Secrets Dispelled (2 page)

Roisin had borrowed her Kindle one day, and when she’d returned it, had added several hot and exciting books and asked her if she’d ever scened or played.

When Finn said no,
had she?
, Roisin had blushed, pointed to the elaborate necklet she wore and rolled her eyes. Then she’d added those bloody awful words, “You’re a bit young yet, but if you’re interested when you’re older…”

She was twenty, for goodness sake. An upstanding citizen, who held both a shotgun licence and a firearms certificate, loved her parents and ate her peas. And worked hard in all weathers. Even to the point it seemed she carried Donny and did all his work as well as her own. What he’d done when she went back to Ireland for all those months, she had no idea, but now she was back, he was once more conspicuous in his absence.

Finn was certain that Lachy, their boss, and Alexina, his wife, had noticed Donny’s horrendous work ethics and were biding their time to do something about it. Probably—hopefully—giving him enough rope to hang himself.

But until then, she was the one out in shit weather, wet to the skin and on a quad bike whose engine had started misfiring.

Come on, sod you, play nice.

As she turned the last bend in the track and joined the drive to the castle a few hundred yards away from the building, the bike stuttered, did a jump and jerk to a stop, the mist rolled in and the hail increased in intensity. And it stung.

Finn turned the ignition switch to hear a geriatric groan and wheeze from the bike before it spluttered into life, coughed a bit more and stopped. Smoke, or was it steam—in the rain it was hard to tell—rose from the engine. Nothing else. If she were back at home and with a nice, dry shed to work in, she’d be able to discover the fault—maybe—and either fix it or call the local machinery outlet, who had a roving mechanic. As it was she kicked the bike, swore as even through her work boots it hurt her toes and pulled the bike’s ignition key out.

Then she shoved the key back into the ignition and pushed—with some difficulty—the dead-as-a-dodo machine off the track and under a tree. It was as safe there as anywhere and wasn’t in anybody’s way. Plus, she thought semi-hysterically as she remembered a sketch about parrots from an old, well-loved by millions, comedy series, it was a dead quad bike. Not resting, not temperamental. Dead. If anyone wanted to pinch it, good luck to them. It would get it out of her orbit and to be honest, even feet on ground and best foot forward was more reliable than the bike.

If it wouldn’t negate the insurance, for two pins she’d leave the bloody key in it
and
make up a sign with an arrow saying ‘good luck, take it’. She’d even add, ‘pretty please’.

Now, evidently it was shank’s pony and a brisk walk…run…swim…

Except, even if she used the muddy, narrow tracks that criss-crossed the estate, her cottage was over two miles away, the weather was atrocious, and she needed a pee. Being a woman meant she’d have to take off a lot of her layers to go behind a tree then try to struggle back into them.

But the castle was only a few hundred yards’ walk, and surely she’d be able to use the loo? Even if the door did have a big notice on it saying Members Only.

When she visited with Lachy, they’d used a side door, which although it also said private, she rather thought either led to accommodation or an area of the club where you weren’t actually part of what went on. Whatever the ‘what went on’ happened to be.

If, as she hoped, someone was around, surely they’d let her use the loo? She’d promise to wipe her boots and to do her best not to drip Scotland’s finest summer sleet over the parquet floor. Nor to peer through doors she shouldn’t and even sign a non-disclosure form if it meant she could go for a wee.

That made her snigger. After all that it was probably a club for retired coal miners or lepidopterists. Whatever, she was going to throw herself on their mercy.

Mind made up, she shoved the key in her pocket, lifted her shotgun out of the gun rack, broke it down for safety, tied her hood on tighter and began to walk.

She’d only been into the castle once or twice, with Lachy when the problems of poaching—and worse—had arisen, just after she’d arrived. Even then she’d seen very little and if she was honest, her curiosity had been piqued.

The drive here was gravel and sleet and hail stuck between the stones like tiny diamonds.

I wish
. Finn squelched on and pondered her day so far.

She was certain she’d had a glimpse of a white van parked near one of the hillside fields but by the time she’d encouraged the quad bike up the ride that led to it, it had disappeared. All that was left was a churned up sea of mud with deep-ridged tire tracks in it. Plus a couple of good boot prints, but as she was no tracker and didn’t carry plaster of Paris around in her pocket, all she could do to preserve them was shove a plastic bag over the area and hold it down with two large stones.

