she edged onto the side of the road. It was Mrs Kinnaird's dark BMW and it was slowing as it approached her. To her surprise, it veered to her side of the road and came to a stop right beside her.

The dark windows rolled down and inside was sitting an old woman who had a frown etched up high on her forehead. A deep green shawl was draped over her shoulders. Her shoulder length hair bobbed as she tilted her head to a side to scrutinise her. Her eyes roamed the facets of Emma's face as Emma looked back at her with obvious stun, speechless.

"Who are you," demanded the woman. It wasn't a question. Emma didn't know whether to be offended by the statement. But seeing this could highly possibly be the infamous Mrs Kinnaird that most of Skye was in awe of, she decided to undertake a more peaceful approach.

She managed a small smile and leant towards the window. "I'm Emma. I live down the road," she said, pointing towards it.

The woman frowned at her with indifference.

Emma hesitated before she said. "I saw you a little earlier drive out of the adjoining property. Are you Mrs Kinnaird?"

The woman sat back and stared straight ahead. "It's late. Get in. You should not be walking at such an hour."

Emma dropped her gaze to the ground, feeling uneasy at accepting her offer. "I'm fine, madam," she said sternly. "I can manage the walk back."

"Theodore," the woman said.

A tall, thin man stepped out of the driver's seat. He wore a dark suit and was immaculately groomed. He stepped around the car and towards Emma. "Please, Miss," he said, opening the rear door for her. "Mrs Kinnaird would appreciate it if you would oblige her to drop you off home." He said the name with a little reassuring smile. A smile which told her that she would be safe.

# Chapter 4

The two minute car ride to her house was done in absolute silence. Emma twiddled her thumbs nervously, the ride feeling longer than it actually was.

Mrs Kinnaird sat beside her without saying a word. Emma almost breathed out a sigh of relief as she saw her house emerge in the distance. The car came to a smooth halt outside her home. Emma opened her car door a little too eagerly before remembering her manners.

"Um...thank you Mrs Kinnaird," she said. "I appreciate it."

The older woman continued to stare outside her window. She didn't look at Emma nor did she acknowledge her.

Emma swallowed uncomfortably, unsure of what she was to do. She put a foot outside the door.

"Mrs Winston," the woman said at last. "If ever you wish to take a walk, try avoiding it along the highway."

Emma stared at her, a little taken aback by her commanding tone.

"Mrs Kinnaird...," she started.

"Mrs Winston," the woman interrupted her. "I understand that you are a single mother of two children. I would hate to hear if something terrible happened to you. You are welcome to pass through my property anytime you have the urge to walk. It is large and well enough to cater any length of walk you'd like to take."

"Mrs Kinnaird," started Emma again. She didn't want to take the woman's offer but she was overcome by one of those annoying nagging feelings that she was right. "Thank you," she managed to blurt out finally. "That's very kind of you."

"Hmmm," the woman grunted and turned back to look outside the window again.

Emma stepped outside the dark car and then watched it drive away up her driveway and back into the highway.

She stood outside watching the last of the evening light fade into the darkness. She didn't know what to make of her encounter with her elderly neighbour. Did she just make a new friend in the Isle of Skye? She just wasn't so sure.

Two days had passed since Mrs Kinnaird had dropped Emma off at her front door. She had yet to take advantage of Mrs Kinnaird's offer.

Emma tucked her feet under her as she settled herself into her settee. She looked at the sheet of blue sea lay in the distance outside her sun room. A white boat bobbed on its waves like the paper boats she used to float in the drains outside her mother's flat when she was ten.

She heard her children cheer in excitement over a new game they were playing on video. They had adjusted well to the slow and quiet life in Skye. She had been inwardly fearful that they would reject the move. But they clearly loved the open and clean air just as much she did.

Mrs Kinnaird still unnerved her slightly. Although she was grateful that she had been concerned of her safety, she didn't want to trespass anyone's boundaries and she certainly didn't want Mrs Kinnaird to feel that she was taking advantage of her goodwill.

A knock rapped at her window, shocking her back to reality. She clutched at her chest, trying to breathe out an air of relief as she saw that it was only Lisa. She was waving wildly through the large windows, her mouth in an open, wide smile.

She rose to open the door.

"Hi there," said Lisa. "I got something for you." She pushed her way past Emma and into the warm sun-lit room.

Emma rolled her eyes and managed to prevent a sigh from escaping her lips. If there was one thing she would need to get used to since moving to Breakish, it was the ability of its locales to successfully annoy her. She did not know whether it was a silent cultural aspect but they sure was subtly butting into her private space each time she met one of them. Or in this case, forcefully meeting her!

"Oh my god!" Lisa exclaimed. "Look at this conservatory! It's beautiful! Did you put this up? It wasn't here before."

Emma strolled up to her slowly. "Yes, I did. Before moving in."

Lisa roamed her eyes delightfully over the white tiled floor and the wooden framed pitched roof. A chandelier hung from the centre of its pitch. Pots of palm trees ornamented the corners of the room while magenta sofas decked the centre.

"Oh, I got this for you," she said, handing over a basket of fruit absent-mindedly, her eyes still pre-occupied with the pretty down lights that lined the beams in the roof.

"Thanks," said Emma, admiring the assortment of fruit containing half of a water melon a ripened papaya, mangoes and even a punnet of strawberries. "This is quite an... unusual collection."

"Oh, you're welcome," said Lisa, blushing slightly. "Mr Craig, the man who owns the store at which I work, sometimes orders in the rarest fruit, just as a treat for his customers. I was welcome to take home some, you know, being loyal staff and all. I had more than enough, so I thought to bring you along some,"

"That's um... really kind of you, Lisa," said Emma. She placed the basket on the little round table by one of the many windows in the cosy conservatory.

"As a matter of fact," Lisa continued. "I saw builders five months ago drop into the property. Round about the time the Fletchers sold the house. Didn't know they were putting up this gorgeous conservatory. I simply thought they were doing some maintenance to the house."

"Would you like some tea, Lisa?" Emma asked, trying to stray away from the subject of her house. "This is the first time you've come to visit. Maybe you want to stay awhile?" She bit her tongue as she let the words slip out of her mouth. She crossed her fingers behind her.

"No, that's awfully kind of you," Lisa said, rushing towards the door. "I just came to drop those fruit for you. Big Jim is going for a football practise in an hour."

"Big Jim?"

"My thirteen year old boy," Lisa replied proudly. "He plays right-back. And a very good one at that if I can say so."

"I'm sure he is," Emma said, giving a small smile.

"Emma," Lisa's voice took a sudden surprising serious turn. "Have you met Mrs Kinnaird?"

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Yes. A couple of days ago."

"Well," said Lisa, looking anxiously at the door. "I should go now before I get any more late."

Emma stepped into her way before she could make an exit. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason in particular," Lisa answered somewhat unsurely. "Seeing that she's your closest neighbour that's all."

"Lisa, do you think I'm stupid?" Emma said sternly.

"No, of course not," Lisa said, flustering. "I merely asked because..."

"Because she's my closest neighbour?" Emma asked with a hint of sarcasm. "Oh come on, Lisa. Give me the decency to not play me the fool.

"I'm sorry, Emma," she answered, licking her lips nervously. "But really, it's just that Mrs Kinnaird is... um... rather strange."

"What do you mean 'strange'?"

"Strange. She's different," Lisa replied. "Listen, I wish I could tell you more. And I will, I promise you. But I really need to go now. Big Jim's practice, remember?"

"Oh, of course," Emma said, stepping out of her way. As much as she would have liked to have shaken the story out of the woman, she knew she couldn't.

Lisa bade her farewell as she stepped out of the doors of the conservatory.

Emma watched the woman disappear down her driveway, her curiosity further increased about the neighbour everyone refused to talk about; Mrs Kinnaird.

"How is the weather outside, Theodore?" said Mrs Kinnaird. She put down her newspaper to look at her butler standing before the long floor length windows.

"The usual January closing winter, Mrs Kinnaird," he answered, refilling her cup with tea. "A little cold but tolerant enough to take a walk." He gave a small glance at the older woman.

Mrs, Kinnaird let out a thoughtful grunt. She accepted the cup and took a slight sip. "Has the young lady taken a walk yet through the land?"

"I can't say that I have seen her, my lady," said Theodore, stepping back from the table.

"Mrs Kinnaird drummed her small, frail fingers on the table. "Why do you think that is, Theodore?"

"I'm sure she will in her own good time."

She didn't like it. She didn't want her young neighbour to take up her offer "in her own good time". She was too old to wait for her to take a walk through her property "in her own good time". She wanted 'now'. She needed 'now'. Her eyes fell on the vintage vase in the centre of her small round table. She trailed the exquisitely detailed golden rimmed base of the vase with her eyes. She remembered the numerable times she had silently counted the small hand-painted pink blossoms that sat against its peachy background. Today Nancy had created a beautiful ensemble of yellow freesias that stood in perfect array within it. She always wondered where Nancy ordered her flowers from because they always did come regardless of the seasons. She never did ask though. Sometimes these questions were better left to those who knew how best to answer them. But not those of young Mrs Winston. She needed to know more about her.

She picked out a yellow blossom out of the vase. Weren't freesias autumn and spring flowers? These looked too pretty and cheerful for Skye's winter.

"We might need to pay her another visit, Theodore." She sighed. She rose and strolled thoughtfully to the beautiful carved white sideboard cabinet that displayed an assortment of family photographs. It stood against a wall that was dedicated to another large collection of family memories. She traced her fingers along the dainty, silver frame of an old, dull black and white photograph. The man in the picture that stared back at her with his dark eyes had even darker hair, sleeked back and parted in the middle. He was young, in his twenties, Mrs Kinnaird remembered. His smile was so affectionate that she had to return it with her own.

"Arthur wouldn't agree," she said. "Wait a moment, Ethel. You're far too impulsive; impatient, my Arthur would have said."

She sighed again tiredly. Turning to face her loyal and faithful butler, she asked, "Have I changed that much Theodore?"

Theodore attempted to look away, pre-occupying his mind with the details of the Persian carpet that graced the floor of the family living room. "It's not my place to say, my lady."

Mrs Kinnaird grunted and hobbled back to her chair. "Oh, come off it, Theodore. You've been in the family far too long that you've almost become one. I would trade you any day for that prying, nosy, meddlesome cousin of mine, Deanna Boyd."

She picked up her newspaper, trying to continue with it from where she left off but instead slammed it back onto the table with a thud. "Tell me, Theodore, how is that old twerp's been doing?"

"Mrs Boyd's been well, ma'am," Theodore replied. Despite his love for his mistress, he hated being caught in the Kinnaird family dispute. As much as he'd like, he would prefer to stay as far from it as possible. The Kinnairds could get nasty and dirty if they wanted to. He was a living testament to that.

He adjusted the ends of his jacket and continued, "In fact, she called up this morning to ask for your health. I reported you were doing excellently in spite of the small cold you suffered earlier on in the winter. I naturally didn't put her through to you as you had advised. I said that you were still asleep and did not wish to be disturbed."

"Asking for my health, indeed!" she spat out. "The woman is concerned with nothing but the date on my funeral headstone! Argh!" She reclined into her chair, quiet and thinking. "Do you remember, Theodore, how once these rooms were filled with laughter and people. Beautiful people. Arthur, the children, George, Mary, Anne."

She looked at the red decorative wall paper and its green and gold trimmings, the memories of their debate entwined within it.

" _Blue, mother," George had said. "That red is just horrendous." He let out a disgusting sound._

" _Oh, stop exaggerating, George," Ethel Kinnaird said. "I think it's really pretty."_

" _You only say that, mother, because Anne chose it," Mary replied, poking out her tongue in a tease and moving to sit on her father's arm chair. She put her arm around her father's neck endearingly "What do you think, Pa?"_

Her father looked up from the book he was reading. "This is where a man should learn to keep his opinion to himself. Unfortunately, George doesn't seem he will learn it soon enough. Not until he gets his own bevy of beauties he would want to keep happy."

George scowled. He was after all only fifteen years old and the youngest in the family.

"I am not going to have us host my fiancé's family in that officious blue, Mother!" Anne argued.

" _Mother!" George protested._

Ethel gave him a disapproving glance. "You do protest too much, George. And it's not a horrendous shade at all. I think it is warm, friendly and quite elegant."

Arthur lifted a questioning eyebrow. Mary rolled up her eyes and George huffed.

The only one that did look pleased was the bride-to-be, Anne Felicity Kinnaird.

Mrs Kinnaird smiled. The wallpaper was horrendous.

# Chapter 5

The light had begun to fade outside, accompanied with a drizzle of light snow that sparkled its crystal as it showered gently all around her house. The children were occupied with a favourite television program. From the sounds of their laughter, Emma could tell they were far too engrossed to spend the afternoon with her in her conservatory.

She lay back on her settee, watching the snow patter against her glass roof. She almost fell hypnotised by its rhythmic shower when she heard a tap against her conservatory. She peered over the top of her settee and managed to spot Lisa through her windows again. She hunched back and winced.

Reluctantly, she rose and opened the door.

"Hi there," said Lisa, pushing past her yet again and inviting herself in. "Damn it's cold out there." She vigorously rubbed her palms together. "I'll take that tea," she said, smiling. "God, this place looks even greater in the evening. I should get Bill to see this. I would so love one of my own."

Emma stared at her blankly. The invitation of tea had expired long ago that morning and which she distinctly remembered Lisa had turned down. Despite that, she found herself walking over to the little kitchen cabinet and making them a small pot of tea. She shook her head in disbelief. Six months ago, she would never have tolerated such insolence in her London mansion. She must be growing soft and tolerant to the impertinent cultures of her neighbours.

"How did Big Jim do at his practice?" she asked, trying to decipher why Lisa was back again, twice in a day at her house. She prayed silently that this was not an inkling of a habit she might have to endure in the near future.

"Oh, he did well. It was just a friendly match the boys had set up amongst themselves. Gives an excuse to make most of a good and sunny day in the winter," she rambled. "It was good too with the sudden change in weather."

Emma smiled. "Skye weather is quite unpredictable." And so are its residents, she added silently. "Did you drive here? I didn't see your car."

"No, I didn't," Lisa said. "I walked. Bill's going to pick me up when I call him. He's babysitting the children. Told him I needed to do a ladies' chat with you."

"A ladies' chat?" Emma asked, lifting up a brow. She handed over a cup of steaming tea to Lisa and motioned for her to continue at the settee. "What sort of ladies chat?"

Lisa placed her cup down on the glass coffee table and plopped down into a couch. "You know, the one we had this morning. About old Mrs Kinnaird."

Emma watched her mystified and baffled. Wasn't Lisa hesitant earlier to speak of the woman? And now here she was, more than willing to reveal all that Emma wanted to know of the mysterious Mrs Kinnaird over a cup of tea.

Lisa took a sip of her tea. "Oh, this is delightful," she said.

"Yes, it is," Emma said impatiently, almost demanding her to stop with the chat on tea. "What about Mrs Kinnaird?" she asked carefully, trying not to sound too anxious.

"Well," Lisa answered, tucking her legs under her. "It happened a long, long time ago. Mrs Kinnaird's eldest daughter had just got married. The newly married wife and husband moved to London where they settled.

Their second daughter, Mary went visiting her aunt in Glasgow. There she met a young man who fell deeply in love with her. Mary loved him too but not enough to go against the wishes of her family. You see, the young man was a poor factory worker. Mr and Mrs Kinnaird did not think much of the boy and refused Mary to continue with the courtship. The boy was so distraught; he died of heart-ache. However, the boy's mother had gypsy ancestry. Rumour has it, she cursed the Kinnaird family. That they would never be able to retain a marriage and that Mary would never be anyone else's. Of course, the Kinnairds dismissed it as ludicrous, pagan beliefs, never giving it a second thought.

There was no reason to. It was the late 1960s and business was booming in America. Mr Kinnaird was a shrewd business man and invested heavily into all sorts of business there, basking in its profits and rewards. Unfortunately, their only son, George was also lured by the alluring, glamorous life of America. Now having tasted the nectars of fame and fortune in America, George made it quite well-known that he had no wish to return to dull, mundane Skye. Instead he revelled in drunkenness and debauchery. His parents were utterly disappointed. They threatened to cut him off his inheritance if he didn't return. But George called their bluff and remained in America much to the disdain of his parents.

But that was only the start of the Kinnaird downfall.

Anne Kinnaird, now Mrs Cameron, gave birth to a healthy baby boy two years after the marriage. The Kinnaird's were absolutely elated with this new addition to the family. Actually, so much so, that they gifted the young parents with a trip to Europe. I heard that Mrs Cameron refused to leave her newborn and wanted to take her baby with her. But after much coaxing and convincing by both her husband and her family, she ultimately decided to leave the child with her parents and set off on a journey to Europe with her husband. Only two days into their trip and not having yet even left the shores of London, the young couple died in a car crash. It was heard that they had a terrible argument while Mr Cameron was driving. Apparently they were arguing over the control of finances over their trip. It appeared that Mrs Cameron had snubbed it in her husband's face and the fact that his family did not support them as much in their financial endeavours as did her family. In anger, Mr Cameron sped to overtake a truck before him in an oncoming bend but lost control, veering off the road and tumbling down a cliff. They both died that awful night.

The Kinnairds were terribly distraught over the death of their daughter. Mr Kinnaird took the blame of their death upon himself. He had been aware of their marital problems and assumed that a three month trip to Europe would save the young couple's marriage. Instead it had only surfaced Mr Cameron's insecurities to provide the luxuries his wife was so used to having. Mr Kinnaird locked himself up in his bedroom for seven days, refusing to talk to anyone. Well, he did come out at the end of it, but the atmosphere of the entire household had now become sombre. There was no laughter or playful teasing ringing through its empty halls. No- all that was gone. Mr Kinnaird withered away, eating very little and only focusing on his attempt to build an empire stronger than he had before.

However, it was the early 1970s now and economic situations had vastly altered. The market crashed and Mr Kinnaird lost a lot on his shares and investments. There was nothing poor Mr Kinnaird could do but wallow in his sorrow.

Not long after George Kinnaird took an interest in a native Indian girl. Despite being warned and threatened again by his parents, George eloped with her causing quite a stir amongst both the elite American socialites and the Indian tribe she belonged to. It brought the Kinnaird's into much disrepute in the social classes in both England and America. A week on the run from the girl's family, George was found dead in the lobby of a run-down motel. Apparently the girl's brother had caught up with the run-away couple. George got into a fight with the brother. He received a fatal blow to his head and died immediately. There was nothing anyone could do to save him.

Unfortunately, this was the final straw that put poor Mr Kinnaird into his grave. He suffered a heart attack and died a day after he received news of his son's passing.

The blow was so severe on Mrs Kinnaird, now that she had lost almost her entire family. It changed her dramatically. She became cynical, harsh with life. She hated joyous occasions like Christmases. I remember she carried a ghastly scowl whenever she visited the stores. We were so afraid of her that we crossed the streets a good distance if we ever saw her in our path.

But Mrs Kinnaird was no less shrewd than her husband. In fact she had a greater knack for business than her husband ever did. It was how she got herself out of the hundred pounds of debt that her husband and son owed. She began buying out properties in Skye, London and America. She bought shares and made better investments. Currently, she is the primary landlord on most of the businesses in Skye and a major contributor to local charities. It is the sole reason why everyone keeps a tight-lip on saying anything about Mrs Kinnaird. I think she was smart to figure that it was the one way to prevent people talking about the ill-luck that had fallen onto the family. The world outside of course soon forgot about the Kinnaird curse and moved on with other gossip."

The two women fell silent. Outside the sky had darkened. A blanket of snow covered the ground.

Emma fiddled with her empty cup in her palm, thinking of all that Lisa had told her. "What happened to Mary?" she asked.

Lisa sighed. "Mary died an old maid about five years ago. She never married."

"And Anne's child? What became of him?"

Lisa bit her lip.

"What is it Lisa?" asked Emma curiously. "There is more to the Kinnaird curse, right?"

"Well," Lisa started nervously. "According to former employees of the Kinnaird household, it was whispered that the gypsy witch rendered that the only way in which the curse could be broken was if..."

Emma waited impatiently for her to finish. "If..." she offered.

Lisa swallowed. "If a Kinnaird would manage to retain the bond of marriage for three years. Of course it would have to be a direct descendant of the current Kinnaird bloodline and the union of marriage has to be a formal one, sworn and sanctified."

"Well, has there been one since?" asked Emma.

"How can there be?" said Lisa, shaking her head dolefully. "The last of the children, Mary died without any issue. The only one that is left to break the curse is Anne's son, Christopher Cameron. And no girl in her right frame of mind will touch him with a ten foot pole. At least if it comes to marriage," she corrected.

"They're afraid of the curse falling upon them?" said Emma.

"Yes that of course. But also because he's Chris Cameron," said Lisa.

"I don't understand," said Emma, shaking her head.

"He is Chris Cameron," repeated Lisa tiredly. "The actor celebrity? Hollywood? He acted as John Mascot in Matchstick Soldiers."

A cloud of recognition fell upon Emma as she began to remember pieces of his media profile. Mousy brown hair, tall, steely grey eyes, one of the top one hundred sexiest men of the year, highly influential actor celebrity and award winning actor of the movie Matchstick Soldiers. She loved that movie, she remembered. But she also remembered him as being notorious for changing the women on his arm by the month.

"Emma... Emma," said Lisa, shaking her out of her trance. "Stay away from Mrs Kinnaird," she warned.

"Stay away from Mrs Kinnaird." Lisa's word rang through her mind as she breathed in the cold, balmy air of the early morning.

She gave a small chuckle. Why should she? How ever was little old Mrs Kinnaird ever going to be a threat to her? And as for her famous grandson, he would be far from interested in a widow with two children in the lonely Isle of Skye.

"Mrs Winston," said a stern voice, breaking her out of her thoughts.

"Mrs Kinnaird," Emma answered, on seeing the older woman walking towards. Not too far strolling behind her was her trusted butler, Theodore.

"I see you have taken advantage of my offer," Mrs Kinnaird.

"Huh," Emma said, blushing slightly from her thoughts of the woman's handsome grandson.

"I'm glad you decided to walk through my pastures," said Mrs Kinnaird. "You had me worried for a moment when I saw you walking up the highway." She stepped forward, indicating for Emma to walk with her. "There haven't been any gruesome incidences yet for walking on our lonely highways. But it does pay to be careful. Besides, the air in these pastures is different. You can almost feel it as you take it into your lungs."

The elderly woman took a deep breath in and held it for a while before releasing it. And when she did, the aura around her changed, exuding warmth in the cold, winter air. She had a smile on her face that lit up her greying eyes, raising it at the corners. "If you stay still long enough, you might even spot some of our handsome red stags come down from the mountains."

"Red deer?" Emma repeated, a tinge of wonder filling her eyes. "Here?"

Mrs Kinnaird smiled. "We let them breed in the hills. And then... we shoot them."

Emma stood back stunned by the abruptness of her final words. "You kill them?"

Mrs Kinnaird gave a small inward chuckle. "Oh, you sure are a city girl, aren't you? A lass from Skye wouldn't have given it a second thought."

Mrs Kinnaird gave Emma her hand. Emma took it and the old woman wrapped her own arm around Emma's elbows. Leaning slightly onto the younger woman, they walked together towards the huge trunk of a leaf barren tree. Their boots squelched into the ankle deep snow the night fall had left in the morning.

"We don't call them killing here, lass. It's called culling. It is an essential part of the deer management program. You can say that we're being cruel to be kind."

"I don't understand."

Mrs Kinnaird dusted off the white crystals of snow gathered on her white hair. "Deer are like rabbits. They can breed quickly into high densities. The trouble is this can lead to lack of food for them to survive on. If we don't help control the herds, they will slowly starve to death. They will even gnaw and chew at shed antlers if they can't find enough food. In Skye, we don't have very many predators to help cull the deer density. We have eagles and foxes but they're not enough to keep the numbers down. So what is best left to do is sport culling."

"Sport culling?" asked Emma.

"What you may have heard of as deer stalking," Mrs Kinnaird said. She saw Theodore retreating towards a rock and nudged at Emma's elbow to do the same. "Let's get behind this tree," she whispered.

Emma was startled slightly but did as she was told.

"There," she said softly, pointing towards a shrub of trees.

And there Emma noticed, among the bare brown trunk of trees was a red deer stag. It was chewing on the stems and buds of blaeberry that stood a little taller than the snow. It seemed to have heard their voices because it peeked up, its ears and eyes alert for predators. It was a magnificent animal; its dark brown coat was effectively camouflaged against the bark of the trees.

"It's a royal," the older woman whispered again. "See its antlers? It has about twelve tines. In March or April, it'll shed those beauties and in the summer, its brown coat will change to a charming red. Shame that someone will have to hunt it sooner or later."

Emma watched the stag. Her eyes welled with tears as she thought of it being hunted through the wild moors. "You won't kill it now, will you?" she asked, her voice shaking.

"Well, the season is still open for stalking," Mrs Kinnaird said. "But we won't kill it today. It lives another day." She gave an assuring smile. "Theodore is the head stalker for the estate but he hasn't brought his gun with him."

Emma looked over at the loyal butler. He was still hidden behind the rock, watching the stag closely. She gave a small relieving sigh when she saw that he indeed didn't carry a hunting rifle.

Mrs Kinnaird gave another small chuckle. "Oh, you have so much to learn if you want to live in Skye. Don't worry. We are not as cruel as you think we are, Mrs Winston. Sometimes we also love to watch and admire these magnificent creatures at a distance."

It was then the stag re-treated a step, its eyes startled by a noise. A second later it had turned and was dashing back into the winter woods.

Emma watched keenly after it, it's short tail bobbing in the distance.

"It'll come back," said Mrs Kinnaird, observing her carefully. "They come down from the hills to forage for shrubs below; especially after a heavy snow fall like the ones we've been having these last couple of nights."

A pang of guilt hit Emma. Two nights ago she had been sitting with Lisa Johnston engaged in gossip about this seemingly harmless but lonely neighbour. So why should she stay away from her? Why, indeed.

The deer was long gone now, probably foraging for food in some other secluded moor on Mrs Kinnaird's estate.

Emma stepped out from behind the tree. There was a slight drizzle of snow showering about her.

Mrs Kinnaird struggled to step forward towards her but the heaviness of the snow hindered her posture. Emma immediately leant and steadied her with her arm.

"You shouldn't have been walking in all this snow, Mrs Kinnaird," Emma said a little worriedly. "You could hurt yourself."

"Please call me Ethel," said the older woman, letting out a small, croaky cough. "We are well past the pomp and formalities, don't you think?"

Emma smiled. "Only if you call me Emma."

"I think I could settle with that," Ethel Kinnaird answered, once more wrapping her hand around Emma's elbow. "How about getting out of this dampness and toasting to that with a hot cup of black tea?"

Emma smiled, allowing the older woman to lean onto her as they walked towards the large stone mansion, its walls embroidered with bare ivy vines.

# Chapter 6

Nancy fired up the hearth in the parlour. The twigs spat in the fiery tongues of the fire immersing the small room with the warmth from its flames. She sped down to the kitchen to prepare tea for her mistress and her young guest.

It was not always that people came calling to the old house, and it was not always that Mrs Kinnaird welcomed them as she did Mrs Winston.

A sudden thought occurred to her and she stood still wondering if she could make any sense of it. Could it possibly be that her elderly mistress...?

She shook her head out of the ludicrousness of such an idea and carried on with the task of making some delicious black tea. She reached for some delicate china tea cups and placed them onto a silver tray.

A rustle at the door caught her attention. It was Theodore stumbling through the doorway.

"You might want to add an extra cup to that tray, Nancy," he said.