She’d almost reached the circular tarmac, which split the driveway into two in front of the imposing castle when a scuffling noise made her stop.

She swiveled—or tried to. A large leather gloved hand grabbed her elbow and something hit her head. Finn swore as stars danced in front of her eyes. She tried to lift her shotgun, but her arms were like lead.

“Fuck it, hit her again.” The voice was male and rough.

Finn pulled against her captor, and he—or someone else—backhanded her and tears gathered in her eyes. It was bloody sore.

The last thing Finn remembered was someone swearing in a thick Glaswegian accent. “Ach, if she’d deid, I’m na gonnie be cov’rin for you. And dinnae even think o’ touchin that bluidy gun.” Or that’s what she thought they said.

And she still needed a pee.

Chapter Two

Coll Cummins swore and coughed, as a vicious draft blew down the chimney and acrid gray smoke swirled around and filled his sitting room. He’d hung on before lighting the fire, mainly because it went against the grain to have a blaze in summer. But the walls were thick, and although the rooms were warm and kept the heat in once the central heating or a fire were working, the opposite was also true, and needs must.

“Sod it.” He opened the window and took a deep breath. Okay the chimney was damp and cold, but so was the weather. At this rate so would he be. Hailstones hit him like pebbles and stung like crazy. Within seconds his hair and face were drenched and he could see moisture collecting on his eyelashes.

Great.
He shut the window again. Kippered or drowned? Not much of a choice.

“So much for flaming June.” Or July and August. Welcome to another stunning summer in Scotland. Oh, he knew he was being unfair, but during this summer, sun and warmth had been conspicuous by their absence. He chuckled. Shit, he was talking to himself. If he answered out loud, he’d be in big trouble.

The fire decided to stop acting up, flames began to lick the coals and the gloom of the day was dispelled as cheerful warmth permeated the room. Coll put the mesh fireguard in place and went into the kitchen. It was past six o’clock, the club was closed and he had nowhere to go and not a soul to be responsible for. The day called for a dram. He opened the cupboard and took out a bottle of Highland Park twelve year old.

Coll wasn’t a big drinker, but sometimes a dram was the perfect thing to have at the end of a shitty day. First of all he’d had a phone call to say the guy who was due to deliver the log he intended to carve into a sculpture for fellow Dom Alex and Mimi, Alex’s sub and fiancé’s, wedding present had broken his arm. Therefore, the poor guy couldn’t deliver it until he had help to drive his truck. As he lived over a hundred miles away from Diomhair, and the tree trunk in question wouldn’t fit into a pickup, Coll would just have to wait. Which meant his time to get the damned thing finished for the wedding would be bloody tight.

Then his toaster blew up, the net went down and he didn’t have a chance to check his orders. To end the day from hell, the fire smoked, and he was well on his way to becoming a kipper.

He might like smoky whiskey, he didn’t like smoky rooms.

The first mouthful of the fiery liquid went down like nectar. The second cheered him up and the third he savored.

It was a promising beginning to a hopefully better evening. Coll went to the fridge and looked inside. He enjoyed cooking—at one point he’d toyed with being a chef, before he’d decided he preferred creating with a chisel instead of a spoon. Tonight, after a swift glance at the dark clouds outside, the way the trees bent in the wind and the rain that coated the windows, he’d decided it was a stew or spaghetti evening. After a moment’s thought, Coll settled on spaghetti bolognaise. Easy, fast and tasty. He began to chop onions efficiently and opened the Aga hob.

Just after he’d relocated to the area, he discovered the cottage he’d bought and moved into needed a new roof and the central heating updating before winter. Jess and Jeff, siblings and the castle’s co-owners, had offered him one of the apartments in the castle until the work was completed and he’d jumped at it. After all, it would only be for a month or so. Jeff had even offered the use of a barn for Coll to work in so he didn’t get in the way of the tradesmen in the cottage.