"You're having tea with Mrs Kinnaird?" she asked.

"No," he replied, opening the kitchen cupboards. "I'd rather have a swig of brandy." He put the bottle to his mouth and gulped down a mouthful of the clear alcohol.

"That's quite early for the morning, don't you think?"

"Yeah. And so is Mrs Deanna Boyd." He sat heavily into a chair.

"Oh," said Nancy speechlessly. "She's staying for breakfast."

"Yeah," he said quietly. "And a whole lot more."

She arranged the tea and sweet nibbles onto her tray and then studied the small ensemble of what would have been a beautiful, delicious breakfast.

"Do you want to take it up?" she asked hopefully.

Theodore rose to his feet and straightened his tie. He then picked up the tray, giving Nancy a woeful look. "Well, she's here now," he said and walked out of the kitchen with it.

The earlier light drizzle of snow had stopped and the rays of sunlight were now peeking over the low cumulus clouds. Emma would have found it pretty, had Ethel's scowl not kept her from enjoying it.

It was strange thinking of Mrs Kinnaird as Ethel. It made her young all over again. Emma could see past the crow's feet at the end of her eyes and the wrinkles that spread randomly over her face. The Ethel she now saw was young and beautiful and the scowl she carried was beginning to charm her.

It didn't take much for Emma to discern that Ethel's sudden foul disposition was due to the other woman's presence in the room.

"Oh, Cousin Ethel," the woman said. "We're still not over the winter yet. It is far too dangerous for you to be walking out in all that snow. You've just recovered from that cold earlier on in the season."

"Well," Ethel harrumphed. "You for one have impeccable timing. You know exactly when to call in during those days. One must think you must be praying for it."

"Oh Ethel," Mrs Boyd groaned as she daintily placed her tea cup on the coffee table. "You are such a tease. I do of course pray for you. In fact I made a special visit to church last week to ask for the reverend's blessings for you."

"Why?" said Ethel, rolling up her eyes. "Has he made some sort of dealing with you?"

"Ethel," Mrs Boyd said, her voice slightly startled. "Well, in fact, I prayed for your long life and good health."

"What is the name of the reverend?"

"Why?" Mrs Boyd asked nervously.

"I have a complaint to lodge. His prayers aren't working well enough. My health seemed to have declined since."

"Oh, Ethel," Mrs Boyd groaned. "It isn't the poor reverend's fault. You are walking about in the early hours of the morning when you should have been warm in bed."

"Just give me the name of the reverend, Deanna. I have a special request to make," Ethel said, silently wishing that her husband's second cousin would be slapped with a bite of amnesia and forget her way to the Kinnaird mansion ever again. "I also want to have a word with him about why your prayers are failing to reach the ears of God. He's not Reverend Clive is he? Because the man can't pray a darned worth. And I refuse to comply with his blessings."

Mrs Boyd shocked, waved her hands dismissively. "No, of course it wasn't Reverend Clive. He is a much younger reverend," and she added quickly, "Whom you've never met. But really, Ethel, do you have to be so blasphemous? The reverend is a man of God. At least give him the respect."

"Deanna," Ethel said firmly, leaning forward. "The man is a close-minded, opinionated piece of human twaddle; an entire sack worth of baloney."

Mrs Boyd gasped. Ethel smiled. She loved that she could evoke that in the meddlesome, imposing Mrs Boyd.

Emma shifted uncomfortably on her chair. She tried to keep her attention on the icicles frozen onto the branches of the fir tree, glimmering outside the parlour window.

"Mrs Winston, you've just moved next door to the Kinnaird Mansion, have you?" Mrs Boyd said, turning her attention to Emma.

"Yes, yes I have," Emma stammered.

"I'm so sorry about your husband. I heard. It must be awful bringing up the children all by yourself." Mrs Boyd shook her head sorrowfully.

Emma flushed.

Ethel lifted an eyebrow curiously. "Tell me, how did you hear, Deanna? As far as I know, you crossed The Minch not a couple of hours ago."

"I have friends Ethel that are happy to keep an eye on you," Mrs Boyd said firmly.

"And that includes my neighbours as well?"

"You could at least be grateful that I care for you, Ethel," Mrs Boyd exclaimed.

"I don't need people prying in my business, Deanna," Ethel growled. "And if I do find who they are, you can very well convey it to them that they will be sorry they ever did."

"If that is your wish, I shall certainly not ask of you again," Mrs Boyd said. Her voice quivered from holding back the tears in her eyes.

Emma pulled out a tissue from the little wicker tissue box on the table and handed it to her.

Mrs Boyd thanked her and dabbed her eyes gently with it.

Ethel huffed angrily.

"So Mrs Winston," Mrs Boyd said between snivels. "Have you met Chris?"

"Um, no, I haven't," Emma answered.

"Chris is in LA," said Ethel, heaving out a tired sigh. "He has been all winter. Is that why you're here Deanna?"

Emma hurriedly put her cup onto the coffee table.

"Ethel, I really do need to get on my way home," she said, standing up. "The children have been left far too long alone."

"Of course you must," Ethel said, nodding her head. "Theodore will make sure you get home safely."

Emma paid her leave to Mrs Boyd and rushed out of the cosy parlour and into the cold hallway.

"Miss," she heard Theodore call out to her as she reached the bottom landing of the staircase.

"Mrs Winston," said Theodore, catching up to her. "Please let me drop you off in the car."

"That's okay, Theodore. The snow has eased and the sun will do me the world of good."

"The lady would want it, Miss."

"Um, okay," she replied hesitantly.

The loud argumentative voices above them caught their attention.

"I had better check up on them one more time," said Theodore, his right eyebrow arched up. "Give me a minute."

She watched him skip up the staircase and towards the parlour. She now stood alone in the expansive sitting room. Her eyes wandered up the white walls and tall arched windows.

A large painting took prominence on the wall across. She recognised it to be a Baroque painting of Odysseus and Calypso in a cave. As she stepped forward to take a closer look, she heard the clutter of dishes coming from the door closest to where the painting hung.

She pushed forward the double action doors that opened into a narrow corridor. She followed the sounds, walking soon into a large kitchen.

A woman was fishing for something in her cupboards, her back towards Emma, unaware at all that she was there. As she turned, she almost let out a startled gasp.

"Mrs Winston," she said. "What are you doing here?!" and then corrected the tone in her voice. "Sorry, maám. You got me startled a bit there. Is there something you need Mrs Winston?"

"I'm ...sorry," Emma stammered embarrassingly.

"Was there something I can help you with, Miss?"

"No, I'm fine," Emma said. "I was simply waiting for Theodore in the living room when I heard you back here. I thought I might stop by and give you my thanks for the delightful tea."

Nancy chuckled. "You're welcome, Miss. I'm only doing my job, following the mistress's orders and all. Was the company as delightful, though?"

Emma blushed.

Nancy chuckled again. "No, you needn't answer that. I can imagine."

"Will Ethel be alright?"

"Ethel? You mean Mrs Kinnaird? Golly, she must like you a lot to let her call her by her first name." She frowned. "Yes, yes, she will be fine. But after the showdown with Mrs Boyd, she will certainly carry a tantrum for the next couple of days after Mrs Boyd's gone. Takes her a while to ease off on the anger. But other than that, there is really no cause to be worried about her. She's fit as a fiddle, Mrs Kinnaird is. Although, her age will never reveal it so."

Emma gave a small smile. She was glad that Ethel was served by good and loyal staff.

"There you are," Theodore said from behind her. "I didn't see you and thought you had left without me."

"I kind of wandered in here," Emma said with a shrug.

"Yes, but these are staff quarters, Mrs Winston," he said. "I just don't want any trouble from the mistress."

"Don't take it personally, Miss," said Nancy. "But no one comes down here. No one. Not even Mr Cameron or his guests."

"You make it sound mysterious and forbidding, Nancy," Theodore grumbled. "It's just we need to clear it out with the mistress, should you ever decide to visit Nancy again. She can be quite the chatterbox. I understand why you would want to return here. I do also for the same reasons."

"I understand." Emma chuckled. "Of course."

Emma didn't see or hear from Ethel Kinnaird for a while. So when she opened the door one early afternoon, she was surprised to find her at her doorstep.

"Hello there," she said in a rather cheery tone. "I thought I might drop by and introduce myself to the children."

Ethel made herself quite comfortable as she got chatting with the children. She noticed that both Jai and Hannah quickly developed a strong affinity to the older woman. She saw a small dimple form in the woman's cheeks whenever she let out a hearty, croaky chuckle. She never noticed it before.

Jai spent the afternoon bragging about his new high-powered electric planes and even let Ethel take a spin at it in the backyard. After which Hannah triggered an unending set of riddles and jokes between themselves.

"So how have you been spending your winter days when you're not in school?" Ethel asked after another bout of laughter.

"What can we do but play indoor games and watch telly," Jai complained. "There isn't really much to do in Skye, is there?"

"Really?" said Ethel. "Is that all you've been doing? Well, we certainly must do something about that, Theodore."

Jai and Hannah stared at her with unbelief.

"What...are you...thinking of doing?" Jai asked slowly and with curiosity.

"Well, we haven't taken out Lady Loch out in a long time. Maybe we should fire her up for spring."

"Who is Lady Loch?" asked Hannah

"My boat," said Ethel. "I think this would be a good time to take her out. It hasn't seen the water in a long time."

"But what about winter? And the snow?" asked Hannah, clearly worried. "It was terrible a few days ago."

Ethel let out a giggle. "Oh no, honey. Those were rare days in Skye. You see, Skye lies in the path of the Gulf Stream. And because it is only a small island, the weather conditions are completely determined by the sea that surrounds it, which also keeps the snow at bay."

"Just like London?"

"Yes. Almost like it."

"But where are we going?" asked Jai.

"The Black Cuillins," she said in a mysterious voice.

"The Black Cuillins," repeated Hannah softly to herself.

"Yes, but not until next Saturday. It would be close to the end of winter so it might be even warmer. And besides I have some meetings to attend to. So if your mother doesn't mind, we can all take that trip to Loch Coruisk."

"But you said we were going to The Black Cuillins," Hannah argued.

"Hannah," Jai said impatiently. "Loch Coruisk is the lake the lies at the base of the The Cuillins. That's how we get to the mountains. Right, Mrs Kinnaird?"

Ethel nodded, beaming proudly.

"Well, Mum," said Jai. "Do you want to take a boat ride to Loch Coruisk?"

Saturday couldn't come any quicker as the children waited impatiently for their trip. It was a great start to their mid-term school break.

At about eleven in the morning, Theodore drove by to pick them up. Attached at the rear of the sports activity vehicle was a boat trailer on which sat a beautiful boat.

"Lady Loch," whispered Jai, in an awe filled tone. He ran his hands along the sleek, clean sides.

"So are you coming or what?" said a voice as the back door flung open revealing Ethel.

The children hurriedly sat into the far two rear seats, while Emma joined Ethel at the back.

"Nancy," said Emma, surprised at seeing the housekeeper in the front passenger seat. "You're coming along as well."

"Couldn't pass over the opportunity, Mrs Winston," she answered; her face radiant and joyful.

Emma laughed. "I'm glad."

Half an hour through Ford Road and then a set of series of right turns later, they stood at the Loch Coruisk jetty, looking over the waters at the Black Cuillins in the distance. Warmth of the oncoming spring had caused a large number of people to flock to the Elgol lakeside. Trailers that served as booking offices for boat trips fringed the tar sealed banks of the loch.

It didn't take long for Theodore to launch the boat from the trailer into the water. Everyone on board, he revved up the engine and fired the boat through the lake, leaving behind thin streams of water at its stern.

The triangular peaks of the rugged mountains dominated the horizon. As they neared the mountains, seals and their pups basked in the warmth of the morning on the small seaweed strewn rock mounds that peeked over the water.

Theodore slowed the boat into the bay, pulling close to the steep, wooden jetty. It was a rugged set of steps that rose against the short cliff of rock, greatly complimenting the coarse and craggy landscape.

"It looks...almost primitive," said Emma in an awe-filled whisper. "Like someone has turned the clocks back in time."

"I wish someone could," sighed Ethel. She watched the younger woman closely. Her auburn hair was clasped back in a clip and her almond eyes glimmered with innocence as it roamed the statuesque mountains.

"Aren't you coming Mrs Kinnaird?" said Jai, breaking into her thoughts.

"No," she said. "I'm too old to climb those stairs. Now run along and don't forget to take your mother with you."

"Will you be alright, Ethel?" Emma asked.

"Of course, I will. Besides, Nancy will stay with me. And she can manage this boat as good as Theodore. Isn't that right, Nancy?"

Nancy was walking out of the tiny, front cabin carrying a glass of juice for Ethel. "We will be fine, Miss. I've been here several times, so don't you worry your pretty little head about us. And I also do need to stay to manoeuvre the boat away from the jetty to allow others access to it."

Emma gave a small squeeze of Ethel's hand and bounded out of the boat and up the stairs after the children.

The top landing of the stairs expanded into dark rocks that swept the hillside. Following Theodore along the banks of the loch, the water narrowed into streams and waterfalls into the River Scavaig, flowing over rocky slabs, marking its end in the sea.

Emma dipped her hands into the chilly, crystal water while Jai and Hannah leapt onto the rocks strewn in its flowing pathway.

"Hey Hannah," said Jai. "Do you want to see some magic?"

He pulled out his compass and covered the front with his fingers so Hannah couldn't see it. Looking intensely at his right palm that held the compass, he waved his left fingers over them.

"Aamanagoubishida!" He revealed the compass to Hannah. Its hands were amazingly dancing, unable to locate their bearing.

"Why? How?" Hannah whispered in astonishment.

But Jai pulled the compass away from her, laughing. She ran after him, begging to see it again.

Theodore called the girl over to him.

"You see," he explained. "The volcanic rock in the Cuillins has some sort of magnetism that gives compasses their baffling qualities. I don't know why that is but it is. It's no magic. It's science."

Hannah looked over in disbelief at the distant ridges that formed the eerie, dark summits in the horizon.

"You don't know what those magnetic things are?" she asked.

Theodore shook his head.

She indicated for him to come closer. "Maybe, it is magic. You just don't know it yet," she said quietly in his ear.

Theodore chuckled. It probably was.

An hour later, they headed back to the jetty and into Lady Loch. Ethel was still seated in her favourite spot under the fashionably designed roof that covered most of the boat. Her eyes were glazed with inner thoughts. But on hearing the children's exciting voices, she rose her head towards them, admiring their bountiful spirits. Their energy was so excitable that it made her feel young and alive all over again. She couldn't remember when she felt that way. Maybe, a long time ago; when she had Arthur and her own children by her side.

The boat veered out of the bay, but the cauldrons of the mysterious mountain ridges still remained visible. Their presence would prevail over them all the way across the lake to Elgol, she knew. She sighed.

"Mrs Kinnaird," said Hannah, running up to her. "That was awesome. Can we come back again someday?"

"My old eyes might have seen the last of the black cauldrons, child," she said tiredly. "But maybe someone could bring you back here. Someone better who could take you further in and climb the ridges and the traverse with you. Maybe even The Red Cuillins."

"I'd love that," said Hannah. "Thank you, Mrs Kinnaird."

" 'Grandma' would be nice," Ethel said, letting out another weary sigh. "Maybe you could call me 'Grandma'."

Nancy arched a curious brow, turning her head towards Theodore. But Theodore was silent, his eyes fixated on the Elgol jetty in the horizon, pretending he had not heard. It was his tight, pursed lips that gave him away.

#  Chapter 7

Emma walked through the damp meadow that lay behind the Kinnaird Estate. The children were back in school for their spring term, leaving her alone once more for most part of the day.

On some occasions, she sought the company of the Kinnaird household. She had become a regular guest in Nancy's kitchen while Ethel, herself was now such a close friend, it was as if they had known each other for a lifetime.

It was also amazing how Jai and Hannah was growing fond of the old lady who they fondly called Gran. Emma didn't mind it at all. She never really had parents of her own. Her mother was usually too drunk or too busy to acknowledge her. And her late husband, Robert, had lost his only living parent, his mother, four years after their marriage. Ethel was the grandparent the children never had. She fussed over them as if they were her own. Emma appreciated that.

But it was Theodore and Nancy's disposition that strangely worried her. They didn't seem far too keen on seeing her children call Ethel, "Gran". Although, they never really said how they felt about it aloud- at least to her. Nevertheless, it was clear that they cherished the children as much as did Ethel. She supposed that that should suffice and began to wonder if she was reading too much into the situation.

She plucked a snow white primrose amidst the many that were blossoming in the early spring afternoon. The first blooms of violet were already on show and many of Skye's birds were back in their nests. She heard the tweets of skylarks in the trees around her. A white-tailed eagle was seating perched on a distant rock.

The magic of spring affected her in her gait as she walked back towards the house, her face beaming from the freshness of the new season. She felt almost like a child, twirling the small white flower in her hands, her head inclined to the sky while her eyes tried to possess all the blueness in it.

As she neared her house, she heard the children laughing. She smiled at first and increased her pace to join them. But something stilled her instead. Their laughter possessed a cheeriness that she had not heard in a long time; ever since they had left London. It was then she heard his voice and her heart almost froze. Richard was here.

She stood at the door of the living room as she watched Richard pick Hannah up onto his lap. Jai was hovering over him, detailing his new school life and new found friends. They giggled while they watched Jai comically demonstrate an antic that had landed him into trouble with the teacher.

His jet black hair was still trimmed short, just like the day when she had first met him. But today he was dressed in a faded pair of jeans and a tee shirt that snug tightly to his body. She could tell that he maintained his regular schedule to the gym. And when he looked up at her with his blue eyes, she almost melted into them.

"Hi," he said, rising to his feet. "I didn't see you arrive."

"Shouldn't that be my line," she said with a hint of friendly sarcasm. "When did you come?"

"About half an hour ago. The children told me you went on your walk." He smiled; his eyes ran over the details in her face. "You still do that- go for walks."

She smiled. "It keeps me sane."

He came nearer. "How have you been?"

"Good. We've been good. The children are well-adjusted. Their school is quite close so I don't have any trouble picking or dropping them off. And they rave so much about their friends and teachers that I know they love it."

He put a finger to her cheeks and brushed away a rebellious strand of hair. "I meant, how were you?"

Fixated by his eyes, she answered, "I've been well." She felt the tips of his fingers spark an electric current in her nerves and she pulled away immediately.

"How is business?" she said quickly.

"Never been better. We've expanded our Hardwick Street office. We even secured a huge multi-million dollar contract in New York, which did involve a lot of initial work, late nights and all. It's why I couldn't come any sooner," he said slowly and then added quietly, "I wish I could and I did try, Emma. But things didn't work out as I wanted them."

So you sent Mr Collins, she thought to herself.

"I'll make us some tea," she said aloud.

"Emma," he said, touching her gently at her elbows.

She hesitated but only momentarily. "Well, maybe I should get dinner ready too."

Emma prepared a delicious beef sirloin roast with mushrooms and creamy, mashed potatoes on the side. She nibbled at it slowly while Jai and Hannah continued to entertain their Uncle Richard. He clearly was enjoying both the dinner and the company. She, on the other hand, couldn't wait to be alone in her bedroom.

"I can't believe how much I missed your cooking, Emma," he said.

She realised then that he had been studying her. She didn't answer but walked silently with her plate to the sink. She began clearing the dishes.

Richard rose to help her.

An uncomfortable silence lingered between them as they cleaned up the kitchen, trying to avoid clashing into one another.

"When are you leaving?" she asked at last.

Richard pulled out a plate from the dish-washer and wiped it dry, looking at her out of the corner of his eyes as he did.

"I've just come, Emma. And you're already sending me away? Where are your manners?" he teased.

She gave him a scornful look before marching into her bedroom.

She didn't want to talk to him. She didn't want to argue with him. Hell, it was hard just seeing him here.

She climbed into bed, praying that when she woke up in the morning, it would be all a dream. And that she would be once again happy in Skye, like the way she had been... alone.

She was running through the dense woods. Something was chasing after her but she couldn't tell what it was. Her eyes rounded in fear, her heart beat racing. She looked back occasionally to locate her predator but she never saw it. She felt it though. She felt its breath on her skin; she felt her fear in her bones.

She saw Robert in the distance and cried out for help. He looked at her strangely and turned away. As he did, she saw Richard behind him.

" _Richard! Help me!" she screamed, trying to race closer to him._

But for some reason, the distance between them remained, no matter how fast she ran towards him.

She could feel her predator gaining on its distance.

" _No! No! Go away!" she screamed._

She awoke with a start. Her heart was still racing.

Downstairs, she heard the excited voices of the children and occasionally, Richard's voice overpowered theirs with his laugh.

She ran a hand through her hair, contemplating the strangeness in her dream. After a brief while, she sighed, resolving that dreams were usually strange.

She washed up and then walked down the stairs, into the kitchen. The children had finished breakfast and were preparing themselves for school. Richard was at the sink, washing away all remnants of their meal.

"Hi" he said, noticing her at the door. "I thought we should let you sleep in and helped ourselves."

She gave him a small smile.

"Do you want a cup of coffee? The pot's still hot," he said.

She nodded and sat at the table. "Thanks."

He poured her a cup.

"I..I'm sorry about last night," she muttered. Her eyes were lowered, her fingers playing with the ear of her cup. "I was rude. I shouldn't have said that. I just didn't expect you. So you kind of caught me by surprise."

"Perhaps, I should have let you know I was coming. I suppose I deserved it, arriving at your home unannounced." He was leaning against the sink, his arms crossed across his chest.

"No, no." She stood up abruptly. "It's your right, Richard. You're always welcome here. You know that. You are after all the children's uncle and they love you."

He looked at her; his eyes were seething with anger. He brushed past her and out of the kitchen.

"Okay, we're ready," she heard Jai announce.

Jai and Hannah ran into the kitchen to bid her goodbye and then ran out the door into Richard's car.

She heard him rev up the engine and drive off up her driveway.

She stood alone in her kitchen. Her house was silent.

But then, her heart began to race as she ran up the stairs and into the guest bedroom that Richard had occupied. She swung open the door, her eyes filled with fear as she searched the room with it. But there, beside the window, sat his little black luggage bag.

She leant against the door frame and let out a sigh of relief. But it was only momentary, because her heart was racing again for another different reason. She was going to be alone...with Richard.

Richard didn't arrive home until lunch. He sat sullenly at the table without a word.

Emma was tongue tied, confused as to how she should break the iceberg that lay between them.

"You're late," she started.

"I didn't know you were keeping time."

Emma swallowed a nervous gulp in her throat. "I thought we could have sandwiches for lunch and..."

"I'm not hungry." He rose from his chair. "I had a snack in Portree."

"You went all the way to Portree?"

"I didn't know how else to spend my time here."

"You could have come home. We could have..."

"I'm here for the children. I thought you made that abundantly clear." He turned to walk out of the kitchen. "I'll pick them up as well. I intend to spend as much time as I can with them before I return to London."

Emma saw him head up the stairs and towards his bedroom. She bit her lip. She had offended him.

She sat on her couch watching a mid-day soap opera, but her eyes kept darting to the stairs occasionally. When he didn't emerge from his room in an hour, she rose and made her way towards it.

"Richard." She knocked gently onto the door. "Can I come in?"

When he didn't answer, she turned the door knob gently. But the room was empty and she was baffled slightly until she became aware that the shower had just turned off. She turned to rush out the door as he entered the room with just a towel wrapped at his waist. But she realised she was much too late.

"I...I'm sorry," she stammered, blushing with embarrassment. "I didn't know you were in the shower."

His hair was damp, and pearls of water droplets glimmered on his body.

"Did you need something?" he asked, frowning.

"No, I..," she said, searching for words. "I don't know what it is but I do know you're angry. I don't know what I may have said...done, but whatever it is, I'm...sorry."

His eyes narrowed and a nerve pulsed at his temples. In a glimpse, he had crossed over to her and pinned her angrily against the door.

"Sometimes I think Emma, whether you are really so naive. Otherwise, you put on a hell of an act," he whispered in a low, dangerous tone.

She leant frozen against the door. The only barrier between his naked chest and her breasts were her arms that folded between them.

"I don't understand," she said, her eyes welling with tears.

"Don't provoke me, Emma," he warned. He lowered his left hand slowly, running it down her side until it touched her slender waist. He drew closer to her so that his lips were almost touching hers, his eyes peering deeply into hers.

Emma felt a sensation run up her spine.

"You shouldn't have come here," he threatened in that low voice again. He gripped the door knob that sat close to her waist and turned it.

"Get out," he growled. "Get out before I do something we will both regret."

Emma pushed the trolley along to the car park. Three days had passed and she and Richard had barely exchanged words. Finally not being able to bear the tension between them, she escaped to Broadford under the pretence of shopping. She bought a pair of gloves she didn't need, cans of vegetables when she had already a dozen in her pantry and two gallons of milk, just in case.

"Hi there," she heard someone call out. "Emma! It's Lisa."

She turned and saw her neighbour running up to her car, her blonde hair waving in the sea breeze.

"Hi," she said with a very trying smile. Lisa hadn't spoken to her ever since she discovered Emma's closeness to Ethel Kinnaird. She also had inkling that she had been avoiding her. Lisa had stopped paying her occasional random visits to her home and rarely looked her in the eye when she visited the co-op.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Lisa panted. "I have been busy and all, what with work and the children's school."

"I thought it was more to do of my friendship with Mrs Kinnaird," Emma let out frankly.

"I was afraid," Lisa said.

"What about? Why is everyone so afraid of Mrs Kinnaird?" she demanded.

"Why don't we sit and talk it properly over a cup of coffee?" Lisa said. "Please?"

Emma looked at her briefly, contemplating. "Fine," she said at last.

And the two women strolled over to the coffee shop next to the co-op store.

Seated now at a window overlooking the Broadford Bay, Emma said, "Listen, if this is all about trying to convince me to stay away from Mrs Kinnaird then forget it. I'm not in the mood. Save it for another day."

"It isn't," said Lisa.

Emma gave her a suspicious look.

"I swear, it isn‎'t," Lisa insisted.

"So why then were you afraid?"

"She's a powerful woman, particularly in Skye. I don't want to get on the wrong side of her. Nobody does. And when I heard that you had befriended her and become quite close... I thought you would tell on me."

"Well, I didn't," said Emma matter-of-factly.

"I know that now. I'm sorry. And of course, I was a tad bit jealous as well."

Emma smiled. "Jealous?"

"Yeah, I was your first friend here in Skye and then that old Mrs Kinnaird took over."

Emma burst out laughing. "Mrs Kinnaird didn't take over, Lisa. You pulled back."

"Okay. Well, there were rumours as well."

"Rumours? What sort of rumours?"

"Just that..." Lisa quieted, thinking to herself. "Just rumours. Silly come to think of it now. Don't worry about it. You know what, let's drop Mrs Kinnaird here. There's something else I want to ask. Who's the handsome fella that's moved into your house?"

Emma was stunned by her directness. She never had really given a thought of how she was going to explain her relationship with Richard. She didn't think she owed an explanation to anyone. Not ever did she have to in London. But this was Skye. This was different.

What should she say? That Richard was her brother-in-law? Her deceased husband's elder brother who maintained close ties with her and her children and coincidently was single?

She gulped nervously. "A friend from London."

Lisa's eyes widened with excitement. "Really? Any potential love interest?"

"No!" Emma almost screamed it out aloud. "No just a friend."

"Oh, alright. If you say so. Listen, there's a dance party for couples at The Gaelic Inn in Dunvegan. We would love it if you and your friend could make it. Bill and I will be going and we would love to have you both as company."

"I don't know, Lisa," Emma said, wondering if Richard would be interested in going to a dance with her at all. Not after the row she had three days ago. But she also had no idea how long he was intending to stay.

"Well, here are the tickets anyway. Forward me the money whenever you're ready, as long as it's before the twentieth of March." She pulled out two grey tickets from her wallet and handed them to her.

Emma took them hesitantly.

"Our differences aside, it is for a good cause, Emma. They're trying to raise funds to buy computers for the local school. I do hope you'll go."

Emma smiled. "I'll do my best. And if Richard won't accompany me, I might just take along Mrs Kinnaird."

Lisa almost gasped.

Emma burst into laughter. "Oh Lisa, I won't. I promise."

"About Mrs Kinnaird," Lisa said. "I didn't mean to describe her as a devil woman or anything. People have just kept away from her. That's how it has always been. Please, don't take me wrong."

Emma put her hand over hers. "Don't worry about it Lisa. Really."

# Chapter 8

When she arrived home, the children were watching television and Richard was in the conservatory, reading.

He must have heard her because he followed her into the kitchen. "You're late," he said, watching her un-pack the groceries.

"Yeah, I got chatting with Lisa Johnston. She lives at number 17 down the road," she mumbled. She wasn't quite in the mood of an explanation.

"You could have called," he said gruffly. "You have a phone."

"So do you Richard, if you desperately wanted to find out," she retorted.

He walked over to her in two quick steps and grabbed her by the elbows. "Do you know how worried I was?" he whispered, angrily. "Not knowing where you were- where you had gone. Don't you think of anyone else other than yourself?"

She shut her eyes, not wanting to see his riled ones. She would have shut her ears if he had not been holding onto her arms so tightly. Unable to restrain herself anymore, she let her tears flow from her eyes.

"Is that how you see me, Richard?" she said. "Selfish and un-caring?"

His eyes softened as he pulled her into his arms.

They stood there silent for a while, her head resting against his chest, his arms wrapped around her.

It had been long since she felt the warmth of a man. Leaning onto Richard right now made her feel good.

"I was worried," he said softly against her hair. "And we seem to be stepping on each other's toes lately."

She snivelled against his shirt. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I have been just as bad."

"You've been so good to us, Richard. I feel sometimes I take advantage of it. Now more than ever. Maybe once you've settled with your own family, I might be able..."

He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. He ran his hands through her loose auburn hair. "I think I probably am going about this the wrong way." He let go of her and began to walk out of the kitchen.

"Richard, what is it?" she said, baffled. "Where are you going?"

"To take a cold shower," he replied gruffly.

The next four days were different from the initial days of Richard's arrival. Emma found herself to be enjoying them. She was laughing more and cherishing the days Richard was spending with them. She discovered that both, she and Richard had entered an unspoken, new level in their relationship.

They and the children were seated on a floor rug before the fire in the conservatory while they lightly bickered and brawled over the games they should play. Richard was laying comfortably, his head resting on Emma's lap with a small smile on his face as he almost drifted into a pleasurable sleep.

The door bell rang and Jai offered to answer it.

"Gran!" he screamed with delight at the elderly woman.

"Hi there, lad." Ethel smiled. "Where's the rest of the clan?"

"In the conservatory," he answered cheerfully. "Uncle Richard's here."

"Oh," said Ethel, her brow raised. "Who is Uncle Richard?"

"Oh, my Dad's brother."

"Aah, okay," said Ethel, nodding her head. "Let's go and meet him."

She followed the excited, young boy into the conservatory. But she stopped short when she saw the rather intimate way in which the man was laying on Emma's lap.

"Ethel," said Emma, glad to see her friendly neighbour.

"I'm sorry," said Ethel, frowning. "Have I come at a wrong time?"

"Not at all," said Emma, shaking Richard awake. "This is Richard."

Ethel browsed the man who was now standing by Emma. He was good-looking, almost handsome. She wondered of their closeness.

"Jai, tells me you're late Mr Robert Winston's brother," she said.

Emma grew slightly flustered.

"I am," said Richard. "Robert's older brother."

Ethel nodded and seated herself onto a couch.

"Emma, I would kindly like a cup of tea, thank you. Probably something citrusy for this beautiful mid-afternoon. What do you think, Richard?"

Richard gave Emma a brief glance. "If it isn't too much trouble?"

Emma nodded. "No, no trouble at all."

"Jai," said Ethel. "Theodore has brought you a new game. Why don't you have a whack at it with your sister?"

Jai gave a squeal of delight as he raced off to find Theodore with Hannah following close at his heels.

"You didn't have to Ethel. You do spoil them," said Emma.

"Aah." Ethel sighed. "I don't know how long I would be able to keep up with it. Let me enjoy it while I can."

Finally alone, Ethel watched the man across her. "How long have you known Emma?"

"Isn't that something I should be asking you?" said Richard. "From what I gather, she has only been your neighbour for barely four months and the children are already calling you 'Gran'."

"An old woman wants grandchildren to love. She has none of her own so she adopts them. There isn't much interest or suspicion in that, is there Richard? But from what I have seen not too long ago, I cannot say the same for you."

"What goes on between Emma and me, Mrs Kinnaird, is solely Emma's and my business. We owe no one an explanation."

"Of course not," Ethel answered. "But I do love the lass like she was my own. You understand why I am protective of her."

"I do. And I am very appreciative of that. I was worried when Emma relocated to Skye. She has no one here to rely on. But the children told me about you and I must say that your kindness to them has eased me tremendously."

Ethel smiled. "I can see that you play a major part in their lives. Far greater than what most uncles would normally do."

"Richard and I were friends before I married Robert," Emma interrupted as she walked in with a tray of delicious edibles and tea. She sat it down on the coffee table. "After our marriage, Robert got busy in building a new architecture firm of his own so I had to depend on Richard for most things. He was there, every precious moment of the children's lives."

"And what is it that you do, Richard?"

"I head the family architecture business after my father's passing," replied Richard, somewhat drily.

"Oh, and Robert didn't want to be a part of the family business?" Ethel asked curiously.

"Robert always was independent," Emma replied. "He was a free thinker. He hated being constrained to anything. He disliked rules and policies that bound a person. He believed they were needless obstacles that prevented a person from being creative. That is why he split from the family company to make something of his own. I liked that about him."

Ethel watched Richard. He was quiet and appeared distant. It seemed that it was a sentiment not equally shared.

Two hours later, she was sitting in her own parlour evaluating the conversation with Emma and Richard.

"Theodore," she said. "Find out more of Mr Winston's architecture business, will you."

"Yes, Madam," said the butler, now retired in his favourite chair in the corner of the room.

She flapped the local newspaper. "Christopher seems far left out of the local social scene, don't you think?"

"Ahem," Theodore coughed.

"Maybe I should get him to come over early this spring. Well, the faster he gets here the better. Have we tried the fracture?"

"We did, Madam- last summer."

"Oh well. Maybe we could go with a cold."

"You came out of that in early winter, Madam."

"Good, good," said Ethel. "Which makes it all the more convincing... and true."

Emma and Richard walked along the pebbled beach that skirted Emma's property. The children ran ahead playing on the edges of the small waves that splashed against the shoreline.

Richard carried a small smile as he watched children from a distant, his eyes often glazed with a thought. Unconsciously he put a hand around Emma's slim waist and pulled her close to him.

Emma loved the feel of his warm body and gladly tucked herself into it. "What are you thinking?" she asked.

"It's not a bad place for the kids," he said.

She pulled away, grinning. "Richard Winston, don't tell me you agree after all that fuss you created back in London?"

He grinned back. "I like it. But I can't say I won't miss you all when I'll go back to London."

"When do you go back?"

"In two weeks." He lifted her chin with a finger. "But I will do my best to come over as much as I can." He turned towards the house that sat higher than the shoreline. The bay was also clearly visible from the house and he admired the blue it exuded, particularly on a good day as this one. "And I was also thinking of making adjustments to the property, probably build myself an office. That is if the owner doesn't mind."

Emma laughed as he put an arm around her shoulders to pull her back to him. "Send me a requisition Mr Winston and I will think about it."

The bells of the phone easily reverberated outside the walls of the house. Richard could barely understand Emma's muffled voice. He stood outside the perimeter of the house, observing it. He started circling it, paying close attention to the walls and roof, often throwing glances at the bay.

"Richard," he heard Emma call out for him.

"Here," he answered, peeking his head out from the side so she could see him.

"What are you doing?" Emma asked, puzzled.

"Figuring a good spot for that office we talked about." He smiled.

"But we haven't quite discussed it, have we?" she said.

He stepped back, a little disappointed. "You don't think it's a good idea?"

She laughed. "Oh, Richard, I just meant you haven't quite thought it through. Are you sure you want to spend your days in lonely Skye conducting office work?"

"I like Skye," he said, grinning. "And as long you and the kids are here, I'm happy to conduct some of my business from here."

Emma nodded. "Very well. I suppose it's alright considering that the kids would love to have you around more often."

Richard gave a small frown.

"By the way," she rambled on. "Lisa Johnston called."

"Who?" Richard grumbled, suddenly not in the best state of mind to hearing about anything this 'Lisa Johnston' might have said.

"My neighbour. From number 17 down the road," said Emma. "Well, she gave me two tickets to a couples dance in Dunvegan last week and I completely forgot all about them. Would you like to go?"

"When is it?"

"A week from now. You'll still be here, right?"

The sun was shining brightly and he moved slightly to shield his eyes from it. He looked at her from the top of his brow. "Do you want to go?" he asked solemnly.

"I don't mind a night out. I haven't been anywhere in a long time."

He remained silent for a few minutes. He watched the rays of sunlight dance on her auburn hair creating a golden halo over her, mesmerising him. Emma always had this effect on him, bewitched him like the first day he had laid eyes on her at her apartment.

He had returned home from their first meeting at her quaint flat, unable to go to sleep as he continued to replay Emma's beautiful face in his mind. And when he finally did, he dreamt of her smile and how she turned her head to the side whenever she tried to follow what he said.

When he did go to work the next day, it was the first time he ever paid very little attention to his tasks. He wanted to race to her door and declare his attraction for her. But from the little conversation they had that night, he quickly learnt that Emma wasn't like any woman he'd known. She had a heart that was created from ancient clays and legends; a time where maidens waited an eternity for the love of their lives to save them from the sorrows of ordinary living.

He needed to be careful. He wanted to become hers forever.

He painstakingly waited three days and on the fourth evening, he almost sprinted to her flat.

She opened the door and from her surprised expression, he could tell that she had not expected him to return at all.

" _Richard," she said. "Hi. Did you need something?"_

He held up a bottle of red wine and grinned. "I drank all your wine so I thought I might replace it."

She grinned, her smile reaching her eyes, lifting it at the corners. "That was a cheap bottle of merlot. You're giving me an expensive cabernet sauvignon. I can hardly call that fair."

"Oh," he said, looking confusedly at the label on the bottle. "Alright, how about I drink this up over a conversation with you and I get you a cheap merlot next time?"

She chuckled. "Oh, very well," she said with a pretentious sigh as she accepted the bottle and let him into her flat.

He sat on the couch in the square foot living room. "You're alone again tonight," he said, noticing the silence in the tiny flat.

" _I usually am," she answered. "That's why Lauren and I have lasted for the three years we've been together." She looked at the bottle. "Would you like a drink now or later?"_

Richard smiled. "No, I'm fine. I think I'd rather have a cup of coffee if you don't mind."

"You sure you won't mind me pouring your expensive wine on a leg of lamb roast?" she teased.

He chuckled. "Sounds delightful. Let me know when you do, so I can come around to share a piece of it. That sounds fair now, right?"

" _Oh, okay, I suppose," she replied with feigned disappointment._

" _How long have you been living here?" he called out as she turned on the carafe._

" _Five years. I had a couple other room-mates before Lauren. I guess they didn't find me too exciting to live with." She walked out with two cups of hot, steaming coffee. He could tell by its sweet aroma that was now diffusing into the air, she had made it from freshly ground coffee. "What about family? Do they live far away from here?"_

She placed his coffee on the coffee table and walked to the opposite couch with the other in her hand. "No," she said simply. She took a sip from her cup without adding to her answer. Her sullenness told him that she didn't want to speak about it any further. Her eyes drooped as she looked away. For the first time since he had met her, he saw the sparkle of positivity that formed her essence, fade from her. Probably she would tell him one day. But today he would let it be. He wanted her to smile again.

#  Chapter 9

Emma grabbed the box and rushed up to her room. Her hands shivered with excitement as she hastily un-wrapped the box delivered to her by mail from London. It had been long since she had done any shopping for herself. She never found any good reason to. But with the upcoming dance at Dunvegan, she had scrolled two days on her computer looking for a dress that she would want to wear.

After a long while and skipping lunch for the second time in a row, she finally found one in a small boutique shop in London West. It was a beautiful light cyan chiffon knee length dress. Its bodice accentuated her breast and waist. The skirt was gathered and fell elegantly into a ribboned hem.

She ran her hands over the soft fabric and then picked it up gently. Placing it against herself, she admired herself in the mirror. She wondered for an instance on how she should style her hair. She supposed she could think of it later. There was still two more days to the dance.

She blushed as she thought of whether Richard would like how she looked in it.

"Emma," she heard Richard call her from downstairs.

She hurriedly hung the dress in her wardrobe. She hadn't told Richard of it. She skipped down the stairs hoping he hadn't suspected anything from her short morning drive to the post office.

"What is it?" she asked as she appeared into the conservatory.

"Where have you been?" he asked. "You've been gone for an hour at least."

"In my room," she said.

"You okay?" he asked, slightly worriedly.

"I'm fine, Richard," she said dismissively. "Just been fixing it up a bit. So what is it?"

"Right," he said, looking at her briefly with curiosity. "Have a look at this." He drew her attention to a large sheet of paper laid out on the table.

"It's a plan of the house," she said, recognising it.

"Yeah," he said. "I tried to keep much of the original house as possible. You see that." He pointed to a part on the plan. "I thought we could extend the living room further slimming it into a corridor and then lead it to a study and my office. In that way we can keep much of the view of the bay all through the bottom floor of the house."

"How long have you been working on this?" she asked, her eyebrow rose inquisitively.

"A week now," he said, watching her closely.

"Is that why you've been missing for a while?"

He grinned. "I found the previous plan in a box in the attic. And I thought, why not? No harm when I had all I need to start it off with."

Her mouth broke into a beaming smile. "I had that box stashed up there after the construction of the conservatory. I didn't think I would ever need it again." She gave a brief glance at the plan and shook her head. "How did you know where to find it?"

"Emma," he whispered, drawing closer and bending so that he could meet her at eye level. "How long have I known you?" He flicked his pencil against the top of her head.

She slapped his chest fondly. "Alright, let's have a look at it then."

"Yes, yes... I know, but...," she heard Richard on the phone. He gave her a brief, worried look as he continued the conversation up the stairs and into his bedroom.

She watched him for a while and wondered if anything could have happened for Richard to look at her as concernedly as he did. She sighed, hoping that she was fidgeting over needless, unnecessary issues. She suspected it was business. It would be no surprise then that he would want to keep the matters of it private.

Emma walked out of the house and towards the garden shed. The air was getting warmer and day light was slowly extending over the days. With the new spring blooms filling the meadows, she was looking forward to seeing some of her own in her vegetable garden.

She remembered stacking up the garden fork amongst other garden tools in the right corner of the shed. Luckily she was obsessive over organisation and so it didn't take her too long to pull out the green handled garden fork.

It was well worn from her days in London. When she did move to Skye, she couldn't bear to part with it nor with all her other gardening equipment.

She ran her hands over the handle and re-checked the sturdiness of the tines. They were firm and strong and they still had many years left in them.

Dragging the fork behind her, she worked her way towards a spot that didn't sit too far from her kitchen. Ensuring once more that it wasn't too exposed to the harsh high coastal winds of Skye but that it also received a fair amount of sunlight; she started digging into the soil.

It was virgin soil and so for the first half an hour she struggled to simply break the earth. The previous owners did not seem to have had a garden at all which she felt was rather odd considering that they were sheep farmers. Didn't all farmers have at least a small garden? Maybe not, she said to herself as she wiped her sweaty brow with the back of her long shirt sleeves.

"Hi," said Richard, popping out of the kitchen.

"Hi," she replied, squinting back at him from the bright sunlight that reflected against the glass windows of the kitchen door.

He ambled towards her, his hands in the pocket of his jeans. He kept glancing at the bay and the horizon in the ocean. She felt he was trying to refrain from looking at her. Nervousness knotted in her stomach. She desperately wanted him to clear up the discomfort inside of her but she didn't want to push him to explain his sudden apprehension of her. She remained quiet, waiting for him to speak first instead.

"I see you've got your old fork," he said, giving her a small playful grin.

"Yeah, I couldn't part with it," she teased back. She scratched the soil beneath her feet with the colourful butterfly covered garden boots she had on. "I thought I should get some seeds planted before the summer heat sets in."

"That's a long way from now."

"I know. But it's good if the plants are well-established by then. It helps them survive the heat."

"What are you going to plant?"

"A bit of tomato, lettuces and cabbages probably. Some broccoli would be good also."

Richard nodded, observing the soil now freshly dug. He could see it was quite fertile, with a healthy infestation of earthworms wriggling through the lumps of damp soil. The smell of fresh earth filled the air and he quite liked the calming effect it had on him.

"I should get changed and help you out with that. It's seems a helluva work," he said.

"There's a pair of extra garden gloves in the garden shed. But I don't have any garden boots that could fit you."

"You have no intention of graciously turning down my offer," he teased.

"No way." She chuckled. "Do you know how hard it is to dig through this tough earth? I'm not going to pass on a good offer. Might as well make the best of it while you're here."

He gave a mocking sigh. "I was only trying to be a gentleman. I guess I shot myself in the foot."

"I guess you did." She laughed.

He skipped back inside the house to change. In ten minutes, he was back outside and beside her, digging furiously into the earth.

She squatted below, breaking and softening the earth with a small, hand shovel. She watched him, ploughing at her slow forming garden. She saw he had also helped himself to an akubra hat from the garden shed which provided a little shade to his face. Sweat broke over the furrows in his brow, dampening the sweatband of his hat. His plain, blue shirt clung tightly and stuck onto his back. In all the years she had known him, she had never seen him labour with his hands. There was something raw about him that it was almost like she was seeing him for the very first time. She felt a tingle inside her. She needed to break away from her thoughts of him.

"That's enough," she said. Her voice was colder and demanding than she expected, startling her as well. "Thank you," she tried again. "I think that should do for a small vegetable plot for now." She pretended to study its perimeters.

He plunged the fork deeply into the earth and pulled out his garden gloves, hanging them over the grip of the fork. He then walked tiredly a little away. He placed his hands on his hips as he continued to gaze at the ocean.

She paced slowly behind him. "You okay?" she said softly. "I hope that wasn't too hard. I didn't mean for you to dig up so much."

He looked down at her and sighed. He took off his hat and combed his sweaty, damp hair with his fingers. The ocean breeze blew over him and he savoured it, feeling it cool the dampness in his face.

"Not at all," he said. "I think a bit of hard work occasionally isn't so bad. If I had more time, I would gladly dig up a dozen plots for you."

She laughed. "I don't need a dozen plots, Richard. It's a hobby. I don't mean to turn myself or you into a veggie farmer. Not that there is anything wrong with it. I just prefer the architectural you," she said as she pulled out her gloves and tucked them into the pockets of her overalls.

He tilted his head at her and gave her a smile. She looked radiant in her denim overalls and tall garden boots. She had her long hair held back by a yellow bandana. There was a streak of dirt on the left side of her face, probably caused from her constant wiping off the sweat from her brow with her dirty sleeves. He instinctively put his thumb on it and tried to gently rub it off. But she pulled away slightly and a little shyly.

She touched her face and felt the sun dried smear of dirt. She could also feel the heat he left on her face from the touch of his fingers. She pulled the corner of her sleeves to wipe away the dirt. The smear was gone but his heat felt branded onto her skin.

"Emma," he said slowly. "I would have to leave earlier than expected."

Heaviness enveloped her heart but she tried to disguise it with a smile. "When do you need to go?"

"Tomorrow," he said. "It's a potential client with a very good contract to offer. The trouble is, he isn't willing to discuss it with anyone but me. I've tried to have Miles Ackerman, my assistant to step in but he will not have it. He says it's got to be me or he walks off."

She nodded, trying very hard to focus on his now dirty, expensive Adidas trainers, thanks to her.

"Emma," he continued. "I tried. I really did. But it is a huge contract and I can't just let it go. It's a good opportunity for the company."

"I know," she whispered. "I understand."

His eyes gazed upon her bent head as he touched her fingers gently, caressing the tips of it.

She withdrew her hands and placed them into the pockets of her overall. It was safer there, with her dirty gloves.

The house, Emma felt, was much quieter. Richard had made a difference. The children were back at their usual squabbles for remotes and toys instead of the games they played with Richard in the yard or in the house. She had returned to the recluse of her conservatory.

He left early in the morning, dropping the children off to school before rushing off to catch his awaiting helicopter at Ashaig.

He had worn his pin-striped suit and a silvery striped necktie over a pale blue shirt. He looked immediately in his element, his hair combed and styled and his chin, clean shaven. She could smell his musk as he entered the kitchen while she served the children their breakfast. It invigorated her senses almost drugging her with illicit desires. She wanted to snug her face into his neck and soak in his maleness that fused with his musk.

"Morning," he said as he sat into a chair; his chair at the end of the table.

"Morning," she replied as she poured out his coffee. Instinctively, she added precisely one levelled teaspoon of sugar. She then laid a plate of one plain toast and scrambled eggs on the side. The children preferred French toast instead unlike Richard who had a rather distaste for bread dipped in eggs and then fried.

He pulled out the local newspaper and started reading the front page simultaneously over a conversation with the children.

"When are you going, Uncle Richard?" asked Jai.

"Right after I drop you off to school," he answered, without lifting an eye from the article he was reading.

"When you coming back?" Hannah asked. Her voice was low with a hint of sadness in it.

Richard looked up at her and frowned. "Come here," he said. She obeyed dutifully and sat on his lap. "I'll try to come back as soon as I can. But we can video call as often as we want. It will so much be like I was here that you won't even miss me."

"It's not the same," she replied.

"Yes, it will."

"No, it won‎'t."

And it wasn't. She missed the sound of his baritone voice roar with laughter as the children would pester him with questions or debate with him the logics and the importance of sleeping late, soft drinks that increased intelligence, horror movies that should be watched at midnight and other pressing life issues.

The walls did not echo any longer with those cheery sounds. They remained barren staring at her, demanding that they were always the same as before he arrived. But she did not know any longer. It was difficult to remember any more how those walls sounded before Richard arrived two and a half weeks ago.

They had never lived together, Richard and she. Even after Robert died, Richard always had his lavish family home to which he would return to each night after visiting them. And when he did ever come around, there was always Meredith and Patty, the housekeeper and the maid to serve him with his tea and coffee and meals.

But these past weeks were different. She had attended to his needs personally. She knew when he awoke, how long he went for his morning runs and when he took his shower. She had learnt that he preferred his shirts sun-dried and crisp and then pressed with a crease in its sleeves.

When she entered his room after he had left, she still could smell his scent on his sheets. She laid her head on his pillow, imagining his arms around her. She pulled the covers over her and saw what he would have seen each time he had lain where she was now. The door at which he had held her captive briefly and the bathroom from which he emerged with his towel wrapped loosely around his waist.

She drew a sharp breath and arose out of his bed. She couldn't bear changing the sheets just yet. Instead she straightened them out and then cleaned up his bathroom. She folded his used towel and hung it neatly over the towel rail. One more day, she said to herself. She would give it one more day.

She heard the door bell ring and not long after she heard Jai call out to her. "Mum, it's Gran."

She gave one final look at Richard's bedroom before dashing downstairs.

"Hi Ethel," she said.

"Hello," Ethel answered. "Were you busy?"

"Not at all," Emma answered. "Would you like to sit in the conservatory?"

"No," she said. "It's quite a nice and warm afternoon. How about the rear veranda?" Ethel didn't wait for an answer but instead strolled slowly to the rear of the house through the kitchen.

She settled herself into a white sun-dance chair. A small breeze blew past her, flicking her snow white hair lightly over her shoulders.

"You don't get many afternoons like this one," she said once Emma had joined her at her side.

"No," Emma answered, admiring the glowing amber ball of the sun setting in the oceanic horizon.

"You have been gardening." Ethel noticed the freshly dug earth. "It's a wise time to start. Make sure you ask Nancy for seeds. She has an assortment of those. Harvests them each time at the end of its season."

"Thanks Ethel. I will."

They remained silent for a while as they watched the setting sun sink lower into the horizon. The chatter of birds in the distant trees indicated that they also had retired for the evening. The blue skies that were once dominated by sea-eagles, sparrow hawks and buzzards, were now gradually darkening. A cloud of bats flew swiftly through the evening sky.

"Where's the children's uncle?" Ethel asked. "He doesn't seem to be home."

"No, he isn't. He's actually returned to London this morning."

Ethel glanced at her, a frown in her wrinkled brow. "No? But aren't you going to that dance in Dunvegan tomorrow?"

Emma gave her a small, half-smile. "Well, he was supposed to be my escort. Now that I have none, I don't know if I want to go anymore."

"Nonsense," Ethel scolded. "After all that effort to buy yourself a dress? Plus you had been excited about this dance."

Emma chuckled. "I know. But you can't expect me to go alone. And even if I do, who should I take along? The only other people I know here in Skye are you, Theodore and Nancy. You're definitely I'm not taking. You'd fizzle down a lively Irish set dance to a sad waltz. Do you know how apprehensive the entire isle is of you?"

Ethel gave a small croaky grunt. "What would they know? All they care to do is indulge themselves in small, irrelevant gossip. It's always been there. Way before I was born and it still continues today. I remember how much we used to fear old grandfather Kinnaird. Arthur's grandfather."

"Was this when you married Arthur?"

"No, no lass. This was long, long ago. Way before I was married. I was just about young Jai's age; eight or ten years old maybe. His name was Clement Kinnaird; a very officious looking man. His hair was brushed into a cowlick lock, full sideburns, an imperial moustache and a spade beard that we thought was so sharp at the ends, he could use it to split the next person he found offensive. His tongue was just as sharp and he had a voice that boomed when he was angry. Worked his employees to the bone, that man. He had intolerance for any man to question him. We were all so terrified of him. Many believed that the Kinnairds were descendants of the devil himself. They were all so uptight and vicious looking. And of course, Mr Clement Kinnaird's spade beard didn't help alleviate the rumours at all. But no, the Kinnairds never mingled with anyone except when there was a charity ball or a dinner function. Even so, Mr Kinnaird's voice would barrage at the butlers and maids for being late or clumsy. As for the little Kinnairds, we rarely did see them. They were privately tutored unlike most of us who attended public schools. Oh, we, children, shook in our shoes if we ever did step in grandfather Kinnaird's path.

Well, one fine day, I, along with my friends helped our mothers sell cake and pies to raise funds for our church. For our good efforts we were rewarded with a couple of pennies. We thought we were rich. A penny could get us a lot in those days. We put together our hard earned money and discovered we had a half-shilling in total. So we rushed up to Portree General Store run by Mr Andrew McDonald to buy ourselves candies. I had my eyes set on the Chocolate Swirl, a beautiful swirl of milk chocolate with a malt nougat centre on a stick." She sighed. "Ahh, but it cost three pence a stick. Seeing my sad face, my friends offered to part with half of what we earned to make me happy.

Well, there I was, elated when Mr McDonald handed me over the Swirl. As I skipped out, licking deliciously at my candy, someone bumped into me so hard, I dropped my precious stick of candy into the dirt. I looked up disappointedly and found Mr Clement Kinnaird scowling at me.