How the best-laid plans went wrong, Coll mused as he added minced beef to the onions and began to brown them. Here he was six months on, and happy where he was. Rising damp and dry rot had reared their ugly heads, and his cottage had to be completely gutted. In the end he’d decided the best way to deal with it all was to knock the cottage down and rebuild. Luckily the planning officer agreed, Jeff and Jess were happy for him to stay in the castle, and in effect he also helped the night watchman.

Coll turned to the shelf where he kept his spices and took down a new jar of oregano. When the castle had been rebuilt many years after it was ravaged by fire, Jeff had made sure both apartments within it had private east-, south- and west-facing balconies from different rooms. It suited Coll. He grew herbs on the south facing one, dried his washing whenever possible on the one that was situated on the east side of the building and enjoyed a glass of wine on a dry and midge-free evening on the patio which pointed to the west. He had a patio heater there. He also had a midge-eater, but was resigned to the fact that as fast as he got rid of some blighters, they were replaced by the next group. In the middle of the so-called summer, the only way to sit out after sunset was to cover up, slosh on repellent and keep a midge net handy.

So much for al-fresco scening. He wished. In fact in many ways, so much for scening full stop. Ever since his mentor Alex Sunderland had told him to, ‘go forth and scribe’, he’d prevaricated. Not because he didn’t think he was ready, he knew he was. Alex was the best artistic scriber bar none, and Coll knew himself privileged to be taught by the master. More because he couldn’t find anyone who called to him on the deep, primeval level he knew he needed. He wasn’t prepared to settle for less, therefore he waited as patiently as he could manage. Hopefully it wouldn’t be long before he could put his tuition into practice on his own sub, not someone chosen for his lessons.

With a mental smile at his introverted thoughts, Coll opened the jar of the oregano he’d dried himself on the back shelf of the Aga and the aromatic scent filled the air.

Coll sniffed with appreciation then almost dropped the jar and dusted himself and the work surface with oregano flakes, as the unexpected sound of the landline telephone broke into the tempting sizzle from the hob. The landline was really only there for the net. It had nothing to do with the club, and as he usually used his mobile, the harsh ring was unexpected and intrusive. Coll slid the pan off the hob, cursed and dried his hands before he picked the phone up.

“Youse yins, fucking pervs. Ya need to watch it or the lassie’ll get more than a wee Glasgae kiss. Gan find her ootside yer door, fucker. An’ remember, nae playing wi’ guns.” The mixture of dialects was so thick, and the voice so distorted that it wasn’t until he heard the dialing tone that Coll went over the words in his mind and made some sense of it.

Pervs? That was nothing new. To some people who didn’t understand him, BDSM or the
what’s normal anyway
scenario, perv was the natural tag. It didn’t bother him. Each to their own. However, what lassie? The only women he knew who might be around would be safely home with their husbands. The club was closed and none of his fellow Doms who helped run the place had mentioned they or their subs were likely to drop by.

Coll thought for a brief second and hauled on the steel-cap boots he habitually wore for work—after all he might stop paying attention and drop a chisel on his feet. Unlikely, but then so was some unknown phoning him with a message like that.

He grimaced, sprayed midge repellent on every area of skin that he couldn’t cover in clothes, shrugged into a thick waterproof and grabbed a heavy-duty torch which could double as a cosh.

The rain had almost stopped when he got outside but the bloody midges were out in force. Coll slammed the front door—he didn’t want a houseful of the little blighters—and looked around. The area closest to the castle was empty.

So which way?

Mindful that for some obscure reason it could be a trap of some sort, although why, Coll had no idea, for life around Diomhair—as far he knew—had been uneventful of late, he scanned the area carefully. Then he moved toward the major driveway that headed direct to the main road, and wondered, why now? Even the ubiquitous white van that had dogged the area on and off like a bad penny and given several of them a bad time seemed to have disappeared.

Nothing disturbed the midges or the mist and as he rounded the first bend, Coll wondered if he should have headed in the other direction.

Something under a tree caught his eye and he veered toward it.

A quad bike, old and on its last legs. As far as he could recall, he’d never seen it before. However a locked box welded to the back made him think for a moment. A farmer? If so, what the hell was he doing around here? And why leave his bike? Coll circled it once and noticed that the engine was still warm.