"Watch where you going, child!" he berated. He pushed me roughly aside and walked on without a care in the world.

I was seething with rage. I didn't care any longer that it was Clement Kinnaird, the man almost all of Skye feared. I wanted revenge for my soiled Chocolate Swirl.

Now Mr Kinnaird was the old fashioned sort who still preferred to ride his buggy around the island.

With what money we did have left, and much against the advice of my friends, I bought six raw eggs and hid it under a thin blanket that Mr Kinnaird kept in the box seat of his buggy. Not long after, Mr Kinnaird came with thunderous and angry strides. As expected, he hopped into his buggy and sat heavily down on the hidden eggs.

"Arrr!" he growled, throwing down the reins angrily. He looked around and saw us watching him from the veranda of a store. Of the four that stood there, I had the widest grin. So it wasn't surprising that he had guessed instantly who dared to play such a trick on him. His trouser dripping with egg yolk, he sprinted after us. We ran, but my short legs were no match for him.

He held me by the scruff of my dress collar and shook me. "Did you do this?" he boomed. "Oh, you must have, you little rascal!"

I shook violently, trying to loosen his hand on me. I was lucky that day because someone called out just then for the old man and I used the opportunity to free myself.

"I'll get you, you little rascal!" he shouted angrily. "I will get you one day!"

Oh, how I shook with fright that day. Even as I slammed my bedroom door behind me, I still felt he would be coming around the corner to catch me. I was so afraid that my parents would sell me out to him because of all the power the man had."

"Well, did he?" Emma asked curiously and absolutely intrigued. "Did he catch you?"

Ethel smiled. "Yes, he did. Ten years later, when I turned eighteen years old. Apparently I discovered that I was one of those rare ones who ever stood up to him. I supposed I created a lasting impression on him for my brawny ways. He convinced young Arthur that I might just be the right bride for him."

Emma stared at her open-mouthed, in disbelief. "Really?"

Ethel chuckled. "Ahh...those were the days," she said, reflecting on them as she looked up into the now dark sky. She arose from her chair and started walking back into the house. "I had better get going. I have some things to catch up on."

Emma stood up and followed her hurriedly to the front door.

"Oh," said Ethel, before stepping outside. "Make sure you're ready for that dance tomorrow. I'll have someone escort you there. He'll pick you up at six."

Emma stared after her, bewildered. "What? Who? Theodore?"

Theodore gave her a short shake of his head and opened the car door for Ethel.

"Emma, be ready," Ethel said before hopping in. "Six. Remember."

"Ethel, but who is accompanying me to the dance?"

#  Chapter 10

Emma put in the last bobby pins into her hair. She had styled it into a low thick chignon that rested neatly at the nape of her neck. She rechecked herself for probably the hundredth time in the mirror. The dress fit her perfectly.

She was nervous though. She didn't know who Ethel had arranged as a date for the evening. She tried calling her up in the day but Ethel nor would Nancy divulge the details of the mystery man.

"I can't talk about it, Miss," Nancy said over the phone. "The lady will not approve."

"Please, Nancy," Emma pleaded. "You've got to give me some idea."

"I'm really sorry, Miss. But if Mrs Kinnaird even as has an inkling that I told you, it will be off with my head. I swear."

And that was the end of the conversation.

Emma imagined Mr Clement Kinnaird with a top hat, long coat tails and his spade beard at her door. She giggled. She didn't think there was anyone like Clement Kinnaird existing in this day and age.

She smoothed her dress. She sighed as she thought of what Richard could be doing. He called once since he had left and she had only said hello. She couldn't bear to carry on a proper conversation over the phone. She found it awkward. Instead, the children were more than delighted to hound their Uncle Richard with questions and tales of their daily school grinding life.

The clock on her dresser told her that it was almost six. Theodore had come by to pick Jai and Hannah at five in the evening. They, unlike her, were too eager to spend the night with Grandma Ethel. Ethel was falling into a terrible habit of spoiling them with gifts. Tonight, she had also got Nancy to engage the children with cooking lessons.

Her mobile phone buzzed and she almost fell over to answer it. She hoped that it was Ethel calling to cancel her date.

"Hello," she answered.

"Emma, it's me Lisa."

"Hi, Lisa," she said in a disheartened tone.

"What's wrong? You don't sound too happy. Has your date arrived yet?"

"No, he hasn't."

"But it's six."

"Not in his watch."

"Poor you. And you don't even know who it is. Are you sure you can trust Mrs Kinnaird to arrange you a date? How can you be sure he won't be a grouch like her."

"I'm sure it will be fine." Emma sighed tiredly.

"Listen, if he doesn't turn up, let me know. I know a couple of chaps in need of a date. They would be overjoyed to have someone like you on their arms."

Emma smiled. She was sure they would be. In the time she had come to know Lisa all over again, she had also come to learn of the few very interesting, eccentric characters who called Lisa a friend. There was the shaggy fisherman who spent all his years on a boat and a cigarette that never seemed to leave the corners of his mouth. There was also the bottle collector from Glendale with a fetish for all kinds of bottles. It was known that he decorated his yard, trees and house with every kind of bottle he could find, which glimmered in the sunshine and tinkled in the wind.

"You are worrying too much, Lisa," she assured quickly. She didn't want her to set off on a mission to arrange a substitute date. She prayed that Ethel's date wouldn't turn up and if luck was on her side, she might even make a play for "it's too late, Lisa" excuse. "I'm pretty certain he will come," she said into the phone. "There isn't too many who can defy Ethel Kinnaird."

Lisa huffed. "Yeah, you're probably right. But you promise to call me if he doesn't arrive?"

"Yes, yes."

With further false assurances that she would call Lisa, she finally got her to hang up. She looked at the clock and it was almost fifteen minutes after six. Her nervousness was slowly giving way to impatience and then vexation. She swore to give five more minutes to her very late date and if he didn't arrive by then, she would strip out of her very expensive dress.

Finally her doorbell rang. She marched furiously down the steps with a dreadful scowl on her face. With a determined mind to remind the man of his manners despite the risk that he would take to flight, she opened the door.

"Are you Emma Winston?" said the man.

Emma stared at him in disbelief, her legs unsteady beneath her. It was Chris Cameron.

Emma looked at the man seated beside her. She couldn't believe that Ethel had set her up with her very famous grandson, Chris Cameron. He braced his elbows against his window, his finger on his lips in deep thought. His eyes were focused on the dark road ahead of him as he steered towards their destination in Dunvegan.

His long brown fringes fell over the sides of his face softening the otherwise scruffy, stubble chin. He hadn't said a word since they had left her driveway.

"Are you Emma Winston?" he had said at her door.

"Yes," she had mumbled in disbelief.

"Get in," he had said as he walked back to his silver Jaguar. He had hopped into the driver seat and revved his engine as he waited seemingly impatiently for her to join him in his car.

She had paused momentarily unsure if she should. He hadn't appeared at all pleased with their blind date. She had bitten her lip, stamping down her pride to walk back inside her house and slam the door behind her.

Looking at him now, sullen and quiet, she silently compared him to the picture she often saw of the Kinnaird's in Ethel's parlour. He had the same steely eyes that were prevalent in all the Kinnairds. She imagined him with a spear beard and an imperial moustache. A shiver ran up her as she thought of how incredibly ideal he would make a Clement Kinnaird. He certainly was grouchy. Lisa was right. Ethel had sent her a date grouchier than she was.

She suddenly felt nauseated despite the well-flowing air conditioning in the car. She instinctively touched the button on the side of her door to roll the windows down. She felt the cool fresh air breezing through it as the window slithered down. It was though momentarily because it just as quick was rolled back up.

She turned sharply to the grouchy, handsome man beside her

"You don't want to do that," he said without looking at her. "If the wind catches that scowl, you might need a surgeon to wipe it off."

She stared at him stunned, astounded beyond belief. She pulled in a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She was determined not to ruin the night with this man's ill-manners. She bit back a sharp retort and robotically fixed her attention on the dark road. Her mind wheezed with all the words she needed to have with Ethel. And if she was lucky, she would be happy to dish some unsavoury terms to this man as well. But tomorrow. When she would be back safe in the protective haven of her home.

An hour later, Chris Cameron parked his car in the car park of The Gaelic Inn. He switched off his engine and threw open his car door. Leaning towards the back, he pulled out his dark blazer and swished it over his body hugging dark tee-shirt and khaki slacks. Even in such casual wardrobe, he couldn't disguise his royal Hollywood glamour.

"We're here," he said, slamming the door shut.

Emma swallowed nervously. She blushed profusely when she realised she had been staring at him like a high school teenager.

She opened her door to discover he was already walking away towards the hotel. She huffed indignantly and followed him. She heard the click of his car door lock behind her. He was paying attention. He just didn't want to be seen with her, she presumed. She shook her head unbelievingly. She might as well have come alone. She gave a second thought to Lisa's fisherman friend and the bottle collector. They were beginning to seem far more appealing than this fiasco right now.

As she neared the hotel, the echoes of the chatter and music flowed out of the hall and into the foyer of the inn. Chris was standing waiting for her to catch up to him. Maybe he wasn't too obnoxious after all. She quickened her pace and gave him a small half-smile.

"Tickets," he said.

"What?" she asked, taken aback.

"Tickets," he said, thumbing at the ushers at the door.

"Oh, yes," she said, fumbling through her purse for it. She handed out the two tickets to him.

He looked at her and then pulled one out from her fingers. Presenting it to the usher, he disappeared into the crowd.

She watched, immobilised by his ill-manners. Fuming out of embarrassment and his disrespect for her, she slapped her ticket roughly into the usher's palm.

The usher looked up at her baffled. But she gallantly walked past him and into the myriad of colourful attendees.

She breathed in deeply in another feeble attempt to calm herself. Maybe it was for the best, she reasoned with herself. After all, would she want to continue to be subjected to his abominable behaviour the entire evening?

"Emma! Emma!"

It was Lisa emerging around one of the many large circular tables spread sporadically through the room.

"Emma! Here!" She waved with her fingers, a large smile on her face. "You made it. Where's your date?" She looked around and behind Emma. "You're not hiding him, are you?" she teased.

"I...um...no," Emma gulped. "He's here. Somewhere," she added rather quietly.

"Oh, okay. No problem. Come on. I saved you a chair. I'm sure he will be able to find you, right?"

"I...guess," Emma said. If he was interested, she thought.

Lisa led her to the table that sat her husband and two other couples. "This is Noah and Belinda Pearson," she introduced. "And that is Max Burns and his partner Grace Parker, who seems to have disappeared yet again."

"I'm here," said Grace, calling out from behind them. "I'm Grace Parker. Hi," she said.

"This is Emma," Lisa said. "Where have you been? You're all flustered."

"I am," Grace answered excitedly. "You won't believe who's here at the dance."

"Who?" asked Lisa curiously.

"Chris Cameron."

Lisa turned to the small crowd gathering in the further corner of the dance hall. She glanced at Emma, chagrin sweeping out the smile she once carried.

Grace and Belinda babbled endlessly with sheer excitement over the prospect of meeting a Hollywood star at the dance. Their subject moved endlessly from the movies of the famous actor to his personality, his looks and his string of affairs among other gossip they had read of him. The men meanwhile rolled their eyes and continued a conversation of sport celebrities who deserved far more attention.

Lisa pulled Emma aside. "Tell me that wasn't your date?"

Emma winced, nodding her head.

"Is that why he's ditched you for his elite friends there?"

"We just met, Lisa. We hardly know each other." She didn't understand why she was defending him after his insults earlier.

"That's no reason, Emma," she sneered. "He accompanied you here. He should be here, by your side." She swallowed a mouthful of champagne. "Just goes to show that having money doesn't necessarily mean having good manners."

The music blared on stage. People swayed and rocked along with it. Chatter and laughter swept rife through the air.

Despite Emma's disappointing start to the evening, she was beginning to really enjoy the dance. Bill, Noah and Max were quite obliging as they took turns to jive with her on the dance floor. Grace and Belinda meanwhile offered their sympathies for her missing date.

Returning from the ladies, she saw her new found friends in the distance laughing at their table. She was glad she had come.

"Hello, there," someone said.

She turned. "Hi," she said. She didn't believe she had ever met him or she would have certainly remembered that beautiful soft blonde hair.

"I'm Ethan Wells," he said, smiling. "I just wanted to say that I waded across a room of sweaty dancers and drunken fools to tell you that you look extremely beautiful in that dress."

She grinned. "I'm Emma," she said. "Is that the best you can do?"

He nudged his shoulders. "It may be the worst pick-up line in history but it's the truth."

She laughed. "Well, you should know it is a terrible pick-up line. But I can't say that I have heard too many to rate it as the worst."

"That's encouraging. So do I still stand a chance to buy you a drink?"

"I don't drink. But I don't mind a glass of orange juice."

"Oh? Any particular reason you don't drink?" he asked, frowning.

"None other than my picky preference not to."

"How intriguing? A woman that doesn't drink and holds onto her principles even in a mass majority of charming drunks. You've just become exotic."

She laughed again. "Is that so? I'm going to assume that you say that to all women."

"Aah," he said, pretending to wince. "I admit that I admire all women, especially beautiful ones. But you're my first exotic crush."

"You are terrible," she said, chuckling.

He gave her a wide, one-sided grin. A little twinkle lit his cheeky eyes. "Yeah, I suppose I am. Usually it is women who drop the line on me. I, on the other hand, am terribly inexperienced and naive." He indicated to the bar tender for a glass of orange juice. The bar tender whipped it out and handed it to her. "So, where are you from, really?" he asked her.

"Was it my accent that gave it away?" she said.

"No, not at all," he said, grinning. "It's the rarity of your beauty."

She sipped at her juice, hoping he wouldn't notice her reddening cheeks. "I used to live in London before I moved to Breakish about six months ago."

He pursed his lips, nodding thoughtfully. "An urban immigrant. What was it about the Isle of Skye that attracted you? The rural lure?"

"I suppose. And that I find it is one of the most beautiful places on earth."

"I concur absolutely. In fact, it has been voted the fourth best island in the world by the National Geographic's Magazine."

"Really?" she said, wonderment filling her eyes.

"Well, yes," he continued. "It certainly is magical. And I mean in it in the literal sense of the word."

"Like magic magic?" she asked.

"Like faeries. Legend has it that long long ago the chief of the MacLeods Clan married a fairy wife. Soon they had a baby boy. When the boy was about a year old, the fairy wife was summoned back to her world and there was nothing the chief could say or do to keep her from going. He begged and pleaded for her to stay until finally she rose into the air and dropped the finest silk to the ground, landing it at his feet. "Keep this flag," she said. "Unfurl it whenever you are in a crisis. But be warned, you may only unfurl it twice. Should you unfurl it the third time, you shall be carried off to another world, never to be seen again." Well, as it is the flag remains to this day, safely protected at Dunvegan Castle."

"So there really is such a flag?"

"Yes."

"Was it ever unfurled?"

"Yes, but only twice. No one has dared to unfurl it the third time."

"Wow," she said, speechless with amazement.

He gave a hollow laugh. "Actually, it has been said to be unfurled numerous times."

"So the legend isn't true?"

"I don't know. There are other legends but you've got to agree this one's quite magical, right?"

"So there are more rational explanations, I presume, to why they have the flag?"

"I won't deny there are. There are beliefs that the flag might even be a relic of a saint's shirt and passed down to an ancestor of the MacLeods clan. However, it stands to this day that the MacLeods will not believe in anything other than it was gifted to them by the faeries."

"What do you believe?"

He shrugged his shoulders uncertainly. "Probably it was given to them by the faeries. Sometimes it's good to believe in something so magical as that. It gives this dull world some life, don't you think? Besides, there are tales that there are still supernatural powers attached to the flag. Supposedly a MacLeod clan member survived his bombing missions over Germany because he carried a photograph of the flag in his pocket."

"How extraordinary," Emma said, captivated by his enigmatic narration.

"Yes," he said, nodding. "In Scottish Gaelic, the flag is known as Am Bratach Sith." He leaned closer to her, looking into her eyes. "Like I said, it still can be seen to this day in Dunvegan Castle. Maybe...if you had the time, I could show you?"

"I, er..." She swallowed nervously, mesmerised by his eyes.

"She can't," someone said hoarsely. "She's with me."

She felt an arm around her waist, pulling her away from the man called Ethan Wells. She looked up. It was Christopher Cameron.

#  Chapter 11

He pulled her roughly to the dance floor, almost dragging her off her feet.

"What do you think you're doing?" she said angrily, almost shouting it out above the noise in the dance hall.

"I escorted you here," he said. "I believe you owe me at least a dance."

"You abandoned me at the door. Hell, you were too willing to escape from me the moment you stepped out of your car. What makes you think I want to dance with you!" She tried to twist herself out of his clutches, but he gripped her wrist tightly.

"You looked willing enough to go on a day trip to Dunvegan Castle with Ethan Wells. I'm sure you can afford a dance with me." He held her tightly and began to sway to the now soft, slow waltz.

She looked around slightly embarrassed when she realised that she was beginning to draw attention from onlookers and other couples on the dance floor. She bent her head, deliberately paying critical attention to the small logo on his blazer, as the muscularity of his torso would unwillingly have melted away her anger. She hated this man, she reminded herself.

"Ethan Wells is a gentleman," she said firmly. "You, on the other hand, are the most abominable, despicable man I have ever met."

His arm at her waist bound her close to him, almost suffocating her. He leant into her ear.

"You should be grateful that I saved you from the likes of Ethan Wells," he said, his breath tingling her neck.

She writhed in his arms but the more she did, the tighter he clasped her. She caught his eyes. They had darkened and smouldering with anger. Shocked briefly, she stalled her fight to free herself. And when she did, so did his arms as they slowly began to ease around her.

"I need to go to bed," he said suddenly. "Where are you staying in Dunvegan?"

"Aren't you returning tonight?" she said, panic seeping into her voice.

"No."

"We have to return tonight. I have kids," she demanded.

"Well, I'm not going back tonight. It's almost midnight and I will not risk driving back at such an hour."

"I can drive," she insisted.

"Not my car."

"But my kids..."

"Don't be too dramatic. They're with Grandma. And from what I've seen, they seem far fond of the old woman to be shaken over their mother's late date night. Give Gran a call and tell her we would be leaving tomorrow. Something tells me she won't mind it at all."

"But I haven't booked a room. I don't know if there would be one available at this hour," she said worriedly.

"You didn't book a room?" he growled, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"I didn't think this was going to be a night's affair. I didn't expect to be staying in Dunvegan."

He dropped her hand and pulled away from her. "Well, you can always get a taxi back. Otherwise, I suggest you start looking for a place to stay."

"But where am I going to start looking at this time of the night?"

He gave a short, indignant glance and walked away from her leaving her standing, muddled in the middle of the dance floor.

She watched him vanish among the dancing mass once more. Close to tears and feeling abandoned, she dragged herself to Lisa's table. Her mind raced rapidly, sifting through her options. She prayed inwardly that Lisa would be returning tonight. She just might be able to hitch herself a ride with her. If all was well, she would be back in her soft, familiar bed in a few hours. The possibility eased her, giving way to further anger and hatred for Chris Cameron.

"But we've booked a room," said Lisa, concerned for her friend. "What will you do since every room is booked here as well? I'm really sorry, Emma."

"No, that's fine," Emma answered, dishearteningly. "It's my fault."

Lisa rubbed Emma's elbows in an attempt to comfort her. "I don't know what to say, Emma. I just expected that you would be arranging all this with your date or I would have advised you to reserve a room also. I really wouldn't have minded you joining us at all. But this is all too sudden. Oh, that beastly, detestable fellow," she snorted out angrily. "And to imagine women foaming at their mouths at the mere sight of him makes me throw up. How could he do this to you? How could he do this at all just makes me spin in bloody spitting amazement," she spat out with sarcasm.

"Lisa," Emma said, trying to calm her down. "It's fine. I'm sure I can work this out somehow."

"Oh, you poor thing," said Grace sympathetically. "Such an awful man, he must be. I'd be happy to kick him in the groin for you, darl. Just point him out to me."

Emma smiled. If only Grace knew it was Chris Cameron's crotch she was offering to kick, she might change her mind.

"Thanks Grace," she said instead.

"Why don't you girls share the bed?" Lisa's husband offered thoughtfully.

"You sure, hon?" said Lisa.

"Of course," Bill replied. "We can't leave Emma hunting a room at this hour in the night. I can take the couch and we'll all leave tomorrow together."

"Oh, thank you, Bill," said Emma, almost tearing now with joy. "That's if Lisa doesn‎'t mind."

"Honey," she replied. "That's the best idea my husband has come up with in a long time. You'd be crazy to pass it on. Hell, if I were you, I'd be crazy not to take it up."

They all broke out into laughter.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't help overhearing," said a voice. "But am I right in saying that the beautiful lady here was overwrought about not being able to return home tonight?"

"Ethan," said Emma. "Hi."

"We meet again," said Ethan, smiling.

Emma smiled back and introduced Ethan to her friends. "I'm having a kind of situation crisis," she explained to Ethan.

"I heard," he replied.

"I'm sorry." She blushed. "Were we too loud about it?"

"No," he said. "I just couldn't help taking my eyes off you the moment I saw you."

"You were deliberately eavesdropping!" she exclaimed in a giggle.

The women sighed, charmed by his suavity.

"Eavesdrop on me darling, any day," said Grace.

Ethan smiled and turned to Emma. "I could take you back to Breakish tonight if you want. But I'm also renting a cottage here in Dunvegan. You could always stay and I could take you back to Breakish tomorrow. I would love to show you that Fairy Flag we talked about earlier. But it's your call. I'm just going to be a gentleman and obediently follow whatever you decide."

Emma flustered, looked over at Lisa for some support.

"I'm sure Bill and Lisa here would love to continue with their romantic date," he said noticing.

"It's your choice," said Lisa assuredly.

Emma grew quiet, weighing her now attractive option. She wanted to return home and no matter how much she wanted to say that she did, she felt it would be selfish of her to make such a request. She also was already feeling guilty of barging into Lisa's romantic evening with her husband which she knew Lisa often couldn't afford.

She looked up at Ethan. He was watching her patiently. She believed she could trust him, despite what Chris Cameron said.

But before she could answer, she felt someone clutch her palm tightly as she was dragged through the dance hall.

She heard the men at her table stand abruptly to confront her abductor. She heard Lisa's muffled voice. She didn't understand what she said but she could guess what it was when she also heard Grace exclaim behind her. "That's her date?! Chris Cameron?!"

They exited the hall, entering the lobby of the hotel. She pulled her hand angrily away from him, almost tripping herself backwards as she did.

"I swear, you try dragging me one more time and I will hit you where it hurts," she shouted out angrily.

"I told you to stay away from Ethan Wells," he growled with equal ire.

"And why should I listen to you?" she said, straightening her dress. She forcibly lowered her voice, paying attention to the curious looks she was getting around her. They must be wondering she was such an unappreciative twit. She wished she could tell them who the real Chris Cameron was. "From what you have shown me, you're not quite credible either."

He glared at her, his inflamed eyes almost boring a hole into her soul.

She glared back at him stubbornly, holding her ground. Inside, she was trembling from the exhaustive emotions he had put her through in a single night.

He backed down silently and walked away to the reception. She watched the attendant hand him over a key card. She stamped nervously, undecided to what she should do next. Half-embarrassed from his behaviour, she tried to convince herself she shouldn't be. Maybe she should march back inside and take Ethan's offer. She hoped though there still was one.

"Well, are you coming?" said Chris.

Her heart lifted, hopefully. "You're going home?"

"No," he replied bluntly. "But I do have a room. It's big enough for the both of us."

"I am certainly not sharing a room with you," she said firmly.

"But you are happy to share one with Ethan Wells," anger returning to his voice.

"He has a cottage. There's a difference."

"I don't care if he has reserved the entire Dunvegan Castle for the night," he threatened, edging closer. "You're not staying with him and you're certainly not taking that ride back home with him."

She grew silent once more. How could he do this to her? He didn't want to be with her and she accepted it. She even had worked out her problems with Ethan Wells.

But there was also Ethel she needed to speak to. And she didn't want to jeopardise her friendship with her. Not after all these years when she almost felt like finally she got her own grandmother back. And the children also loved her...

"I won't hear a 'no'," he added firmly. "Either you step into that elevator at your own free will or I carry you into it."

Emma gave him an incensed glance before marching through the elevator doors. She gave a short silent prayer composed of vulgarities she would never normally mouth in the hope that she would not fulfil her urge to kill him tonight.

It wasn't an overtly small bedroom but it wasn't large either. It was certainly not luxurious. It was comprised of simple, basic amenities. Two arm chairs graced the ends of a large bay window which overlooked the dark ocean. A dresser stood at one end of the wall and the double bed took prime precedence in the middle of it.

"It's small," Emma uttered, before she could prevent the words from escaping her lips.

"I'm sorry," Chris replied sarcastically. "Had I known earlier you had not booked yourself a room, I would have requested a larger one."

Her cheeks coloured. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. It's just that I didn't expect for you to have reserved such a humble room." She bit her lips. She was making a greater mess of her thoughts. She reminded herself to shut up. All she needed from this man was to help her get through the night.

"You think just because I'm a celebrity, I would be travelling with an entourage and spoiling myself with luxury."

"No, I never said that," she snapped.

"But you thought that," he said, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

He turned his back to her and took off his blazer, hanging it onto a wooden coat tree. He began pulling off his tee-shirt.

She stepped back, slightly bewildered. "What are you doing?"

"Taking my clothes off. I don't intend to go to bed fully dressed even if you do," he said. He pulled out his pants and headed to the shower as he did.

She heard him turn on the shower and flushed when she imagined the water running down his naked body. She hastily turned to her circumstances and reminded herself there were other pressing matters at hand. Like where they should sleep? How would she sleep? She looked down at her dress and wished for the first time since buying it, she had not worn something so revealing. She wished she had worn her old and comfortable dress pants instead. She searched the cupboards for a house coat but there was none. This wasn't a five star hotel, it was an inn, she grumbled to herself. All there was available was a large towel which she definitely could not wear to bed.

Bed? She studied the bed in deep thought wondering if Chris Cameron would demonstrate at least one gentlemanly conduct before the night ended. She promised herself that if he did, she would forgive him for all his arrogant, vile behaviour as well.

She heard him turn off the shower. He stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped at his waist. She turned away, embarrassed, fiddling with the edges of the flat sheet on the bed.

"Well, aren't you going to bed?" he said curiously.

"Where are you sleeping?"

"That bed's made for two people. I'm certain we can both fit into it, if we try."

"I'm not sharing a bed with you," she said firmly.

His eyes scanned the room. "I don't see where else you can sleep. But then that's your choice."

She began to fume. "What are you?! You can't even offer your bed to a lady?"

"Listen, woman, I got off a plane not too long ago, only to be told by my grandmother that I had to escort you to a silly dance. I'm tired. And with that scowl you've been carrying, I'm exhausted. Frankly, I don't see what the big deal is about sharing a bed. I thought you had two kids. You can't be that naive. It's not like you're a friggin' virgin or something. Besides, I have no intention of seducing you even if I am ordered by the High Queen of Breakish, herself."

Emma stared at him, stunned and frozen with disbelief. She didn't know what she was greatly offended with. That he was telling her to share a bed with her or he wouldn't seduce her.

Her hands grabbed at the flat sheet and pulled it off the bed. Bundling it into a messy, chaotic ball, she stomped off into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

Muttering a string of vulgarities for the second time that night, she stripped off her clothes. What she needed was a warm shower to wash away the tight knots in her body. She stood under the running water for a while, enjoying the feel of it ease her tension.

She then towelled herself dry and pulled back her panties on. She caught her naked reflection in the bathroom mirror and paused, self-appraising her body. Her breasts were not as full and firm as they used to be before she had children. Her waist also showed signs of childbirth. In addition, she still carried the caesarean scar from Hannah's birth. She sighed sadly.

She manoeuvred the flat sheet lengthwise and wrapped it skilfully around her like a sarong, transforming it into a white, draped dress. She assessed her handiwork in the mirror. Her cowl neckline sat at her breasts. The knot on her side only managed to hide what was necessary. The rest fell into a seductive side slit down her legs. She sighed sadly. If she was carefully, she might just be able to manage with it, she thought.

She opened the bathroom door. The bedroom was already in darkness. Chris had turned out all the lights and slipped into bed. She could only make out his dark outline under the covers. She stalled for a while at the door wondering what to do. The room was quite warm from the air conditioning so she might not need any covers for the night. She pushed the two arm chairs together to create a makeshift long chair. She then crept softly to the bed and pulled away a pillow. Turning off the bathroom light, she thankfully stepped into her small, cramped makeshift long chair. Exhausted, she hardly felt the discomfort and soon drifted into a pleasant, deep sleep.

Chris tossed and turned in his bed. His mind kept drifting to the woman who laid a few paces from him; a woman who refused to share his bed. Baffled, he sat up a little and watched her figure in the darkness. He had expected her to give up on her supposed tantrum and join him in his bed. But her breaths told him that she was already asleep.

She was strange. Unlike any woman he had ever known. She had stepped out of the bathroom draped in his flat sheet. He had never seen a flat sheet look so seductive on a woman. She had attempted to do her best at decency but she clearly had no inkling that the light in the bathroom had made her even more sensuous. Her scent from her shower titillated his senses as she had crept closer to his bed. He had half-hoped she would step under the covers and beside him. He was surprisingly disappointed when she didn't, opting instead for the un-comely armchairs.

He tried to brush away his prurient thoughts of her. His hand reached to the bedside table for his phone and instead knocked it onto the floor. He turned the side lamp on, hoping the light would not awaken her. Stepping out of bed, he picked up his phone. As he rose, his eyes fell on her sleeping form. He walked to her side and assayed her for a while. Her back was exposed, revealing her fair skin. The slit of her temporary sarong had done nothing to help her. Instead it had loosened, graciously revealing the soft, and alluring sides of her breast and her long, trim legs. Her long auburn hair fell haphazardly over an arm of the chair, giving her an image of the seductive Celtic goddess, Aeval, Lady of Sexuality, enchanting him to do as she bade. The damp tendrils of her hair fell over her face and he was almost tempted to brush them away, so he could see her lips. However, his eyes lowered to her waist. The scar at her abdomen enraptured him. He put his finger to it and lightly caressed its callus tissue under his finger tips. His thumb accidently brushed the soft flesh of her slim waist, tingling his synapses. She moved slightly and he stilled.

He stepped back, feeling guilty. Removing the comforter off his bed, he draped it gently over her. He had misjudged her. She was far too serpentine than he had assumed. She was unfurling a heat within him and if he wasn't too careful, she'd burn him.

#  Chapter 12

His phone alarm blared loudly, awakening him from his sleep. His hand instinctively reached for his phone to turn his alarm off. Chris barely could open his eyes. He squinted at his phone for the time. It was eight o'clock. He ran a palm over his face tiredly. Emma, he thought.

He sat up to glance at her but her temporary long chair had split back into arm chairs and positioned to the ends of the bay windows as he had first seen them. Her flat sheet was neatly folded and placed onto the seat of one of the chairs; the only evidence of her night spent in his room. His heart paced faster as he wondered where she could have gone. Breakfast, he reasoned. She must have gone for breakfast.

He stepped out of bed to wash himself. A few minutes through his routine, he peeped back into the room to see if she had returned. The room was still empty. His thoughts drifted to the possibility of Ethan Wells driving her to Breakish. He swallowed nervously. He rushed through his wash and dressed himself rather quickly.

Downstairs he headed for the dining room. It was still quite empty. Guests must still be asleep from the dance last night, he thought. He strolled out into the gardens hoping to see her somewhere but there were no signs of her. He ambled back to the dining room thoughtfully. Ordering himself a light meal of cornmeal pancakes and apple sauce, he waited impatiently for her to arrive soon.

He kicked himself for not taking her phone number. He always remembered phone numbers for his potential lady friends. But that was it. She wasn't his potential lady friend. This was a temporary assignment as arranged by his grandmother. And for her sake, he was worried.

An hour later, he was fidgeting. His pancakes had grown cold and insipid. He had barely touched it. His eyes glowered, his right hand busily twirling a fork between his fingers. Finally, he pulled out his phone and scrolled for his grandmother's number.

Emma slumped into her couch. Her mind kept retracing the events of the dance two days ago. She hadn't spoken or seen Chris Cameron since she sneaked out of his hotel room early that morning.

She had awoken from an acute pain in her back. The arm chairs did not give her ample space to turn at all during the night. She was glad though she had got some rest. She must have been extremely tired to not have noticed the cramped and uncomfortable space in which she had slept. But she had suffered more in her lifetime. The armchairs were luxury in comparison.

She felt her tentative dress come loose at her waist. Her body would have been exposed had it not been for the comforter laid upon her. She was thankful for it. She would have thanked him as well if he hadn't enraged her so much last night.

She crept up to him but he was fast asleep. He had covered himself with the thin, decorative coverlet. She watched him breathe peacefully and he looked so much different than the arrogant man who tormented her through the night.

She changed into her dress as fast as she could, placed back the arm chairs softly and folded the flat sheet. She placed it neatly onto a chair although she knew hotel housekeepers would be throwing it out into their laundry during their run that morning.

She wondered if she should return the favour of covering him with the comforter but then decided against it. She couldn't bear to face him anymore if he awoke. And she was going to do all she could to avoid him.

She called for a taxi from the reception and was gone, leaving the harsh memories of her Dunvegan dance behind her. She couldn't resist a sigh as she saw the inn breeze away in the distance.

Today, she was determined to push back that disastrous night into the abyss of her memories. She lay back on her couch and tried to meditate on the silence in her home. There were no grouchy men, no grumbles, no dragging by the elbows, by the palm...

She sat back up, agitated. Rolling her eyes, she knew it was going to be a daunting task to forget all that had happened at the dance. She was curious though as to why Chris despised Ethan Wells.

The rustle of gravel stones outside told her that a car had approached her house. She peered through her windows and saw it was Ethel's dark BMW coming to a stop. She rose and opened the door to let her in.

"Hello," she said as Ethel stepped out of the car.

Ethel's face was grim. She made a sound in her throat but remained quiet as she walked into the house.

"The children are in school?" Ethel asked.

"Yes," Emma replied. It was Monday. It was a question that needn't require asking. Worry began to shadow her face as she felt knots pitting in her stomach. She hadn't been quite as cordial with Ethel when she had picked up the children early in the morning after that ill-fated date.

"Good," said Ethel, nodding. "Can we talk?"

"Of course," she replied, although she couldn't help feeling slightly apprehensive. Can we talk did not quite mark the start of a delightful chat.

"Let's go to your conservatory. It's peaceful there. It might even aid putting this whole torrid turn of events on a better note," Ethel muttered in a low voice.

Emma followed, her curiosity piqued but also inevitably mingled with concern. She watched Ethel fiddle with the hems of her shawl as she settled into a couch by the window. She had never seen Ethel fidget with anything ever.

"I understand that you were disappointed with your date," Ethel started.

"Disappointed is too mild a word," Emma said wryly. "Aghast was more like it."

"Christopher can be a little exasperating at times," said Ethel.

"Exasperating!" exclaimed Emma. "He was crude, boorish and overtly disparaging. I have never felt so abased and horrified by any person's behaviour, and shockingly at the same time!"

"Aaahh," Ethel winced. "This is faring worse than I presumed."

"What more, he is obnoxious and egocentric. He creates an entirely modern twist to the legend of Narcissus," Emma berated. "I know that he is your grandson. And don't be mistaken; I don't love you any less today than the day I met him. But really Ethel, the man has a terrible problem with his attitude."

"I agree," said Ethel.

"I know that you will hate me for saying all this...," Emma suddenly braked mid-way through her sentence and stared at Ethel, stunned beyond words. "What? You...agree. You mean you knew he was going to be such a pain and yet you set up a date between him and me? Why?"

"He was just being protective."

"Of you? Why? What could I possibly do to you?" Emma asked, baffled.

"It's what I suggested I would ask you to do."

"I don't understand," Emma said, confounded by the turn in the conversation.

Ethel sighed tiredly. She hung her head in deep thought. "Christopher rushed home because he thought I was suffering from a severe bout of cold," she said slowly. "So naturally he wasn't too happy about the false pretences. But when I dropped the bombshell of the date, he didn't take it too well."

"Ethel!" Emma cried. "You basically cornered him into going out with me."

"I know, I know," she replied, nodding her head profusely. "But I have my reasons. So hear me out before you get quick on passing on judgment."

Emma scowled. "Alright," she said after a little while. "I might as well hear it all."

Ethel took in a deep breath before she continued. "I am ninety years old Emma. And I've buried almost everyone I've ever loved. All that keeps me going is Christopher. When Mary died five years ago, my heart almost broke. Christopher had moved on with his life and he really has no intention of returning to continue with the family businesses. The thought of Mrs Deanna Boyd and her sons ever taking over, cringes me absolutely. But I really don't have a choice, do I?"

Her eyes focused on the silvery picture frames that encased photographs of Hannah and Jai. She remained quiet as she studied the little red woollen hat Hannah was wearing and the yellow daffodil she held in her hands.

"The businesses have been in the Kinnaird family for so long. It would be unfair if I refuse to pass it on to someone who would take good care of it only because their mother is such a twit." She transgressed into another lapse of silence. "Christopher has had a problem with women. He's never been able to hold a relationship with one. It was always one blonde dunce to another. All they ever really saw in him was a stepping stone to stardom and fame. Christopher is no fool, I can tell you that. But he keeps giving a blind eye to such women. He keeps them hanging at his arm. It baffles me as to the reasons but the fact is that he does."

Her eyes glazed, her thoughts tapering into her memories. "Probably it was because he never had a mother. I tried my best but...maybe it's not the same..."

Her voice withered into a whisper, gradually growing silent. She sat there still, assessing herself.

Emma watched her and when she didn't talk any more, she grew worried for her old friend. "Ethel," she said, leaning forward to caress her arm.

Ethel turned to her and smiled. "And then I met you. And Hannah. And Jai. You've all been the joy of my life these past three months."

Emma smiled back and affectionately rubbed Ethel's arms. "So have you been, Ethel- to all of us."

Ethel straightened up. "That is why you should marry Christopher."

"What!" Emma exclaimed; her mouth dropped in shock, taken aback by the sudden proposal. "Ethel, that's preposterous!"

"What's preposterous about it? You're single and so is Christopher."

"Yes, but that is no basis for a marriage. I hardly know him. And I can't say I like him much after that disastrous date."

"So what? He's nice. Once you get to know him."

"Ethel, you would say that. He is your grandson," Emma replied wryly, rolling her eyes. "I, on the other hand, see him from an entirely different perspective."

"Emma, I'm dying," Ethel blurted.

Emma watched Ethel critically. "You've got to be joking. That's really low, Ethel. Especially coming from you. I can't believe you're trying to emotionally blackmail me so I can marry Chris. I didn't expect that from you. Why would..."

Ethel sighed again, interrupting her. "Christopher has agreed."

Emma sat back, shocked. "What?"

"Christopher has agreed," Ethel repeated. "I wanted to let you know that. Of course, he will come and talk to you about it. But he insisted I break it to you since I'm bent on having it."

Emma was silent, stupefied by what Ethel was asking of her.

"I'm in my last stages of life, Emma," Ethel continued. "All I'm asking is that those I love be with me while I finish this ending lag of living. I want to see Christopher settled. I want to be assured that he will be fine once I close my eyes for the very last time. With a woman who I know will keep him happy."

"He doesn't love me," mumbled Emma, close to tears.

"He will. Once he gets to know you like I do, he will love you. He's my grandson. I know him. I know what he needs. He fails to recognise it but my old eyes do not."

"I have children, Ethel. I can't just jump into a marriage without knowing the man."

"Do you trust me, Emma?"

"What a question, Ethel," Emma blurted annoyingly. "Of course, I do. But it is Chris, I don't know."

"Then you don't trust me," Ethel said. "I love your kids. I would never hand them over to anyone who might harm them in the least possible way. Not even my own grandson. But Christopher is soft and gentle. He won't show it though. He hates to be seen that way."

"I need to give it some thought, Ethel," Emma said in a low voice. She looked over at Ethel's tired greying eyes and her own watered at the prospect of losing Ethel.

"Okay," Ethel said, nodding her head. "I understand." She stood up and started walking slowly to the door.

"Ethel," said Emma. "It doesn't mean I don't care. It's just that it's a big decision."

"I know," Ethel said, giving her a small smile. She turned again and began walking. At the door, she paused. "Emma, if it is about Richard Winston, I want you to know that he will never make you his wife."

A tear scrolled down Emma's cheeks.

"It's hard to accept, Emma," said Ethel. "But he has never fought to make you his."

"I have to try."

Ethel gave a small pat on her arms and walked out, leaving Emma shaken at her front door.

Emma's mind raced over all that Ethel had said. Her hand trembled, anxiety filling her as she tried to prepare for her children's return from school.

A series of fretful knocks rapped at the door. She was hesitant to open it. She was too agitated to face anyone right now. But the knocks grew louder and more persistent.

Anger overpowering her annoyance, she marched to the front door and flung it open. It was Chris Cameron staring at her, his eyes inflamed with rage.

"I want to talk to you," he bellowed.

"Well, I'm in no mood," she snapped back and pushed the door to shut it. But he put a foot into it and forced it open.

He walked by her roughly and into the house. "I believe you had a few choice words to describe me to my grandmother."

"Oh, she told you, did she?" Emma smirked.

"More like riled. She was throwing a terrible fit of anger. And thanks to you, I've had to call the doctor in because she almost suffered an oncoming heart-attack."

Emma froze, her legs trembled under her. "How is she? Is she alright?" she said, her voice shaking with the fear of losing Ethel. She rushed to the door but Chris blocked it before she could get to it.

"Where do you think you're going?" he growled.

"Get out of the way," Emma threatened. "I need to see her."

"No you won't. You've done enough for one day."

"I've done?! You're the one with the attitude! Why can't you be civil for once?!"

"With you?" he growled, mincing the words slowly. "You deliberately conned my grandmother into this scheme. You knew the word about town that she wanted me settled. It's all over Skye. Don't you deny it. I saw the company you kept at the dance. And now you pretend that you don't want to get married, playing the virtuous bride so that she can grovel at your feet!"

"That's not true!"

"Well, you can deny it all you want, but the fact is she's got her eyes and heart set on you. And no matter how much I try, she will not hear another word of it. I love my grandmother. She's all I got. And if that means that I have to marry you to keep her well and happy, then so be it! Just so you know; I don't know what she sees in you. All you are is just a conniving tramp who married her first husband for the same reasons, money! And now that he's dead leaving behind a scandalous past of debts, bribery, affairs and god knows what, it leaves you no chance to another rich husband. Come on, admit it, Emma, no respecting man amongst the London social elites will dare touch you after the way he was allegedly murdered for his underground business dealings. So you decided to opt for the next best thing. Move to Skye and try your luck at convincing an old woman to make you a bride for her celebrity grandson!"

"How dare you!" she screamed with rage. She raised her hand to strike him in the face but he caught it by the wrist.

He held it tightly, pulling her roughly to him. "Why such a fuss, Emma? Isn't it what you wanted? You deliberately bought a property no one wanted only because it was next to the Kinnairds. The very reason that caused previous owners to sell out is what attracted you to it most."

"I hate you," she snapped angrily. "I...I don't love you. I will never..."

"Oh, right," he spat out. "You love your brother-in-law. You've had an affair with him long before you married his brother. What baffles me is why choose the corrupt, deceased brother over the established rich one?"

"Let me go," she screamed.

"I wish I could." He smirked. "But you see my grandmother won't have it any other way." He pushed her away from him roughly. "I will take you to this Richard Winston and you will for once and all decide if it is he you want to be with. If he will not have you, I will marry you. But be warned. If my grandmother dies from any of this, I will make it my personal vendetta to destroy you."

Emma trembled as she clasped onto the banister of her staircase to steady her.

He continued sternly, "Once the children arrive from school, I will have Theodore pick them up. You will then prepare yourself to leave for London. I will come and get you at five o'clock this evening. And you had better be ready when you do."

The last was a threat and she knew he meant every word of it.

#  Chapter 13

Three hours later after Chris had picked her up from her home; she was standing in her hotel room in Central London. He had made certain this time she got her own room. She presumed he didn't want to be sharing one with what he termed her as "tramp". She shivered in anger. But she was worried for Ethel as well. She had grown extremely fond of the old woman and no matter how much she tried to convince herself that the ridiculousness of the idea of a marriage to Chris Cameron was Ethel's own problem, she could not help feeling worried for her.

Chris, meanwhile, hadn't spoken much during their entire trip, either in the car or the helicopter they caught at Ashaig airport.

She waited thirty minutes in her hotel room, pacing it anxiously before calling for a taxi to pick her up at the front entrance of the hotel. Five minutes later, she darted out of her room, eyeing Chris' room as she did. She jumped into the taxi, spitting out Richard's address at the same time.

The taxi swerved through the busy streets of London. Streets that were at one time very familiar, now strangely felt foreign.

Dark clouds hovered in the night sky. A flash of lightning followed by a roaring thunder sparked occasionally.

At the Winston mansion, she spoke into the gate camera, hoping she would be heard above the clamorous clouds above her. "Sophia, it's me, Emma," she notified the housekeeper.

"Of course, Mrs Winston," she heard the housekeeper say. The gate slid open.

The taxi dropped her off at the entrance of the large house.

A pudgy, short blonde woman with a bright smile greeted her at the doorway. "Mrs Winston, how are you? How are the children?"

"I am well, Sophia, The children are good too. How have you been?" Emma said smiling even though she didn't feel like it.

"Oh, terribly lonely, Madam. Now it's just Mr Richard in this great big house. At least before, he used to bring little Miss Hannah and Master Jai around." She sighed sadly. "We miss the children so much, Mrs Winston."

Emma nodded her head, rubbing the woman's elbow in sympathetic agreement. "The house does seem lonelier."

Her eyes roamed the vast, decorative walls slowly. "Is Richard home, Sophia?" Emma asked.

"No. But he will soon. Would you like me to prepare a room for you?" she asked.

"No, that's fine. I'll be staying at a hotel. If Richard does come, would you tell him I'm waiting for him in the library. I'll stay until ten. If he doesn't arrive by then, I will probably see him at his office tomorrow."

"Yes, Madam. Will you like a drink while you wait?"

"No, that's alright. I'd rather not be disturbed," she said as she walked slowly to the large family library. She opened one of the double doors that shut the privacy of the room from the world beyond it. It was just as she first saw it.

The walls teemed with books. The high engraved concave ceilings caught her attention. Small Persian carpets were spread sporadically through the room. A large golden globe stood at one end of a wall. On the opposite was a recreation of the Venus de Milo. Although smaller than the original sculpture in The Louvre, this Aphrodite produced just as much enigma.

Robert clasped her palm, leading her to the centre of the library where his family was seated on lavish Victorian style chairs.

" _Robert," said his mother, her face beaming with joy. She was the first to rise and greet him. "I'm so glad you've come." She kissed him on his cheeks and then looked adoringly at his face. "How have you been my dear?"_

"I'm fine, Mother," he said, smiling back. He turned to Emma. "And this is Emma," he introduced.

" _Hello, Emma," his mother said, kissing her gently on her cheek. "I'm Gloria. It's so good to meet you."_

His sisters rose from their chairs and introduced themselves as Sarah and Julia Winston.

" _And you know, Richard, my brother," said Robert._

Richard was standing near the fireplace, a small glass of whiskey in his hand, watching them grimly. He swirled the drink in his hand, before gulping it down. "We've met," he said. He moved away to pour himself another drink.

Emma felt her stomach churn. She gripped onto the straps of her purse tightly in the hope of disguising her dismay at Richard's blunt dismissal of her.

After a brief friendly interrogation by the women, she calmed slightly. Seated now beside Julia, she listened to their stories as they rattled on about Robert's cheeky childhood antics.

" _Hello," said a man, interrupting their tales. "I'm Henry Winston. Robert's father."_

" _Hello," said Emma, rising immediately to greet him. Richard's father, she thought he should have said. There was very little that Richard had not inherited from him._

" _So you're an English teacher," he said. "How did you meet Robert?"_

"He was doing an elective on poetry while we were at university." She smiled.

"Hmmm..." He nodded. "It's a good subject. In fact, Plato once said "poetry is nearer to vital truth than history". I hope Robert harnessed the maximum benefits of its use in both refinement of character and architecture. Would you mind getting me a drink, Robert?" he said. He turned back to Emma once Robert had left. "You know, architecture is also poetry personified. The same human emotions are used to design beautiful, meaningful structures. It is no wonder that people continue to be mystified by the Eiffel Tower and the Chrysler Building. Why else do they continue to flock to ancient relics like the Taj Mahal, the pyramids of Egypt or the Angkor Wat temple in Cambodia? Because buildings communicate to us, that's why; through simile, paradox and rhythm. Every time you stand before it, you try to make sense of yourself in relation to the world it was created for. You feel masterpieces come alive, filled with poignancy, lament and a narrative you won't find anywhere else, like the Machu Picchu of Peru. And yet every time you visit it, it has a new story to tell you. You stand in the same place, but you tend to look for new things and a new direction."

Robert returned with a glass of whiskey in his hand.

"Thank you, Robert," said his father, and then turned to Emma. "So tell me Emma, what poem does call to you?"

"I'm inclined to John Keats' 'Ode on a Grecian Urn'," she replied.

" _Very good, very good," nodding his head in thought. "A genuine classic." He began reciting from memory._

"Thou un-ravished bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of Silence and Slow-Time,

Sylvan historian canst thou thus express,

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme

Come on, lass," he said. "Give me a few notes of your own."

Emma bit her lips and then started slowly.

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss

Henry beamed and finished off the recitation with her.

Though winning near the goal-yet, do not grieve;

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Henry let out a loud, throaty laugh. "Oh, you are a true gem, lass. But what stumps me is why you're with Robert and not Richard? Because frankly speaking, Robert, unlike Richard there, does not quite understand nor appreciate the relation between architecture and poetry or art."

" _You misunderstand me father, like always," said Robert, his lips pursed tightly. "The prevalence of art and poetry was indulged in one era. But in this modern day and age with the rise in economy and population, one cannot afford to do so any longer. It becomes a fight for functionality and survival."_

" _Aaah, right," said Henry Winston, nodding. "And that is why he decided to opt for the more cut-throat entrepreneurial endeavours of Cunningham & Price rather than the old ethos of the family business."_

"Cunningham & Price isn't any less ethical than Winston Designs, father," he replied austerely.

" _That's where we disagree, son," Henry Winston said, equally stern._

"Will you stop it, the both of you," Gloria Winston intervened. She pulled her husband to the side. "Henry, please, for god sakes. It's been three weeks since Robert's visited. So no arguments. Not tonight. If you carry on like this, I'm afraid he will never come back."

Henry growled softly. "Well, then my dear, I must have another drink to pare down my wit and keep up the strength to endure your asinine beliefs."

Emma watched them uneasily from the corner of her eye. "Is everything alright?" she asked Robert.

" _It's fine," Robert replied. "Let me just check on my mother to see if she's okay."_

Emma nodded, watching him console his teary-eyed mother in the distance. She walked slowly towards Richard who was seated alone on a long Victorian couch. "Can I join you?"

Richard remained quiet.

She fiddled slightly with her fingers before finally deciding to sit beside him. "You don‎'t call by anymore."

He caressed his glass gently, refusing to speak for a long while. "I have been busy," he said at last. "But so have you. It's surprising that you missed me at all."

Emma gave him a small half-smile. "You're my best friend, Richard. And I do miss you whenever you decide to drop out my life for no cause or reason."

Richard glared at her. "I told you I was busy."

" _You've always been busy but you also always had the time for me."_

" _And say if I did call on you, how would you be able to schedule me around your dates with Robert, Emma?"_

Emma reddened. "Must I choose between you two? Robert is just as much a friend of mine as you are, Richard. I know that you've had your past differences in business but must that affect me? Besides, you could at least show some leniency towards Robert. He needs it. It isn't fair that he is continually castigated by his father and brother for having an opinion."

" _Opinion? Is that what he calls it? He's challenged our integrity, our ethics, our way of living, how we've run the family business for generations to the point where we've had to severe his relations with it. Doesn't that affect me or my father? How do you think he feels? How my mother feels to see her son rarely because of the decisions he makes? But Robert does more than that. He decides that the one way in which he can execute his displeasure over my siding with my father is by...by..." His eyes softened as it gently roamed the contours of her face._

"There you are," said Robert, walking towards them. "Don't you go running away like that, Emma. I don't want my older brother stealing you away, right?" He smirked at Richard.

A nerve throbbed in Richard's temple. "It is not I who is in the habit of stealing," he said harshly. He rose from his chair, moving slightly towards Robert. Emma abruptly stood up, shielding Robert from Richard. He looked at Emma, his eyes welling with sadness. "You better go. It seems you've made your choice."

"Richard...," she protested.

"I am drunk as a lord, Emma. Right now, I am impaired of both rationality and reason. Another day, Emma. When I'm more sober. We will talk. But not today. Definitely, not today," he mumbled as he staggered away.

"Emma," said Richard, walking swiftly into the library. "What are you doing here? At this hour? Are you okay? Are the children okay?"

"Yes, yes." She smiled. "We're fine. I just...needed to talk to you."

He reached for her and pulled her into his arms, hugging her tightly. "Is it urgent? Can it wait? It's so good to see you here. This is truly a pleasant surprise. I never imagined you would come."

She put her head against his chest and cried softly into his shirt.

He lifted her chin, when he realised she was sobbing against him. "What's the matter, Em?" he asked, looking worriedly into her eyes.

"I...missed you," she blurted.

He smiled softly. "I did too. But I could have told you that over the phone, only if you would answer it once in a while."

She chuckled between her snivels. She bent her head to look at how her fingers looked against his hand as she entwined them with his. "Richard, I need to know..."

Richard watched her silently.

"I need to know..." She tried again. "When you came to Skye, something happened. I felt it. I know that you did too. What I want to ask is ...do you...love me?"

He lifted her chin so he could peer into her eyes. "Darling, I loved you from the very first moment I laid eyes on you. Was I so obscure that you didn't see that at all?"

"I was confused because you kept pushing me away."

"And you kept siding with Robert. I thought you were in love with him."

"I fell in love with Robert far much later. After I was convinced you didn't want me anymore."

Richard pursed his lips tightly. "Emma, I have always loved you. I still do. How can I get any clearer than that?" he said slowly, his breaths growing raspy as he leaned closer to her.

She closed her eyes and felt his lips touch hers. A tear drifted down her cheeks as he kissed her. His arms tightened at her waist, drawing her close to him, her breasts crushing against his chest. His lips hungrily tasted hers. She relented freely, allowing him to explore her lips with his own.

"Oh, Emma," he breathed hoarsely against her lips. "How I've craved for this moment. I wanted you so much."

"Marry me," she whispered through an unsteady gasp.

He stopped, taken aback. "What?"

"Marry me," she repeated softly.

He pulled back. "Emma, that's ...so sudden. There are things we need to consider."

"What is there to consider? The children love you."

"I know. And I do too. But I am their uncle also. You married my brother, for god sakes."

"Yes. But he's not here now, is he? There is no law that states we can't marry."

"It's not easy, Emma. How are we to face Sarah and Julia? What about my associates and employees? What do I tell them? There's a whole world out there, Emma, which will want an explanation for our relationship."

Anger ignited within her. "So how did you think you were going to carry on this relationship, Richard? Under wraps? Is that why you were beginning to think that Skye wasn't such a bad idea after all?" Her voiced raised slightly, her eyes glowered with rage.

"Emma," Richard said, trying to pull her back to him.

She shoved them roughly away, tears pouring down her face.

He's never fought to make you his, she repeated in her mind, the meaning of Ethel's words dawning upon her.

"You never fought for me," she mumbled softly.

"What?" Richard said, unsure of what he heard. "Emma..."

She withdrew hastily and began running out of the library.

"Mr Winston," she heard the butler call for him. "Mr Frank Waldorf's on the phone."

"I'll be right there," she heard him say.

The patter of rain against the windows told her that it was pouring. She ran out, uncaring of the rain, and anxious to flee from the large house. She heard Richard call for her but she had already run too far away to turn back.

Rain dripped from her body, soaking her clothes. Her feet squelched against the paved, water logged driveway.

He's never fought for you, she repeated. Richard had never fought to make her his.

#  Chapter 14

Chris showered and changed into a fresh set of clothes. His stomach began to rumble from hunger and he remembered that the last meal he had was his lunch. He made a quick call to Theodore to check on his grandmother's health. She was fine, he reported.

Ending his call, he made his way to the connecting door between his and Emma's room.

"Emma," he said, determined to be a little more cordial. "Emma," he repeated, knocking slightly louder than he did earlier. She didn't respond. He turned the door knob. It was unlocked.

He stepped into the room. It was empty. There were no sounds from the bathroom either to indicate she was there. He peered inside albeit carefully. But he needn't have to. She wasn't there. Instead the shower was dry and clean showing no trace of her ever using it.

His heart began to pace, anger streaming into him and through his veins. He strode quickly back to the bedroom. Her bag was resting at the foot of her bed, unopened.

He didn't know where she had gone. He wondered if she was already in contact with Richard Winston. His temples throbbed with chagrin. He didn't know which riled him more- that she had left quietly or that she was probably in the arms of Richard Winston.

He sat for almost two hours waiting for her in her room. With impatience overwhelming him, he rose to see if he could find her at the Winston residence. He knew the address. He was to take her there tomorrow.

He heard the swipe of a key card at the door. The knob turned slowly and she stepped inside, wet and dripping to her core.

"Where were you!" he roared.

She looked up at him, shivering. It was then he realised her eyes were red and swollen. She bit her lips trying to hold back the tears welling in her eyes. But they escaped, rolling down her cheeks.

"Emma," he said gently. "Are you okay?"

She began whimpering slowly. And when he rushed up to hold her in his arms, she fell against his chest, sobbing loudly.

"Emma?"

But she wouldn't speak, crying uncontrollably against him.

He held her quietly, waiting for her patiently to release her pain.

It took her a long while to settle. He waited for her as she took a shower. Now changed into her nightdress, she ambled into the room.

"What happened?" he asked, watching her carefully.

"I'll marry you," she said quietly, her face still swollen from her weeping. He knew she had cried in the shower as well.

He hesitated to press her for reasons. His hands in his pockets, he strolled to the windows, watching the rain continue to pour over gloomy London.

"It can't be love," he heard her say. He turned to her.

"When you don't fight for what you love, it means you don't really love it, right? You just think you do," she said. Her eyes were downcast, her hands holding a soft beige towel.

He remained quiet, contemplating her words.

She turned away and sat at the dresser stool, towel drying her long, auburn hair.

Emma picked up the last of Jai's clothes strewn on his floor.

"Are you crazy?" She recalled Lisa exclaim with shock when she told her of the marriage ten days ago. "But you hate the man, Emma. How can you possibly think of marrying him?"

"He's not all bad."

"You've got to be joking! The man is outrageous. Don't you remember how he treated you during the dance?"

"I...I...," Emma stammered. "Ethel believes he may be the right man for me."

"Give me a break. That woman is just as kooky as her grandson. She's been looking for a bride for him for ages. Only no one in their right mind in Skye will have him."

Emma remained quiet.

Lisa watched her concernedly. "Hon, arranged marriages of this sort either happens in the past or in books. Get out of it while you can."

Emma was quiet again. "You will come, Lisa? To my wedding?" she asked slowly.

Lisa rubbed her arms and sighed sadly.

Downstairs, she heard Hannah cry with delight, "Chris!" She carried her basket of dirty laundry down and saw how her young daughter was carried at his waist as he rubbed her nose with his, tickling her.

"Can I call you, Dad?" she was asking Chris. "You're going to marry Mum. So I can call you Dad, right?"

He saw her watching them. "If your mother doesn't mind," he said, indicating at Emma with his eyes.

She walked away to the laundry.

"Looks as if she doesn't." Hannah giggled.

Chris laughed. "Perhaps Papa, since you already had a Dad?"

"Okay, Papa." She chuckled.

He gave her a kiss on her cheeks and let her off. He wandered into the kitchen and found Emma there.

"What is it with you Kinnairds and make-believe relations?" she said as she rinsed her dirty dishes.

"I didn't encourage her, Emma," said Chris. "She wanted it."

"She wants many things. But it doesn't mean we can indulge her," she said bluntly. "Besides this isn't even a real marriage. It dies with Ethel, remember?"

"She'll always be my daughter," Chris said. "Regardless of how either of us feel about each other, I will always love her as my own."

"Yeah," she said. "You celebrities do have an awful habit of adopting children."

He gritted his teeth, trying to stamp his surfacing anger.

"I've signed the pre-nup, if that's why you're here," she said. "It's there on the table. Don't forget to take it when you leave."

He picked up the brown envelope containing the documents he had given her a few days ago.

"Did you understand the contents of it?" he asked slowly. "You're not going to contest any of it?"

"What is there to contest? You're going to give me three million pounds at the end of the marriage in compensation for agreeing to this marriage. Not a penny more. And I have the Kinnaird mansion to live in for the rest of my life. It couldn't be any clearer."

Chris ran his fingers on the edge of the envelope. His eyes traced the grains of the wooden floor. "There are still two days to the marriage. If there is anything you want done..."

"I can't wait for the fifteen days of notice to expire so I can have this whole marriage thing behind me," she said tiredly. "It would be good just to get it over with."

"I meant is there anything you needed for the wedding?" he said.

"It is a marriage of convenience. What could I possibly need?"

A muscle twitched in his jaw.

"And," she continued. "I have packed all I need to move into the Kinnaird residence. So if you don't mind sending someone to pick them up."

Chris nodded silently and walked out of the house, slamming the front door hard behind him.

She deliberately opted for a plain beige white blouse and a pencil skirt. She wore a printed floral matching long dress jacket over it. She could easily have been mistaken for a guest rather than the bride, herself.

Standing now in the centre of the Kinnaird living room, she tried to sound as cheerful as she could as she attended to the guests at her small wedding reception. The civil marriage completed earlier that day at the local civil registry office sealed her status as Mrs Chris Cameron.

She spotted Jai sitting alone in the gazebo outside. After a few more rushed thanks, she strolled towards him.

"Hi," she said, joining him at the bench.

"Hi," he replied.

"It's nice here," she said, admiring the yellow jasmine bush winding over the steel dome roof frame of the gazebo and its strong sculptural stone pillars.

Jai shrugged his shoulders. "It's okay." He hesitated and then said. "Uncle Richard called again."

Emma froze. "What did you say?"

"I didn't tell him you were getting married. Why are you avoiding him, Mum?"

"It's complicated, Jai," she said. "I don't know how else to explain it."

He nodded his head. "I see. Adult stuff. Probably you can tell me when I'm older."

"I promise, I will," she said. She bit her lips back. "Jai, you are okay with the marriage, though, right?"

He looked up at her and smiled. "He came to ask me for your hand. What was I supposed to say?"

"He did?" she said with surprise. "Why didn't you tell me before? When was this?"

"When you returned from London."

She slugged him softly in the arm and chuckled. "You shouldn't have accepted."

"Yeah, but he promised me a drink," he replied, grinning.

"I'll throttle him if he did," said Emma, growling.

"Chill, mum," Jai said, chuckling. "In eight years, when I'm eighteen. For today."

Emma smiled. "That's nice of him."

"He is nice, Mum," he said, thinking. "A little weird though. He turns his spoon upside down once he's had his last bite and he eats ice cream with a fork."

"Hmmm...," Emma said thoughtfully. "He has the perfect hair but he keeps running his hands through it whenever he's bothered."

"And peels his apples before he eats them," Jai added.

They stared at each other and then laughed.

"I guess he's not bad after all," said Emma, smiling. "Hannah's been calling him Papa."

"I know," Jai said, pausing briefly. "Do you mind if I call him that too?"

Emma frowned. "You like him that much?"

He shrugged again. "It would be nice."

"If that makes you happy." She put an arm around him and held him close to her.

In the distance, from the living room, Chris watched them, an odd feeling sweeping over him as his gaze lingered on the woman who was now his wife.

She heard a soft knock at the door and opened it. It was Ethel.

"I came to check if you were settling okay," said Ethel, studying the large bedroom.

"Thank you, Ethel." She smiled. "I'm absolutely fine."

"And happy? I hope."

Emma smiled again. "How are you feeling? I hope the excitement wasn't too much for your old bones."

"Too much? Aww lass, I have been waiting for this moment for so many years. To hear the halls of this house fill with voices and laughter again." She sighed and sat on a small armchair. "Although, it saddens me seeing that you both have decided to sleep separately on the first night of your marriage."

"We need time, Ethel, to get to know each other."

"I suppose," she replied sadly. "But I believe in you, Emma. I know that one day you will come to love my Christopher." Her hand held a small red box with a decorative lid. She opened it and pulled out a gold necklace with an oval pendant. It had an ornate filigree design with beadings and swirls and a beautiful, raised flower like centre. "Come here, lass," she said, leaning forward in her chair.

Emma walked slowly to her and knelt on her knees before Ethel.

"This is for you," Ethel said, handing over the necklace gently to her.

"Ethel, I can't," she protested.

"Don't be daft, child," Ethel said. "I've held on to it for a very long time, waiting to give it to Christopher's bride. I couldn't be happier it is you." She placed the chain around Emma's neck and clasped shut the ends. "It's been in my family for four generations, passing down from mother to daughter. I too had once given it to Anne on her wedding day. Now it's yours. I hope one day you could pass it on to Hannah when she gets married."

Emma's eyes filled with tears. "I can't... Ethel," she whispered. "I'm not even a true bride."

"You will be one day."

"I...don't know...what to say."

"Say thank you."

Tears flowed down Emma's cheeks as her fingers grazed the pendant.

"What's the matter, child?" said Ethel worriedly.

Emma shook her head, unable to speak. "I've just never been given something so meaningful like this before," she said at last. "I feel like I have family."

"But you are family, child," said Ethel, cupping Emma's face gently, looking adoringly at her.

Chris tugged at his tie, loosening it from his shirt. Down the hallway, in a bedroom of her own, slept his new bride.

He picked up a thin envelope from his dresser and pulled out the documents.

"Max," said Chris, entering the sitting room to shake the hands of his private investigator.

"Chris," Max acknowledged.

" _So what have you got for me?"_

Max sighed, shaking his head. "I don't know, man."

Chris frowned. "What?"

" _Of all the women you've asked me to check out, she's the cleanest," he said, handing him a thin, large envelope._

" _What do you mean?" he replied, pulling out the papers inside._

" _Well, let me start from the beginning. The girl grew up in a drug abusive home in a number of places in East London. No record of father. No other siblings. Mother lived with a man, Scott Miller, for three years until Emma was six years old. Miller entangled himself with a group of drug dealers after he pocketed their profits. They weren't too happy and knocked him off in the middle of a children's playground, down the block from where he lived._

Mummy did the split with Emma to Harlesden. Yep, she was a dang whack job," he said, rubbing his forehead. "She had a number of different partners during this period. Left little Emma on her own on most days to feed herself. The girl learned very early on to survive and by the time she was eleven, she was doing the odd jobs for cash. Anyways, when Emma was about fifteen, mummy dearest hooked up with an aging cokehead who thought they would be better off without the girl. Emma woke up the next day and found the flat empty of any saleable item of value. Would have gone foster, because she was underage but her maternal grandmother took her in. However, that's where her luck ended. Grandmother lived in Southmead. A year later, grandmother also kicked it. Emma was sixteen now. She had good grades in school. A handful of teachers saw potential in her and did what they could to support her to university. She won a scholarship, moved out of the flat and the rest is no mystery history."

" _That's where she met her husband," said Chris._

" _Yeah," he replied, thinking. "I heard you're hitching yourself to this woman?"_

" _I'm marrying her in a week."_

" _This isn't because of your grandmother, is it?"_

Chris lifted a brow.

Max laughed nervously. "Hey, they've been rumours about your grandmother trying to set you up. This is not one of them, is it? You met her barely two weeks ago."

Chris was quiet as he filed through the papers.

" _Listen, man," said Max. "For what it's worth, your grandmother has my money on this one. I mean the whole arranged marriage shit's just too weird for me. But when it comes to Emma Abbott nee Winston, she's sweet. No smoking, no drinking, no criminal records and for all we know, never done drugs. This girl shouldn'ta turned right. Everything was going wrong for her and she came out of it without getting all messed up. She's the genuine deal man. Rags to riches shit. Or would have been, had her dead husband not screwed up."_

Chris put his hands in his pocket and ambled to the windows silently.

Max shifted at his feet. "Well, then, if there's nothing more, I'll be going. And congratulations, Chris. It mightn't be a bad thing after all."

Emma Abott nee Winston. Emma Cameron.

He played her name in his mind. He wanted to have left her penniless when their marriage ended. Instead her past had changed his mind. He didn't understand her at all. Well, whatever it was, three million pounds and life tenancy at the Kinnaird mansion was all she was going to get from him.

#  Chapter 15

"Morning Gran," he said, kissing her cheeks before taking seat next to her at the breakfast table.

"Hmm..." She observed his knitted blazer over his grey tee-shirt. "You look smart. Too bad she's not around to see it."

His heart clamped. "Where is she?" he asked carefully.

"In the kitchen with the rest of the brood," Ethel answered.

"In the kitchen? Why? She doesn't like what Nancy puts on her plate?"

Ethel frowned. "You're quick to pass judgment. No. In fact, she wants to serve her kids breakfast, herself. If you ask me, that's not a bad thing at all."

"Well, she and the kids should have been here with you," he complained. "What is the sense of getting married when they won't spend the time with you?"

Ethel put her toast down and glared at him. "Don't you dare tell me that you married to have your wife keep me company. I have my pooches for that. And if I ever even hear the slightest that you reprimanded Emma for being in the kitchen, I'll pull you by the ears. You may be famous, Christopher, but you're never too big for me."

He grinned.

She continued. "That girl's the best thing that's happened to you, Christopher. You just don't know it yet."

He scowled.

She growled, "You know, you're one helluva stubborn kid."

"Probably, a quality I inherited from you."

"Watch that smart mouth, Christopher. I'm not too old to give you a whacking."

"Well, weren't you horse stubborn on me marrying Emma?"

"Yes. But my dadaidh's long buried to give me a spanking," she grunted. "Unfortunately for you, I'm still here." She paused and breathed out a tired sigh. "Aaahh...isn't it good to hear the sounds of children and family resonate against these old walls again. Brings back old memories. You have made me happy Christopher. So happy in fact I could die of it right now."

"Now don't you go doing that anymore," he growled playfully. "Isn't that why I got married in the first place? So you'd put an end to all your dead dog tricks."

She chuckled. "I was good, wasn't I? As good as you? What do you think?"

He looked at her, concern clouding his face. "Seriously, Gran. Don't do that anymore."

She stirred her tea and then took a sip. "This house is a little too big for Emma. She likes to do all those good old homely stuff for the children like cooking. Why don't you all move into the boathouse while you're here?"

"Wouldn't it be easier if I just moved in with her instead?"

"Rubbish," she growled. "Women like the idea of their man providing for her. Brings out all that love hormones. It all comes from those primeval instincts- men being the hunter, bringing home the bacon and all."

He raised his eyebrow at her and then spurt a small chuckle, shaking his head.

"But it's true. It's scientifically proven," she insisted.

"I'm sure it is. You just validated it by adding "it's scientifically proven," he said, standing up. He gave her a kiss on her head. "I'm done for breakfast."

"But where are you going?" she called after him.

"Hunting!" he shouted back. "Bringing home the bacon."

He opened the door to his boathouse. It was just as he had left it six months ago other than a thin layer of dust coating everything that was in it. He hated the idea of the boathouse being used while he was away. It was his one recluse and was repulsed at the thought of being encroached even for that occasional cleaning.

His thoughts wandered to how he had stood outside the kitchen of the mansion this morning, listening to the sounds of chatter and laughter coming from it. He also heard Vivaldi, sounds alien to this part of the house. He remembered how his footsteps almost faltered, eager to peer into the room. Yet, he stayed grounded instead at the door, hypnotised by their cheeriness.

He walked instinctively to the kitchen of the boathouse. He ran his hand over the stainless steel stove tops and imagined Emma baking and cooking, serving their tea while they would sit at the balcony overlooking the bay. He imagined Hannah curled up on his lap as they would be entertained by Jai's wild jokes. He also imagined Emma tucking the children into their beds and then returning to their master bedroom, dressed in a night slip, reminiscent of a bed's flat sheet. He felt a tingle in his heart; warmth enveloping his senses.

He frowned as he studied the cook top. It was too clean and new. He never remembered using it. He corrected himself. No, it had never been used. His guests preferred the microwave oven or the food Nancy would bring down from the house.

He heard his front door open and the patter of feet on his timber floors.

"Hi," said a voice.

He turned. It was Jai, panting as he bent down to catch his breath.

"What are you doing here?" Chris asked curiously.

"I followed you," said Jai. "From waaaay up there."

"From the house?"

"Yeah," said Jai. "Man, cool boathouse. How come nobody told us about this?" His small, inquisitive eyes scanned the living room quickly.

"Because I don't like it that anyone is here without my knowing."

"Oh, okay," said Jai, slightly embarrassed.

An awkward silence lingered between them.

"Does your mother know you're here?" Chris asked.

"No. But she's not gonna mind."

"You better tell her," he said, pulling out his phone and handing it to the boy.

Jai looked at it, nervously.

"Go on." Chris nudged his phone in the air towards the boy. "She'll be worried and if she is, so will I. You don't want me getting into trouble with your mother, do you?"

Jai chuckled and took it. He punched in his mother's number as Chris opened the windows in the house.

"Hello, Mum," Chris heard Jai say into the phone. "Yes, it's me...I'm at the Kinnaird's boathouse...well, they have one...ask Nancy or Theodore...down the house, at the bay...I'm with," his voice dropped, his hand covered his mouth as he whispered, "I'm with, you know...Pa...okay, I will. Bye."

Jai bit his lips handing back the phone to Chris, who was smiling.

"You heard," Jai said.

Chris nodded and then walked towards a door to the balcony.

"You don't mind?" said Jai, following him. "Calling you Pa?"

"I'd be honoured," said Chris.

"I just thought it would be easier with Hannah calling you that as well," Jai said, trying to explain himself.

"Sure," said Chris dismissively. It was clear that the boy was embarrassed and he didn't want to make the matter any harder for him. He dusted off two reclining chairs and slumped into one of them.

"So where do keep her? Lady Loch?" Jai asked. "Is she below?"

"Lady Loch? How do you know her?"

"Gran took us out to the Black Cuillins on her almost two months ago. So is she here?"

Chris shook his head. "No, that's Gran's old boat. She prefers to keep that at the house for inland rivers and lakes. Grandpa Arthur bought Lady Loch for Grandma a long, long time ago. It was supposedly one of a kind back in those days. Mine's though is much bigger. It's a yacht. Wanna see it?"

Jai nodded profusely, beaming.

"Come on then," said Chris, jumping out of his chair. "The garage's this way." He walked swiftly to the back of the living room. He opened a door to a string of stairs leading down to the bottom of the boathouse. With Jai following close behind him, they bounced down the stairs which opened to yet another furnished living area of the garage.

Towering the centre of the garage was a white yacht, resting on its waters.

"What is she called?" Jai's eyes widened with amazement.

"'He' actually," Chris corrected. "So discriminatory. Why are all boats and ships called 'she'?" he teased. "But yeah, she is called Bran, Son of Llyr."

"Who was he?"

"Bran was the son of sea-god Llyr and king of Britain and Wales. He was so tall and massive that the tallest building could not shelter him nor any ship could carry him. It was told that he waded through the seas. Bran here, however, is not as large as her name sake, but her spirit is. So whenever I take her out into the water, on the seas, she soars."

He climbed onto the deck and then helped Jai onto it.

"Want to help me clean her up?" Chris said. "We could take her for a spin after."

Jai broadened into a wide smile. "Yes," he replied excitedly.

After having spent a few hours cleaning the dust off Bran, Chris pulled the yacht out into the bay. They sailed into the open waters, Chris at the helm and Jai, leaning over the bow rails, watching it cut through the deep, blue sea.

Chris smiled as he looked over at the boy. "Hey," he called out. "Do you want to hold onto the wheel for a second?"

Jai's eyes twinkled excitedly. "Really? Cool! Yeah!" He fisted into the air.

Chris laughed, ruffling the boy's long, blonde locks.

After an hour of sailing around the bay, they were now both back seated on the balcony of the boathouse, watching the foams gathering on the waves.

"So, why are boats and ships always called 'she'?" asked Jai. "Just doesn't seem fair that Bran has to be a girl." He scrunched up his nose at the thought.

Chris chuckled. "I know. But why boats and ships are called 'she'; that I don't quite know. I suppose there is a whole lot of bustle around her, she has a waist and stays and when she is reaching port, she's always heading for the buoys. Also someone once did say that a ship is always referred to as 'she' because it costs so much for one to keep in paint and powder."

Jai giggled. "Yeah, I guess so. It makes sense."

Chris paused before asking cautiously, "So, did you and your dad spend a lot of time together?"

"No," said Jai, leaning over the rails of the balcony, facing the sea.

"No?" Chris repeated.

"Dad was always busy. You know work and stuff. Uncle Richard took us out most of the time to places like aquariums and things."

"Did you spend a lot of time with Uncle Richard? You sound real close," said Chris, surprised by his sudden jealousy at the thought of Jai at an exciting boy's day out with Richard Winston.

"Yeah," he replied casually. "But we spent most of it at home."

Chris leant back into his chair, thinking. Sea gulls soared and skimmed over the surface of the waters. Waves sauntered lazily into the sands of the bay.

"I was looking for someone to share this boathouse with," Chris said, looking at the boy from the corner of his eyes. "Do you know anyone who might be interested?"

Jai turned, his eyes widened with excitement. "Like for free?"

"Yeah, free," said Chris. "For company."

"Can... I... share with you?" Jai asked hesitantly.

"You're interested?" Chris said seriously, his lips upturned in pretentious thought. "Yeah okay. But its life term membership, just so you know before you accept."

"I accept," said Jai, beaming. "That means I have half a share to the boathouse?"

"Yes," said Chris, smiling to himself as he closed his eyes.

"Like an equal share?"

"Yes."

"And I can come in here anytime? Even if you're not around?"

"Yes."

"So we're like partners?"

"Yes," said Chris tiredly and then added quietly, "And I'm regretting it already."

Emma turned right of the mansion, just as Theodore had told her. She heard the running of the treadmill even before she reached it. The door was open. She walked into the gym and saw Chris at the end of it.

His eyes were focused on the screen monitor before him. His strong legs beat heavily on the treadmill, powering over the belt. Beads of sweat formed on his temples, breaking into rivers, cascading down his face. She watched him briefly, hesitating to disturb him. Mesmerised by his powerful form, she admired his physique and his strong profile. She felt a variety of senses pulsating in her body, blushing as she became aware of the heat flooding through her. This was her husband.

He didn't seem to have heard her enter or pretended so.

"Hi," she said.

He turned to her with a little surprise. He switched off the treadmill and stepped off it. Reaching for a towel, he began wiping his face.

"Hi," he replied.

"Nice gym," she said.

He looked at her curiously. "Yeah."

"You work-out often?" She bit her lip, feeling silly she had asked that. She would have kicked herself, had he not been looking at her.

He raised an eyebrow. "Twice a day, if I can help it."

She bent her head, twitching her fingers nervously. "I just wanted to say, thank you for taking Jai out. He needed it."

He nodded.

She continued, trying to avoid his eyes. "He was telling me about the boathouse and his yacht ride. He said he's an equal partner to all of it, whatever that means," she finished with a nervous laugh.

He smiled.

She said, "Jai seems to really like you. Hannah too. They can't stop talking about you. Hannah's, though, a little upset that you didn't take her on your yacht. And Jai's been taunting her about it since he's arrived. He can be quite a rascal sometimes." She knew she was rambling. She lifted her head. "Thank you for making this easy on them."

His eyes had darkened, watching her, his mouth drawn into a thin, hard line.

She stood there skittish, wondering what he was thinking about. When she realised he wasn‎'t going to respond, she turned around, feeling more foolish. She began to walk out when she heard him say, "Emma."

She turned back at him.

"I would love to take Hannah for a cruise on the yacht. Perhaps, if you're interested, you might like to come too?"

"I'd love that," she said, the corners of her lips rising up into a smile.

He nodded and stepped back onto the treadmill, switching it on.

His eyes focused once more ahead of him as he resumed his jog. When he heard her footsteps fade into the hallway, he smiled.

He joined his grandmother in the parlour in the evening. She was playing with her small, brown, fluffy Pomeranian on her lap, while her other white Maltese danced around at her feet vying for her attention.

"Hi, there Sadie," he said, gathering the little Maltese in his arms. "Granny's been ignoring you, has she?"

The white dog lapped his hands, rubbing itself happily against his chest.

"Where's everyone?" he asked.

"You keep looking for them," she replied, watching him from the corner of her eyes. "Why is that, I wonder?"

"They keep disappearing on us," he grumbled.

"They spend more than enough time with me. Hannah's been teaching me that Pauline, the blonde doll is not Casey, the other blonde doll with the chequered overalls. I think I should be grateful for any time she does spare me, don't you think?" She chuckled.

"And what about Emma?" he asked curiously. "What has she been up to?"

Ethel smiled. "Emma's a lovely lass. But sometimes I wonder what goes on in that pretty red head of hers. Her eyes keep telling me that she's always drifting off to another place."

"What do you mean?"

"She was with me this morning, chatting as she was reading. Then she excused herself and left. I didn't see her for a couple of hours. Apparently, she was in the library on her computer all that time, all by herself," she said, sighing. "The lass is terribly lonely, Christopher. I know it because I can feel it. And that loneliness has been there, inside of her, for so long, I'd bet even she doesn't know it exists."

Chris gently placed Sadie, the Maltese back onto the floor.

"She went back to her house, today," added Ethel, letting the brown Promenarian join his little canine friend. "I think she misses it. It makes me terribly guilty for having placed her in this situation."

Chris raised his brows. His grandmother never openly regretted anything she'd done before.

"She'll come around it," she continued. "I know she will."

Chris folded his arms across his chest and leant back against a table, thinking. Gran had yet to make a lousy business deal. She never jumped into any situation without considering and re-considering the consequences. But he still had to verify her skills as a matchmaker.

"Why do you think she agreed to marry me?" he asked.

"Why else? For love," his grandmother said.

"For me or you?" he added sarcastically.

Ethel smiled. She didn't answer but instead watched her two dogs wrestle for a small, rubber toy on her marbled floor.

He walked over to the kitchen. They were there, just as his grandmother said they would be. He could hear their voices resonate through the door. This time though, a melodic jig played in the background. He heard Hannah and Jai singing along with their mother. Wait...was that Nancy as well? He smiled when he heard Theodore's voice add a note of his own.

He shook his head unbelievingly. What was it about Emma Abbott nee Cameron? She wasn't a remarkable beauty like the many women he dated. Yet she had an exquisite, exotic charm about her.

It was still too early for dinner and so he curiously wondered as to why they were all gathered in the kitchen.

He opened the door gently and walked slowly towards them. He knew that they hadn‎'t heard him because they were still singing aloud, followed by a series of teasing, taunts and laughs. Theodore was at the table, a beaming smile upon his face and a glass of bourbon in his hand. Nancy, Hannah and Jai were playing a game of cards.

"Go fish," said Hannah, beaming as her brother grumbled and leant forward for another card.

A delicious aroma streamed towards him. He realised it was escaping from the pot bubbling on the stove. He frowned. Emma was cooking while their cook was playing cards with their children.

He watched his new wife, standing at one end of the table, busily slicing an onion as its smell wafted up to her eyes, watering it. She sniffled, trying to hold them back.

He stood grounded and mesmerised by her adorable messiness. Her hair was held back at the top of her head in a chaotic knot. Loose strands framed her face. From the dust of flour speckling a spot on her cheeks, he could tell she was also baking.

"Mr Cameron," said Theodore, standing abruptly. "I didn't see you there, sir. Is there anything you need?"

Despite the continuing happy tune playing on the ipod, the two women in the room tensed immediately as they turned to him at once.

Hannah's lips split into a wide smile. "Papa! We're playing Go Fish," she informed. "Wanna play?"

Jai ignored him, grumbling as he picked one more card from the deck of cards on the table.

"That's alright. I'll just sit with Theodore, here." He smiled back.

Theodore shifted nervously at his feet, puzzled by his employer's entrance in the kitchen.

"Pour me a glass too, Theodore," said Chris, pulling out a chair.

Theodore poured him a drink and then stood uneasily at the table.

Chris looked at him and then at Nancy, standing nervously at the other end of the table.

"You don't mind if I do join you, Theodore?" he asked

"Not at all, sir," said Theodore uncomfortably as he sat back into his chair. He looked at Nancy, silently indicating with his eyes for her to sit as well.

She followed suit, still nervy at the presence of her otherwise usually formal employer in her kitchen.

Emma, who had been watching them silently, bit back a smile as she tried to resume her cooking. She wondered though why he was here with them. According to Nancy and Theodore, he never came to the kitchen. Not since he was a child. She glanced up at him and caught his eyes. He was looking at her. She blushed and turned away, a strange feeling stirring in the pits of her stomach.

#  Chapter 16

"Will you have dinner with us?" Emma asked, still uncertain as to why he was there with her and the children in the kitchen. Nancy and Theodore were smart enough to have politely excused themselves to their own quarters after a little while. She, however, did not have the same luxury.

"If you don't mind," he replied, downing the last of his bourbon.

She stood at the stove, holding the spoon in her hand, surprised by his answer. It wasn't what she had expected.

"But Ethel will be dining alone," she tried. "I could get Nancy to take it up for you, if you like."

"I'd like to have dinner with my wife, thank you," he said curtly.

Emma bit her lips and set the table with Jai and Hannah bubbling around them, helping her with it. It was a routine she was slowly going to adapt to as he continued to join them for meals in the kitchen each evening.

It was two weeks since she was titled Mrs Cameron. Emma returned from a day out at Portree. It was the first time she had left the mansion since she was married. The local newspaper had already done a splash of their wedding on their front page, the day following their marriage. It wasn't therefore surprising that she was being continually addressed as Mrs Cameron instead of Mrs Winston which she felt rather uncomfortable on hearing. And if there was anyone else who felt her awkwardness of the title it was her dear friend, Lisa.

They sat together in Lisa's home as Lisa poured out a cup of hot, steaming coffee.

"You haven't slept with him?" said Lisa.

"No."

"Why?"

"I don't know if I love him."

"Does that matter?"

"It does. To me."

"Why? It's just sex."

"It isn't to me, Lisa." Emma sighed. "Sex is more to me. It isn't just an act. It's an extension of how two people feel for each other; a physical manifestation of their love."

"You're far too complicated, Emma," said Lisa. "For god sake's, you haven't even kissed him yet. Sometimes I think you live in a completely different era." Lisa dug into her magazine rack. "I don't know how you'll take this Emma. But you might want to have a look at this." She held out a newspaper to her.

"What is it?" Emma asked curiously.

"Check out page three," Lisa said bluntly.

On it was news of their marriage and the photograph of a blonde beauty on the side. A woman, Chris was supposedly dating in Los Angeles.

"She's a model," said Lisa. "They've been together for three years."

"I know," said Emma, reading the article quietly. She swallowed a lump in her throat. She had forgotten about his life in America and Ashley Taylor, who she had previously envied, until today.

"You think he'll return to her?" asked Lisa.

"I don't know," said Emma shakily. "If he loves her, I see no reason why he won't. I'm just an inconvenience. An arranged marriage set up by his grandmother."

Lisa leant forward, worried for her friend. "Then why do it Emma? I don't understand. Why?"

Emma recognised the dark, beautiful Mercedes in the driveway of the Kinnaird mansion. As she expected, there seated in the parlour was Mrs Deanna Boyd and a scowling Ethel.

"Mrs Boyd," Emma solemnly greeted.

The other woman rose from her chair to give Emma a small kiss on her cheek.

"Oh please call me Deanna," said the older woman. "We're practically family now that you've married Christopher."

Emma gave her a small smile. She sat opposite her, in a chair farthest from the woman.

"So how's the new marriage coming along?" asked Deanna.

Ethel puffed indignantly. "How do you think, Deanna? They've just married. Give them some room."

Deanna wasn't less miffed. "You should appreciate, Ethel that I am here to give my congratulations after you shamefully refused to invite me to the wedding."

"It wasn't my wedding to invite," Ethel snapped back.

"Oh come off it, Ethel," Deanna snarled. "Everyone knows you hitched these two together. You were desperate for it."

"Please don't mind, Mrs Boyd," Emma said quickly before Ethel could give another sharp reply. "There were only a handful of people that we invited; people who were close to both Chris and I."

"Really?" Deanna Boyd sat upright with disbelief. "Was Cousin Gertrude invited?"

"Cousin Gertrude?" repeated Emma, puzzled.

"Yes, Ethel's favourite cousin Gertrude. Was she here at the wedding? Although it goes without saying that she would be, since she is Ethel's cousin. I, on the other hand, am poor Arthur's only closest living relative." She sobbed into her handkerchief. "To be treated in this manner? For all my efforts of looking out for my dear cousin Arthur's interests?"

"If it helps, Mrs Boyd, I haven't met Cousin Gertrude," Emma tried, hoping that the impertinent Mrs Boyd would calm down.

Deanna Boyd raised her head, dabbing her eyes. "What?" she asked with surprise.

"I didn't see her at the wedding," Emma said.

"Is this true, Ethel?" she asked, turning to her.

Ethel glared. "Yes, Gertie wasn't at the wedding." But she failed to mention that unlike Deanna Boyd, Cousin Gertie was lovingly pursued and begged to come. She would have been at the wedding too had she not broken her ankle in a fall, a week prior to it.

"Why, really Ethel," Deanna replied in a reprimanding tone. "To not invite me is one thing. But you didn't invite someone as close as Cousin Gertrude? You must be losing your insanity by the age. Certainly, that's just lack of manners."

Ethel glowered, a sharp retort at the tip of her tongue. But when she noticed Emma's threatening glance, she closed her mouth, biting back her much desired response. Instead she chose to sulk, determined to not engage any further with her rather ignoramus relative.

"Will Chris be returning to America, then, Emma?" Deanna asked curiously. "He has a wonderful career going for him; much more lucrative than the family business. I hope he returns to doing that. He has such incredible potential as an actor."

Emma gave a quick glance at Ethel, who was choosing to remain quiet with obvious difficulty. "I'm sure Chris will do what he thinks is right for him," said Emma.

Deanna straightened herself up. "Well, I do hope that you will go with him. The women in America are just so scandalously provocative. Mark my words Emma, if you're not there, they will not hesitate to seduce your new husband into their beds. Besides it is inadvisable for a newly married couple such as yourself and Chris to live in opposite parts of the world. I'm sure you must have read of that dreadful story in the newspaper today. And I really am terribly sorry that you have to hear of something such as that in the early days of your marriage. But you must be strong, Emma. You must understand that this Ashley Taylor girl has been with Chris for three years; a long relationship in my opinion. And yet she was more shocked than anyone else of Chris' marriage. Judging from that, I believe Chris must not have ended his relationship with her at all. And she is still there in America waiting for him to return. If you don't go with him, she will certainly use all her seductive ways to win him back. And she is a model, don't you forget that; a notch up than us ordinary women. Oh and these celebrities do have an awful reputation for nasty divorces. You can't blame them really with all the promiscuity that surrounds them. It is only human to give into temptation if there isn't any one to look out for you, isn't it?"

Emma reddened as she tried to stifle her rising anger. "Thank you, Mrs Boyd, for being so overly concerned for both Chris and I. But really, you mustn't bother yourself over such trivial matters. I don't know if Chris intends to pursue his career in Hollywood or if he'd rather take over the family business. To be honest, he's never discussed it with me. But whatever decision he does make, I am more than happy to support it. As for me, moving with him to America, that is a decision that solely Chris and I will make. And it helps if others try not to influence it in any way. What I have learnt of my husband in the short term that I know him, is that he will do what it takes to keep his family together. He will not risk hurting his loved ones with petty scandals. Whether he has ended his relationship with Ashley Taylor or not, isn't my business. What is my business though is that he does not continue with it. I trust my husband implicitly, Mrs Boyd. I trust that he will make the choices that are right for this family. I hope, though, you will continue to support both Chris and I as you have been doing the Kinnaird family for the many previous years, regardless of the decisions we make. Thank you for understanding the need for us to make our own decisions, even if they may be poor choices, and giving us the space to learn from our errors and grow from them. Now if you will politely excuse me, there are certain things that I've just remembered I should follow up on."

She rose from her chair, shaking with seething anger and strode gracefully as she could out of the parlour leaving behind a flustered Mrs Boyd and a slyly grinning Ethel.

Outside, she almost walked into Chris who was standing at the corner. She gave him an angry glare before stomping off towards the library.

Chris found her in the library at her computer. He had been standing long enough at the parlour to hear her passionate defence of him and her marriage. There was something about the way she stood up for him that uncoiled a sense of desire for her, stiffening a knot in his stomach.

When he strode into the room, she refused to acknowledge him, focusing intensely on her computer screen. He dallied about her, shuffling through books.

"You like romance," he said.

"Huh?" she said, looking up at him.

He was holding one of her romance novels.

"You seem to be a fan of Amelia Priestley," he said, flipping through the pages. "I've never read her though."

She didn't say anything, returning to her work.

"Can I talk to you?" he tried again.

"What about?"

"About Ashley Taylor."

She glowered. "It's none of my business," she said sharply.

"I know you read the news."

"I don't want to know." She stood abruptly from her chair.

A nerve pulsed at his temples. "Why not?"

"Because this isn't a real marriage," she snapped, trying to walk around him.

He grabbed her by the arm and swung her to him. "Will you stop throwing that in my face? I know this isn't a real marriage. But still you should at least show some interest in what goes on in my life."

"I don't want to know," she flared, writhing out of his grip. "Give me one good reason why I should."

He stared at her, flaming with rage, unable to answer her.

Her eyes brimmed with tears. "See, even you can't tell me why I should care."

She left the room, leaving him standing alone to ponder over a reason as to why she should give a damn about him.

He didn't come down to the kitchen that evening. She was thankful he didn't, though she couldn't help herself from expecting that he might change his mind.

Theodore ambled into the kitchen. "Has Nancy retired for the evening, Miss?" he asked.

"She said she will clean up later. She received a call from her family," she replied.

Theodore nodded. He paused briefly. "Mr Cameron won't be eating in tonight, Miss. Just so you know in case you're cooking for him as well. Said he was going into Portree and he won't be back until tomorrow."

"Thanks Theodore," Emma said quietly.

She julienned a carrot as the butler boiled himself some water for a cup of tea.

"Theodore," she said. "Did you ever marry?"

"No," he answered, shaking his head. "Came close to it almost once. But never took the plunge."

"You did not love her?"

He paused again. "In fact, I loved her very much," he added after a little while.

"But then why didn't you?"

He sat at the table, his cup of tea steaming, releasing a fresh citrusy aroma into the room. "I was stubborn," he put frankly. "Too proud to compromise. One day, we fought real bad and she left and never came back."

"I'm sorry," she said.

He nodded as he took a sip. "I was only thirteen when Mr Arthur Kinnaird plucked me from the streets. My mother died when I was only six. Hardly knew her. My father was a drunk and never cared what became of me. I was passed from relative to relative to friends to neighbours until nobody really wanted another scruffy orphan anymore. That's when Mr Kinnaird found me and brought me into this house." His eyes roamed the old walls. "Practically grew up here. This is the only home I've ever known." He grew quiet, thinking. "When I first came here, this house bustled with noise. It teemed with servants. Then slowly people began either dying or leaving. One by one. And one day, it was quiet. There was just me and Nancy." He took in a deep breath. "Her name was Rebecca. I fell in love with her the moment she stepped into this kitchen. We needed a maid and she happened to be one." He chuckled. "Oh she was a lively one. She had the brightest blue eyes you'd ever find. We'd meet each night at the stables after everyone had finished their chores. She'd always save something special for me like a blueberry cake or an apple pie." His eyes fell to the table. "Unfortunately, my troublesome past destroyed my trust in anyone. I had so much anger inside of me, I didn't even know it. It's like the old proverb 'you hurt the one you love the most'. You see, there were many women who came into my life before Rebecca but I didn't love them like I did Rebecca. She was different. She was special. When you find that love, your soul just knows it. It recognises it long before the eyes does. Mine did when I saw Rebecca. But what I didn't know was how to care for that love. I kept hurting her. I didn't trust myself that I could love her well. I was all she wanted. I kept seeing the lack in me but she, however, saw me differently. And that was my frustration. I just couldn't see what she saw. One day, we had a terrible argument. I can't even remember what it was about; must have been something really petty. And then she left. Like the rest of them."

"Did you ever see her again?" Emma asked slowly.

"No," he said. "I heard she met a nice young man and moved to America."

"I'm sorry," said Emma.

He shook his head. "Don't be. I have decided to take away from it the most important lesson it could possibly teach me."

"What is that?"

"Don't settle to love anything else than what your heart truly deserves. Because when you do find it, you stop searching for that love anymore." He watched her carefully. "I found my Rebecca. I don't need another. I'm content and peaceful to wherever life leads me."

Theodore's words stayed with Emma long after he left. Had she found her Rebecca?

She ate with the children, cleaned up and then strolled towards the parlour. Ethel was there, her eyes closed, her head resting on the back of her favourite chair.

Emma looked at the clock and noticed that it was past ten. Ethel usually went to bed at nine.

"Ethel," said Emma, touching her elbow, softly. "Do you want me to call Nancy to take you up to your bedroom?"

Her tired eyes opened and she shook her head. "Not now lass. May be later."

"Okay. Whenever you're ready, just let me know. I'll be right here."

Emma paced slowly to the windows that overlooked the driveway. She leant against the frames. The darkness hovered over the driveway, broken only by the small door lamps. In the far distance, specks of light moved, the only signs indicative of the highway.

"He isn't coming back," whispered Ethel. "Not tonight."

Emma's eyes lowered sadly.

"He's hurt lass," Ethel said. "He does that whenever he's hurt. He runs away. Unfortunately, that's all he knows. As a child, he was tormented in school. They called him 'devil spawn'. They told him to stay away from them in case he brought the Kinnaird curse upon them. Children can be wicked sometimes." She let out a tired sigh. "The first time he ran away, he was eleven. Theodore found him in a tentative deer hunter's shelter in the hills. Good old Theodore. He always knew where the boy was or how he was feeling. I don't know what I'd do without Theodore.

One day, when Christopher was thirteen, he brought home a friend. Ethan Wells. Lovely child. They did everything together. They even fell for the same girl when they were seventeen. Her name was Leah. They met her in London but it was Christopher she was attracted to. He was so very happy. They started corresponding through letters. He used to even take special visits to see her whenever he could. And when he moved to start university in London, they were seriously dating, in love and planning a whole new course for their lives. Well, at least Christopher was. And then one day, he found her in bed with Ethan. She had been shagging him ever since they arrived in London but it was clear that it was Christopher's money she wanted. Christopher, the sole heir of the Kinnaird Estate. I suppose it was really a curse in some strange way. He never could love or trust anyone since."

"What happened to the girl?"

"Moved on to some other rich man's son. Ethan didn't want her. She said so when she begged Christopher to take her back. And when he refused, she went straight to the papers. "Ethan has the charm. All Christopher has is money and a curse," the girl told the reporters." Ethel grew quiet. "And then he ran away. For good. He's run so far that even Theodore can't bring him back to me anymore. He returns once or twice a year to see me.

Three years after his first successful movie, he began building the boathouse. So whenever he comes, he can have a place to run to if he wants.

Twenty-one years I've waited and this is the first time since he's moved to America that he's stayed as long as this with me."

Emma put a hand over Ethel's palm, caressing her wrinkled fingers with her own. And when she glanced up at her, she saw the tiredness setting around the older woman's eyes.

"You will wait for him, lass," said Ethel. "Until he returns?"

"I will." Emma smiled.

"Then you had better take me to bed. I'm too tired to do this anymore."

Emma helped her out of the chair and they strolled towards Ethel's bedroom together, arm in arm. Inside, Emma helped her into her night gown and then pulled the bed covers back for Ethel.

Scrambling into it slowly, Ethel let out a small chuckle. "Kinnaird curse, indeed! I've been blessed child. So very blessed. To have the family I had. A loving grandson. And to have Theodore and Nancy. And then you came; you and your children. I am truly blessed. Light of my old days, your children are."

Emma smiled as she tucked the covers around her.

Ethel continued. "You know, when my Mary was young she fell madly in love with this young man from Glasgow while she was visiting cousin Gertrude. But one day, there was an accident in the factory he worked. The shelf brackets gave way, collapsing over him. The poor boy died instantly. Mary was distraught. She could never bring herself to love or marry again.

One day, she insisted on visiting the boy's mother and so I went with her. Rosanna was her name. But when I did see her, she was so very strangely at peace that I had to ask her.

"Why?" I said. "This was your only son and yet you are so content with his passing. Are you not angry at life, at the builder who put up the shelf, at the factory owners for not ensuring their employees' safety?"

"But why should I?" she replied. "I had foreseen his death when he was born. I'm just grateful he lived as long as he did. He's given me enough love to be able to live the rest of my days in peace."

You see, Rosanna had a gift of clairvoyance. She never wanted it but she couldn't help it. She was born with it. However she never used it. She always kept her opinions, foresight to herself. She believed in people trying to live their lives in the way they think they should and not depend on predictions to influence their decisions.

Rosanna became the only friend that I ever had. I often visited her in her little flat in Glasgow, sitting with her talking about my troubles and she listened. One day, as I sat and cried out my heart for Christopher, she said this to me. "In his forty-first year, he shall burn in the flames of fire and find peace."" Ethel chuckled. "I thought the woman had finally lost her mind." She reached out and touched Emma's wayward auburn strands that framed her face. "I wish she was alive today to tell her that she was right."

Emma smiled and kissed her forehead. "Goodnight, Ethel."

Ethel let out a sigh and closed her eyes. "Goodnight child."

She heard noises in the kitchen and found it was Nancy cleaning up.

"I've put Ethel to bed, Nancy," she informed.

"Thanks Miss," said Nancy.

"How's the family?" asked Emma.

"Oh, they're fine. My sister's daughter is getting married in a few months. I will have to ask the lady for a few days off."

"I'm sure she won't mind. And I'm here if she needs anything."

Nancy smiled. "You know, you're the best thing that's happened to this family in a long time."

Emma smiled back. "Nancy," she started hesitantly. "Why is everyone so apprehensive of the Kinnaird family?"

"Because they're fools," Nancy replied bluntly. "They don't know any better."

"So, why wasn't any one buying the property I did?"

"Your number 21? What? Have you been listening to that Kinnaird Curse crap?"

"Well, I did hear about it," she said slowly.

"Well, it's just what it is. Bull crap!"

"So why did the previous owners sell out?"

"Because they were bloody troublemakers, they were. Started hoarding in that fine place of yours. Never fixed their fences too. Their sheep used to cross over to the Kinnaird meadow. Mrs Kinnaird had a huge tiff with them after they also began poaching the estate deer. But when they entangled with Theodore, they went too far. Oh, I remember Theodore giving young Ian Fletcher a face-full of fist. Not bad for a man of sixty, is it?" She chuckled. "Yeah, they said they would take it to the courts. Mrs Kinnaird threatened to tangle them so badly in court; they'd be begging to stop. They knew she was serious. Our Mrs Kinnaird is a very intelligent woman, she is. She did some investigation of her own and found that the Fletchers were involved in some serious dirty business. She said if they didn't sell out and move she would take it all to the police. They'd be locked up so long; the only way they'd be back out into the world was when they were dead.

They agreed. But knowing their criminal reputation in Skye, no one would go near the Fletchers. With Mrs Kinnaird breathing down their necks each day, they even lowered the price to get rid of the property. But no one dared do any dealing with the Fletchers. And then you came along. After you purchased it, the Fletchers started spreading rumours that the Kinnaird Curse was for real and that the meadows were haunted by the dead Kinnairds."

Nancy shook her head unbelievingly. "In all this craziness, the only one good thing that came off it was you."

Grumbling inaudibly, she returned to her chores leaving Emma to think about all she had learnt about the Kinnairds that evening.

#  Chapter 17

Emma stood staring out her window from the library. It was almost one o'clock in the day and Chris had still not arrived home.

She tried to resume work on her computer but her mind kept drifting to his absence. A knock sounded at her door and she looked up to find Theodore walking in. Her spirits lifted. Perhaps he had returned.

"Mrs Cameron," he said. "You have a guest in the living room. It's Mr Richard Winston."

"Oh," said Emma, her heart sinking. "And Chris? Is he still not home?"

"Not yet, Miss," said Theodore. He paused at the door. "But he always does return, Miss. He will come back."

When Ethel heard that Richard Winston had arrived to see Emma, she deliberately strolled towards the living room.

"Mr Winston," she said, seeing him seated and waiting for Emma. "How are you?"

Richard looked at her grimly. "Hopeful, Madam."

Ethel nodded. "It is always good to be hopeful. But do you think it is wise to hope for something that might not be the right fit for you?"

"The right fit is what I know it is and not what someone thinks it is."

"Great words, Mr Winston, but not as great a business ploy. I, on the other hand, have long learnt to cut my losses while I'm ahead."

"I've heard you're a shrewd business woman, Mrs Kinnaird. However, you still surprised me when I discovered much later that the multi-million dollar contract that I frantically ran to accept in London came from one of your subsidiary companies. A certainly intelligent ploy to keep me away from Emma."

She smiled. "Mr Winston, you are one of the best architects in the United Kingdom. Trust me when I say that I wouldn't have risked an obscenely expensive contract for anyone, even my dearest Emma. There are other ways I could have achieved the same. But, when I discovered your remarkable achievements, I couldn't‎ help shooting down two birds with one bullet."

She turned to walk out of the living room. "And one more thing, Richard," she continued. "I may never have won Emma over if you hadn't had left her side that day."

Emma entered the living room and saw him standing at the fireplace, engrossed in his thoughts.

"Hello, Richard," she said.

He glanced up at her. His blue eyes had dulled. His stubble beard told her he hadn't shaven for a while.

"You married," he said.

"I did," she replied.

"Did you want to marry so badly that you accepted the first offer that came by you?" he remarked sarcastically.

She took in a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "Why did you come, Richard?"

"Why did you do it?"

She didn't reply.

"You could have waited," he said. "I did. All these years, haven't I waited for you?"

She glared at him. "Why?" she snapped. "Why did you? And yet when I came running to you, you hesitated. You had to think. You had to wait some more!"

"You don't jump blindly into a marriage, Emma. You think about the consequences. I am a man of standing in society and business. You married my brother, for god sakes. You were my sister-in-law."

"You had twelve years to think of consequences. And in all those years, you never once thought I was worth it. Not when Robert started dating me, not when he took me to visit your family for the first time, not when he proposed and married me out of his spite for you and certainly not in all those years he lied to me, conducting illicit business and scandalous affairs while I pretended I didn't know any of it! Lying to myself! Believing that I had the best life I could ever possibly have! Not once did you fight for me, Richard! And yet, I see you fighting each day to keep a contract. Do you know how that makes me feel? The truth of the matter is, Richard; I fell in love with you first. Long before Robert. You pushed me away. I ran to you first. Gave you the choice to marry me first. Each time, Richard, you were the first. Not Robert, not Chris. You! And each time, you pulled back! You did!"

He pulled her into his arms tightly. "Come back to me," he said hoarsely. "Come back. Leave all this and return with me today. I promise, I won't hold back anymore. I love you, Emma."

"But I don't love you anymore," she whispered back. "It's too late, Richard."

He cupped her face, his raspy breath against her. "Please," he begged.

"You don't love me," she whispered, tears streaming down her face.

"Get your hands off my wife!" Chris demanded.

He was standing at the door, seething with anger at seeing Richard holding Emma in his arms. His fists were clenched as he glared at them.

Richard pulled away from Emma. An awkward silence drifted among them.

Emma flushed and turned away from the two men, her eyes still brimming with tears.

"Do you mind if I see the kids before I leave?" asked Richard slowly.

"No," she said, wiping her tear stained face.

Richard looked at her, his eyes beseeching her silently. He then withdrew quietly, walking out of the room.

Chris gave her an angry glance. "I'm leaving tomorrow," he muttered curtly. "I just came by to tell you that." He turned around to leave.

"Will you return?" she asked.

"I don't know. As you well know, that's where my life is," he replied sharply. "And until you're here, I'm not sure if I ever want to come back. Perhaps when Gran finally realises that this marriage isn't working, I will return for a divorce." He stormed out of the room, slamming the door loudly behind him.

They avoided each other for the rest of the day. Chris learned that Richard did meet the children before he left. He could tell from the glow in their faces that they were really happy to see their uncle. Even if he wanted to strangle the man, Chris knew that he really did love the children.

In the evening, he sat with his grandmother explaining his need to leave so urgently. He told her about another movie project which would occupy his hours for the next three months. She had nodded her head sadly as he kissed her on the cheeks.

Somehow later that evening, he found himself in the children's bedroom. He spent a few hours with them as they played. An overwhelming sadness filled his heart when he looked at their cheery faces. He was going to miss them and the adoring way in which they called him "Papa".

"You will come back, right?" said Hannah as she lay in her bed.

"For you, I will," he replied, rubbing her nose with his. "I always will." He tucked the covers around her tightly.

"I missed you at dinner," she said sleepily. Her eyes fluttered, trying to keep awake.

He smiled and turned the lights out.

In the darkness, he tossed and turned in his bed as his memory replayed the jealousy he felt when he had seen Emma and Richard together. Yielding to his insomnia, he rose out of his bed and pulled on a pair of pants and a cotton vest. He noticed lights streaming through his windows. It was one of those spring Skye nights of aurora borealis, where the sky would be beautifully painted with a multitude of colourful fluorescent shades.

He strode to the library. He felt a sudden breeze as he entered and noticed the doors to the balcony was open. When he reached it, he saw her standing in the corner, her eyes focused on the dazzling mat of lights in the horizon.

He stopped, holding his breath for a second. She was beautiful. Her long hair fell down to her hips. Her nightdress was so soft and thin, he could see her nipples erect against it. His eyes ran down the shape of her exquisite naked body under it. A breeze fluttered again, lifting the strands of her hair off her shoulders revealing her ivory skin.

His felt a stir in his loins. If he didn't say anything, he'd grow crazy with the desire he was feeling for her.

"You've never seen an aurora before?"

She was surprised to see him. "I have." She smiled. "But each time I look at it, it's like I'm seeing it for the first time. Like palm prints. Each is different."

She raised her hand to the night sky. "If only we could touch it," she whispered.

Mesmerised, he walked over to her slowly. Standing behind her, he put his palm over hers. They stroked the aurora softly in unison. He caressed her arm and laid it gently at his nape. He traced the underside of her arm, softly down her body until he reached her breasts. He took in a sharp breath as he leaned closer to her. He trailed her neck with his lips as his hands cupped her breasts. He heard her whimper.

She felt him hard against her. Her eyes closed, she felt his lips against her skin, his hands tracing the length of her body.

When he turned her around to kiss her, her lips parted, his tongue unknotting the desires within her. She was hot at her core and her legs trembled beneath her.

He picked her up in his arms and walked to his bedroom, kissing her as he did.

Inside, he gently pulled off her dress and laid her on his bed. She kissed him as he let her undress him.

He leant towards her and took her hard, erect nipples in his mouth. He cupped her buttocks pulling her closer to him. He rubbed his chest against her breasts as he tasted her creamy skin. And when she couldn't take it anymore, he tormented her further by tracing her body with his lips down to her navel and to her core. He stepped astride her and entered her gently. A whimper escaped her lips and she closed her eyes to feel him even more.

He felt her fingers clasp his back tightly, as he fell further and further into her. Rocking gently, she moved rhythmically with him and when they finally became one, she cried softly, her voice muffled against the flesh of his torso.

It was still dark outside, but the aurora was long gone. Chris looked over at the woman sleeping beside him. He gently brushed away her hair so he could see her face. His fingers traced her eyes and lips and down her naked side. But when she stirred, he stopped. She looked so peaceful; he didn't want to wake her.

He dressed himself quietly and left the bedroom. Outside, Theodore was waiting for him to take him to the Ashaig airfield as they had planned the night before.

They drove solemnly through the dark road until they reached Ashaig. At the airstrip, a helicopter whirred, waiting to fly him out of the Isle of Skye.

"Theodore," he said before the butler could leave. "Wait." He reached for his wallet and pulled out a credit card. He handed it over to him. "I forgot to give this to Emma. Tell her she can use it however she pleases. It's unlimited."

Theodore looked at it hesitantly and then took it. He nodded and placed it into his pocket.

"Thanks, Theodore," said Chris.

Theodore watched his young master, step inside the helicopter and fly into the twilight of the morning sky.

He tried calling Emma for two weeks but she refused to speak to him each time. He was puzzled at first, but this gradually grew into anger. She had used him. She got what she had wanted- his money. She had disconnected her mobile and there was no way in which he could personally get in touch with her.

Fuming, he called his manager. "Carl, he said angrily into the phone. "It's me, Chris. I want you to cancel an account for me. Stop all transactions. Declare that the card's lost if you have to."

"Why?" asked Carl anxiously. "Did you really lose the card? How much did you have on it?"

He paused. "Unlimited," he said. "Could you do me a favour and check how much is withdrawn from it?"

"Give me a second," said Carl. He pulled out Chris' details onto his screen. "Nothing, man. It's clean, thank God." He breathed out a sigh of relief.

Chris grew quiet.

"Hey, Chris, you there?" he heard Carl say on the phone.

"Yeah," he replied slowly.

"The card's made out in your wife's name. You still want to cancel it?"

Chris paused briefly. "No. Leave it for now. I'll talk to you later."

"Hey, Chris," said Carl. "Are you going back to Skye anytime soon?"

Chris looked outside his window and at the buildings that grazed the LA skies. "Yes," he said.

"Do you mind getting an autograph from your wife? My girlfriend's been bugging me about it ever since she's found out you married her favourite author."

"I don't understand," Chris replied with puzzlement.

"Your wife, Emma Abbott is the author, Amelia Priestley. That's her pen name. Beats me how Natasha found out but she did. As far as I know, it's so hush hush, very few people know that. Did you?"

A muscle moved in his temples as he realised there was still a lot he didn't know about his wife. "I did," he lied. "I'll talk to you later."

He ended the call and dialled the Kinnaird Mansion.

Theodore picked it up.

"Did you give her the card, Theodore?" he asked.

"I did," he replied. "But she refused to take it. I left it in the top drawer of your bedroom dresser."

Chris paused. "How is she doing?" he asked slowly.

Theodore was quiet and for a moment, he thought he had lost him. "Theodore?"

"Yes, sir," his butler answered, slowly. "She is doing fine. She's not here though. She's back in her house. She's been there this past week."

The conversation grew silent as both men paused.

"Mr Cameron," said Theodore at last. "Mr Ethan Wells called by her home. She will be going out with him to a charity dinner tonight. So, you might not be able to reach her at all today."

His heart clamped. "Perhaps, tomorrow then," said Chris.

"Tomorrow, Sir," replied Theodore.

She was running. Her breath deepened as she stumbled into the dark forest. She felt the bruises on her body. She felt the hurt in her heart. She didn't know what it was, but she knew it was there following her.

She saw Robert in the distance and ran towards him. But he turned away, like he usually did in her dreams.

" _Richard!" she called out, seeing him standing behind Robert. "Help me!"_

But the faster she ran to him, the farther he moved away.

She felt her predator draw closer. Her heart raced. She held out her hand in desperation but Richard would not take it. "Please, Richard," she cried. "Help me!"

Her predator caught her arm and swung her to him.

It was then she saw his familiar, grey eyes. They were puzzled and hurt.

" _It's just me," he said. "Chris."_

She awoke with a start. A strange feeling of peace and contentment enveloped her. She was alone in her house. The children were still asleep in their beds at the Kinnaird Mansion. She arose from her bed and picked up her clock. She saw that it was only a few minutes past five in the morning.

The sun was still yet to fully rise in the horizon. However its amber rays was already lighting up the twilight sky.

She pulled out a shawl and draped it over her shoulders. Outside, the morning mist was rising off the cold, Skye meadows. The wild flowers had still yet to open its petals as it waited eagerly for the warmth of the spring season to set in. She heard the calls of birds arousing each other from their sleep.

Aside from her, there was very little she saw that was awake so early. She rubbed her hands together, as she stepped out into the misty, cold morning and headed toward the Kinnaird Mansion as she had done for the past week.

The hems of her long skirt dampened while she traipsed through the meadow. She stepped over the broken fence that divided the two properties. She smiled as she walked by the tree at which she had first called Ethel by her name. Her eyes involuntary wandered to where she had seen her first Kinnaird red deer. And there through the mist she saw him coming towards her.

She stilled, wondering if she was hallucinating from the early, cold spring morning. But when he came closer, she saw his cold breath entwining into the mist, telling her he was real. He didn't stall but kept walking closer until his hands reached for her slim waist, drawing her into his arms to kiss her. His lips hungrily tasted hers, nipping them and exploring the depths of her mouth.

"I love you." He panted through his kisses.

She cupped his face as she kissed him back. His hands slid to the small of her back, pulling her tightly against him.

"Were you running?" she asked.

"All the way from LA." He smiled.

"Why did you come back?"

"I forgot to take you and Hannah on a yacht ride," he teased. He peered at her, his breath raspy against her face. "I thought I had lost you," he added seriously.

"Well, you haven't." She smiled, searching his eyes.

"When I heard you'd gone out with Ethan Wells, I didn't know what to think..."

"Wait." She pulled back. "What? I didn't go out with Ethan Wells."

"But Theodore said..."

"I could never. I wouldn't touch him even if he was the last man alive. Weren't you the one to tell me to stay away from him?"

"You listened."

She smiled. "What else did Theodore say?"

"That a soul recognises its mate long before the eyes does."

"He told me that too," she said softly, hypnotised as she traced his face with her fingers. "You're my Rebecca."

He leant forward and kissed her again.

"When did you realise you loved me?" she asked curiously as she kissed him back.

"Can we leave the interrogation for later?" he begged, reaching out for her again.

But she held back. "Now, Chris."

"Probably the first instance I saw you scowling at your front door. You weren't like any woman I'd known. You irritated me under my skin. Even though I wanted to despise you at the dance, I found myself looking for you constantly. And when Ethan Wells caught up with you, I couldn't just stand there and watch you walk away with him. My jealousy was eating me at my core. I could have killed you for looking so deliriously happy in his company. And I will if I ever as see you look at another man the way you look at me now."

She let out a throaty laugh and he smiled.

"Then I saw you as a woman, as a mother. And I knew if I ever were to choose a mother for my children, it would be you. It's the one thing I was sure of in my entire life; a woman who would love my kids, our children. Probably, I owe it to the lack of one but it's why I never married," he continued softly. His hand reached to her abdomen to where her caesarean scar would be.

His touch affected her as she let out a moan, a wetness developing between her thighs. And when he pulled her tightly into him, rubbing her core against his arousal, she entangled her fingers into his hair in desperation.

"The sacrifices you make for Jai and Hannah, I love you for that." He kissed her tenderly at the base of her throat. "For putting a grumpy old woman and her silly ideas before your own self, I love you for that," he whispered huskily as he planted another slow, soft kiss on her neck. He raised his head. "It doesn't help that I've fallen in love with Jai and Hannah. I think I would be a rather possessive and jealous father to Hannah, with the potential of interviewing her boyfriends with a gun in my hand."

She chuckled. "I think so too." Her face grew taut with seriousness. "But the pre-nuptial contract..."

"What pre-nup?" he asked quizzically, and then added with a smirk, "I tore it up on our wedding night."

She arched an eyebrow. "Why?"

"At first it was out of blind madness because I wanted nothing more than to make love to you. It was our first night as a couple for god sakes and you ditched me for that dreary room down the hall. Do you know how close I was to breaking down your door and ripping you out of your nightdress?" he remarked curtly. He lowered his head tiredly against hers. "I didn't know why I had fallen in love with you. I only knew I had. The reasons suddenly didn't matter anymore. I'm sorry it has taken me so long to face my feelings. I'm sorry for the heartache I caused the both of us."

"I almost cut your credit card into pieces when Ted gave it to me. I was mad. I thought you were putting a price on our lovemaking. You made me feel cheap."

His eyes drooped. "I'm sorry. Is that why you wouldn't speak to me?"

She smoothed a wrinkle in the corner of his eye tenderly. "But I could never be angry with you for long. It just hurt me that you thought I would be interested in your wealth and your status."

"For which I have been humbled greatly. I didn't have a clue I was married to a wealthy celebrity in her own right."

"I don't like the attention." She laughed.

"A far cry from my way of life," he winced.

He picked her up in his arms. "I believe there are amendments I should be making. There is no time better to start than the present," he muttered throatily and started walking down the hill.

"Where are we going?" she asked with puzzlement. "The mansion isn't this way."

"No." He smiled. "I'm taking you to the boathouse. It's the closest. With the way I'm feeling now, I'd be damned if I took you back to the mansion."

She let out a small laugh. "My house is closer, I think."

"Over that baneful fence? No way. I wouldn't risk your precious neck. Besides, someone told me that a man's efforts do something to the female hormones."

"What?" She kissed his neck.

"Not now, darling. I might not make it if you do that."

She nuzzled her nose into his neck, teasing him.

They playfully bantered with each other as they walked together to the boathouse, nestled among the fir trees along the bay.

#  ALSO BY CLARISSA CARTHARN

Red Collar

Scent of Roses

Claimed

Affairs & Atonement

Captive (Short Story Series)

# RED COLLAR

If Cinderella was a prostitute, would the Prince still love her?  
They were two people from opposite worlds with a passion that would bring them together and a love that would break them down.

Kate Ripley is struggling to provide for her four siblings and her ill-mother. So when she loses her job to an unpredictable redundancy, she resorts to the unthinkable. She accepts the offer of secretary-cum-mistress to billionaire Clayton Reid. But can she survive this new role without sacrificing her dignity... and falling in love.

Tired of secretaries taking advantage of their proximity to win his heart, wealthy bachelor Clayton devises the ultimate solution- hire the secretary who can also perform dual duties as mistress. And Clayton thinks he's found the perfect woman in escort Kate Ripley. Until he discovers the one flaw in his perfect plan- he can never let her go. Can he afford to fight against his principles and risk all he's worked for to keep her?

RED COLLAR

Clarissa Cartharn

# Chapter 1

"And how old are you?" he asked.

"Twenty-seven," she answered.

Kate watched him take a short stroll from his desk to the long windows of his office.

He was a short man. His stomach fell over his belt and his hair receded way to the back of his head. There was nothing compellingly attractive about him other than his soft brown eyes that sometimes grew harsh as he spoke to her.

"You look younger," he said, thinking.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Whitton," she replied, slightly annoyed. "I don't see what my age has got to do with this position. I can assure you that I have the experience to carry out this role."

"You know what it entails then." He lifted an eyebrow. "It's not your... everyday nine to five employment, Ms Ripley."

"I have been briefed of its duties quite clearly. Madge Harris told me all that I needed to know of it. It is only after which I deliberated that I would make the perfect candidate. I have a secretarial qualification from a renowned institution and having already worked for a large company for three years, I also understand the corporate responsibilities that accompany the duties of a secretary to a director. As for the unspoken aspect of the position, well..." she hesitated briefly. Swallowing a lump in her throat and blinking away the glaze in her eyes, she stared determinedly and directly at the shorter, older man. "You can't possibly be suspecting that I would still be a virgin at twenty-seven?"

Bob Whitton cocked his head to the side as he listened to her short attempt of persuasion. He put a finger into his tie and tugged it loose. He was suddenly feeling suffocated by the formalities of his dress and his role as the company solicitor.

"I hope you understand Ms Ripley that I don't often conduct such interviews," he said quietly.

He turned to the young woman. Her long, dark hair was tied back neatly into a sleek French roll. She was definitely pretty with an oval face and honey-filled eyes. She was dressed in a professional, black dress. Her slim shoulders carried a tailored dark jacket. It wasn't what he had expected. Particularly for such a position.

"I won't go into the details of the job description. I assume that Ms Harris has run the matter over with you?" he added.

She nodded her head.

He coughed. "I must say that you come highly recommended by Ms Harris. I have already had a look at your medical records as provided by her. They are clean. Your academic records and employment referrals all check out as outstanding. Do you have any questions?"

Kate shook her head. "No, but does that mean I have the job?"

He nodded, giving her a small smile. "Yes, you can start tomorrow."

She returned his smile, extending her hand. He took it hesitantly and shook it.

"Well," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Congratulations."

"Thank you so much, Mr Whitton," she replied excitedly. "But where do I report for my duties?"

"Right," he replied. He rummaged through his draw and pulled out a card. "Here," he said, handing it over to her. "You start at ten o'clock in the evening tomorrow."

"Oh," she said, her face growing pale. "Yes."

He watched her closely. "It is the nature of the position. You can still turn it down if you're uncertain about it."

"No," she replied uneasily. "Of course I'm not. It's just that I expected those aspects would follow much later in the course of my employment. I didn't know it would be so... immediate."

"Ms Ripley...," he started.

But she interrupted him as quickly. "Might as well get it over with, right?" She laughed nervously. She stared down at the address.

"Is everything alright, Ms Ripley?" Bob Whitton asked, still unsure of what to make of the younger woman.

"Of course, Mr Whitton," she answered, raising her head, her lips drawn into a smile. "Well, if there isn't anything else, I should start preparing myself to meet the boss."

"His name is Clayton Reid. He will be expecting you."

She rose from her chair and turned towards the door.

"Ms Ripley," Bob said. He paused momentarily as he looked at her. He appeared to want to say something but then changed his mind. "You'll find the Human Resource Manager, Greg Baker on the second door to the left as you go down the corridor. You need to sign your contract with the company. He will also notify you of the terms contained within it. Oh, and your annual income is a hundred and fifty thousand. You're okay with that, right?"

A hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year. Kate took in a deep breath as she stepped through the doorway of her apartment building. She moved to the side and pulled out of her bag the white envelope containing her contract. Edging it out slowly, her eyes swept quickly through the clause stating her income.

" _One hundred and fifty thousand dollars,"_ she mouthed silently as she read it yet again.

For the first time in many years, she felt a sense of empowerment envelope her. There was so much she could do with such an exuberant salary. She leaned against the graffiti walls of her apartment lobby and gave a sigh of relief.

Above her, she heard argumentative voices pierce through the old walls.

"Lorenzo! I haven't finished talking to you! _Como se dice!_ Where are you going?!" a woman screamed.

The door slammed, drowning her voice. Kate guessed Lorenzo didn't want to hear any more of what the woman had to say. She heard his heavy steps crashing down the stairs. He emerged from the stairway, a young man in his late teens. He gave her a short, brief glance and then marched out of the lobby.

She shouldn't have been surprised by the commotion but she was. Such altercations were common place as she had spent much of her life in the projects of New York. God only knew she had seen worse. Why then was she taken aback by this particular young man? It was perhaps that Lorenzo was handsome with beautiful dark skin. He had thick and dark glossy hair that fell to his nape and bounced as he walked. She watched him melt away into the distance. Sighing, her eyes travelled to the dirty staircase.

She looked back at the contract in her hand. There was hope, she repeated to herself.

She trudged up the stairs to the third floor of the building. The elevator, as usual, would have been slow and creaky. It also reeked of urine if the cleaners failed to show, which on many occasions happened to be often. She found it safer to climb the three stair levels, although she was often warned that the stairs were a more dangerous route than the health hazardous elevator. She was perhaps grateful that it wasn't an apartment so far up the building.

Walking towards her apartment, she was already delving for her keys in her bag but then decided against it. She wanted to test out a sudden theory that popped into her mind.

She curved her palm around the door knob and slowly turned it. The door gave way. A sudden rage filled her which she fought desperately to stifle.

"Johnny!" She growled with her teeth clenched. "How many times have I told you to keep this door locked?!"

The seven year old boy looked up at her, surprised by her entrance.

"I did, I swear," he answered calmly. His eyes returned to the television.

"So why is it open then?" Kate minced the words out in anger.

"Ask Libby. She's the one who does ever leave this house."

Kate turned on her heels and marched towards the first bedroom. There were only two bedrooms that catered for the six people that lived in it. It was a wonder they had managed all this while.

"Libby!"

She flung the bedroom door to find the fifteen year old laying on the bed, rocking to some music she was listening to on her smart phone. Kate pulled roughly at the headphones.

"What the fuck?!" The young girl spat out.

"Don't use that language in this house," Kate warned. "I mean it."

"You're not my mother." The younger girl tried to snatch back her headphones but Kate held them away swiftly.

"Not yet."

"What is wrong with you!"

"Me?! What's wrong with you! How many times have I told you to keep the front door locked, Libby? I expect some responsibility from you while I'm away."

"Why me? Why not Johnny or Rudy? Why does it have to be me?!"

"I'm sorry that it has to be that way Libby but it so happens you're the oldest when I'm gone." Kate threw her bag onto the bed in frustration. "Should you decide you're not up for that role, I suggest you get off your lazy ass and find a job. Either way, I will not be supporting any bums in this house. You got that? So get your act together and start making yourself useful."

She walked out of the room leaving Libby seething on the bed.

She knocked lightly on the door of the only other bedroom. "Mom?" she called out softly.

"Kate?" her mother answered.

"How're you feeling?" asked Kate as she stepped inside and neared the bed.

The frail, older woman sat herself up against the pillows at the bed-head. "Alright." Her long thin fingers fidgeted with the hems of her sheet. "I didn't barf," she added and gave a nervous chuckle.

Kate smiled. "Have you eaten?"

Her mother ran her fingers through her coarse, graying hair. "No. I, I...can't. I mean, I don't want to. I'm not hungry."

Kate sighed. "You need to eat. It's important that you keep your diet going. Remember what the doctor said."

"I know, I know. I would if I could. But I can't. If I do, it'll just all come right back up again. And then so will the blood and... I get scared Kate," her mother whimpered softly.

Kate held her mother's palm in hers. "You need to try, Mom. For us. Please. You can't just give up like that."

Her mother nodded. She wiped away the tears and gave a small sniff. "So how are the job interviews coming along?"

Kate smiled. "Very well. As a matter of fact, I start on a job tomorrow."

"Really?" Her mother nudged her to come closer. "I'm so happy for you, Kate. I knew you could do it. You always had it in you. You're so much like your father."

Kate gave her a small hug. "I need to start with dinner."

"Kate?" her mother called out before she could disappear out the door. "Take it easy on Libby. She isn't as lucky as you."

Kate Ripley never considered herself lucky. She was born in a small run-down apartment in Brooklyn. Her dad, Keith was a construction worker. Her mother, Terri was a housewife and the odd casual employee of a pizzeria or a bakery or wherever work called out for her. For most times though, Terri loved to spend the days with little Kate. They drew pictures of a happy sun, shiny stars, sang old nursery rhymes and played in the tiny playground outside their apartment building. In the evenings, Terri would prepare dinner as Kate would watch an old TV rerun while waiting for her dad to return from work. Until Kate was six, she thought she had the best life. And then luck, as her mother called it, ran out on her.

One day, she waited outside her school for her mother to pick her up as usual. As the hours slowly passed by, she realized that her mother was not coming to get her. That was the first day she walked home alone. The next day, she waited for at least an hour before she started her walk home. As days passed, she gradually lessened her wait until she ceased waiting at all.

The serene family evenings which she eagerly used to look forward to, was also replaced by unending arguments and fights. She found herself more than often hurdled tightly into the corner of her bed and her wardrobe as she played make-believe with her dolls. One evening, everything just quieted and when she walked out of her little corner, she found her mother had left. She was only eight.

It was now she and her father after that. He would have been all she needed but unfortunately, he didn't know much about what girls needed. In his favor, he would buy her clothes from the charity store up her street but they were always two sizes bigger. She was growing, her father would tell her. Her clothes needed to allow her body to grow and develop. However, more than often, her clothes would tatter before she could ever outgrow them. At thirteen, she gave him the ultimatum of letting her buy her own clothes or she'd elope with Joey Kimmett, the notorious fifteen year old bully who went to the same school as she did. Her father couldn't have that, although he knew Joey never did ask to elope with Kate. But Kate had made her point and her father relented. And that was how it was for the next ten years until he died four years ago.

His heart gave up, they had said. But she knew it had always been heartache. Ever since her mother had left. So she felt it quite ironic when she discovered that her mother had returned for his burial. It beat her how she had found out about the funeral. But there she was, standing by the fresh earth of his grave in her long dark skirt and tall boots.

She didn't come alone. She had brought along her four children. The youngest, Lily was only two then, tugging at her mother's skirt.

When she did leave two days after the funeral, so did the sole fifty dollar note Kate carried in her wallet. She only heard from her mother occasionally after that- that is until a year ago.

She had been sobbing on the phone. Kate assumed that she had been hit by her partner again. But it was cirrhosis. Her drinking had at last caught up with her like her father always feared. Her liver was damaged and she was dying. Kate did all she could to help her pay for her medication and treatment, but when she lost her job three months ago, she thought it would be the opportune time to move in with her mother and half-siblings; much against the advice of her friends and everyone else she knew.

She climbed up the stairs to the red door. _Masseuses by Madge_ was etched high and proudly above the door.

Inside, an ash blonde woman greeted her at the reception.

"I'd like to see Madge Harris," Kate said.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No but..."

"You have to have an appointment to see Ms Harris. Besides, she is unavailable at the moment," the woman replied with a feigned smile as she briskly surveyed Kate with her eyes. "Would you like to leave a message?"

"Would you tell _Madame_ Madge that Kate Ripley's at reception? I think she would be quite interested to hear the news I have for her." Kate gave her a curt smile and strolled away towards the lounge by the large windows overlooking the gardens.

She had taken slight pleasure in watching the woman's smile melt away when she had stressed on the term _Madame._

She readjusted the belt of her coat. It was a fiddly habit she had whenever she wanted to suppress her excitement in public. She would look nervous and tensed, instead.

She heard the woman's hushed tone behind her as she relayed the details of her presence to someone over the phone. The receptionist was now evidently aware that Kate knew all about the façade masking the real operations of the business.

Kate first heard of Madame Madge four months ago. She was then still secretary to the sleazy Russell Wilder at Miller's Furniture Designs. In her three years of service, she had successfully managed to brush away much of his sexual innuendo with a tight smile. However, it was obvious that his patience for her to take his bait was slowly wearing thin. When rumors of another set of redundancy began surfacing, she had inkling she would be heading that list.

She was biting her nails over her options one afternoon when Bridget Lantz dropped her ass on her desk.

"Well, have you decided what you're doing when you get the sack?" she said, twisting her pencil in her fingers.

"We don't know if I'm getting one yet." Kate smirked.

"Come on, Kate. Everyone knows Wilder's been trying to get your knickers off for years. All you've done is get him mad instead."

"What do _you_ suggest then? Take them off to save my job."

"On the contrary, darling, quit."

Kate looked up at her, befuddled. "You've lost it Bridget. You're not making any sense."

"Listen, hon, if you try and sleep with the big boss now, he'll know you're doing it only for your job. He's a dick, babe, but he ain't that big a dickhead. He'll use you and then dump you just as fast."

"Do you have a point in any of this, Bridget?" Kate sighed tiredly.

"Well...yes. There is this place. An escort service. Really professional. They pay well too. As a matter of fact, extremely well. I've been trying them out for two weeks now. The best decision I've ever made. I'm just waiting to end my term here with Wilder. Like hell, I'm gonna risk my redundancy package."

"That's good for you, Bridget," Kate said, rolling up her eyes. "So you finally realized your potential in the whoring business. I wish you the best. But no, thank you. I have no interest in joining you on this venture. Now if you please excuse me," pushing Bridget off her desk. "I still work here."

"Kate, please..." Bridget protested. "You'll make a great escort. You have the curves, the etiquette, the skills... If you'll only give a damn about making yourself beautiful once in a while, men will kill for you. You know you have it."

"It's a ..." Kate dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. "It's a brothel."

"A high-end escort service," Bridget corrected quickly.

"Does it matter?" Kate almost shouted out in frustration. "It's prostitution. You give sex for money. It's just been given a classier label. High-end escort service, indeed!"

"Kate," Bridget started.

"Not another word," Kate warned. "You're out of your mind, Bridget. I have my values. If I wanted to do something like that, wouldn't I have fucked Wilder a long time ago?"

"That's different!"

"How is that different?!"

"Wilder would have fucked you. Not the other way. As an escort, you call the shots. You get to keep your values and get paid for it. Tell me Kate, what did you get out of sleeping with all those loser boyfriends of yours? Didn't they use you? This is different, Kate. People respect you."

She shoved a card into Kate's palm. "Call them. At least, find out before judging them," she said as she walked away.

Kate glimpsed at the card. "Masseuses by Madge", she read. She threw the card into her bag. She would never consider the possibilities of such a job. Not unless she was desperate.

Her desperation arrived a week ago.

END OF SAMPLE CHAPTER

