The Dream Catcher

Dancing for the Devil

Part One:

The Dream Catcher

Marie Laval

Can her love heal his haunted heart?

Cape Wrath, Scotland, November 1847

Bruce McGunn is a man as brutal and unforgiving as his land in the far north of Scotland. Discharged from the army – where he was known as the claymore devil – haunted by the spectres of his fallen comrades, and convinced he is going mad, he is running out of time to save his estate from the machinations of Cameron McRae, heir to the McGunn's ancestral enemies. When the clipper carrying McRae's new bride is caught in a violent storm and docks at Wrath harbour, Bruce decides to revert to the old ways and hold the clipper and the woman to ransom. However, far from the spoilt heiress he expected, Rose is genuine, funny and vulnerable – a ray of sunshine in the long, harsh winter that has become his life.

But Rose is determined to escape Wrath and its proud master – the man she calls McGlum.

À mes soleils

You will dance like a flame,

You will dance for the devil

And he will get burned.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Marie Laval

Chapter One

Cape Wrath, Scotland, November 1847

‘Bedbugs and stinky camels! What is this place?'

Rose pressed her face against the porthole's thick glass window and drew in a sharp, panicked breath. Perhaps she was still asleep and this was a nightmare, or the ship has sunk in the storm and she was now in hell…

Beyond the raging waves rose two rocky stacks, sentinels guarding the tallest, steepest, bleakest cliffs she'd ever seen, and right at the top stood a castle; or at least she assumed it was a castle, because with its single tower silhouetted against the stormy winter sky and the beacon blazing on top, it looked like a gateway to the underworld. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. The castle was still there. So it wasn't a nightmare. It was real! She had arrived in hell.

The ship shuddered, groaned and tilted to one side. Grey waves smashed against the hull, roaring like angry beasts. Rose's stomach lurched. She let out a hiccup.
Oh no, not again
! Her hand pressed against her mouth, she stumbled across the cabin and leaned over the wooden bucket at the foot of the bed.

The clipper tipped upward as it climbed up a wave as high as a hill, then crashed down again. She managed to grab hold of the bucket as it started to slide across the polished deck but could do nothing about her travel trunk and the cabin's only chair which crashed loudly against the wall before sliding back towards her.

Would this wretched storm never end, she wondered, as she wiped her mouth with a damp cloth, and took deep, calming breaths. How arrogant she'd been to laugh at Captain Kennedy's stories about the blue men of the
Minch
– the creatures who, he claimed, dragged skippers to the bottom of the sea. She wasn't laughing now. In fact, she could swear the dead, vitreous eyes of a blue man stared back at her through the porthole right now.

One thing was certain. Once this journey was over, she would never set foot on a ship again. She'd rather ride a mule across the whole of Europe, the Ottoman Empire and Egypt to return to Bou Saada, and never mind if it took her a full year! Bou Saada… Images flashed in front of her, so vivid that the noise of storm faded for a moment as she was transported back to her faraway oasis. She could almost smell the lush, moist scent of palm trees in the pale blue and golden dawn, almost feel the heat that rose at midday from the sun-drenched Saharan plains, almost taste the sweetness from a freshly picked orange.

A thundering crash, followed by shouting and the thud of booted feet running on the deck overhead shattered her daydreaming. Her mouth went dry, her heart pounded, and she tightened her grip on the sides of the bed. So this was the end. The
Sea Eagle
was sinking. She would drown in these cold, hostile waters before being able to show Cameron she could learn to be the wife he deserved – a fashionable woman who read thick, clever books and could hold a polite conversation and, just as importantly, she thought as she took a shallow breath and her cheeks heated up, a sensual and submissive female who would let him do all the things he wanted, even if she didn't like it.

The cabin door flew open and banged against the wall, and Captain Kennedy strode in.

‘Sorry, miss,' he said, taking his hat off, ‘I'm afraid I have bad news. We won't reach Thurso tonight. The top gallant just crashed down so we're heading into the Kyle of Wrath to shelter from the storm.'

Rose felt the blood drain from her face.

‘Wrath? Isn't that where Lord McGunn lives?'

‘Aye, it is indeed.'

‘You want to stop with
that
man, the last in a long line of drunks, thieves and smugglers, not to mention sworn enemies of the McRaes?'

Captain Kennedy stroked the brim of his hat between his thumb and forefinger.

‘With all due respect, miss, we don't have much choice. What's more you've nothing to fear from McGunn. He may not be the most gracious of men, unlike my Lord McRae, but he was until recently a distinguished army officer…'

‘Who was discharged for dishonourable conduct,' Rose interrupted. ‘Lord McRae told me all about it. The man's recklessness caused the death of his soldiers.'

Captain Kennedy shrugged.

‘Whatever happened in the Punjab eighteen months ago, nobody can deny that Bruce McGunn was for many years a brave and fearless officer who earned the respect both of his men and his superiors. The
claymore devil
, that's what they called him. He was the best with a broadsword – still is, no doubt.'

Rose hissed an impatient breath. The Captain's voice was filled with undisguised admiration. How could he, or anyone, admire a man who was a violent, drunken brute?

‘Well, I'm sure it's a waste of time to ask him for help anyway. He hates the McRaes so much he'll probably shoot at us from the cliffs as soon as he recognises the
Sea Eagle
.'

This time Captain Kennedy's eyes glinted with irritation.

‘He may not welcome us with open arms but he won't turn us away to face the storm with a broken ship, and he certainly won't shoot at us. Now please get your bag ready, we'll be there soon.'

Rose lips pursed in a stubborn pout. She crossed her arms on her chest.

‘What if I'd rather stay on board while you're carrying out the repairs?'

Captain Kennedy shot her a stern look before putting his hat back on.

‘I'm not giving you a choice, Miss Saintclair. It's my duty to keep you safe, and I say you're going to the Lodge tonight.'

Rose wanted to protest again, to stomp her foot on the wooden floorboards, maybe even shed a tear or two, but she could see it would be pointless. Captain Kennedy wouldn't be swayed, no matter what she did or said. With a deep sigh, she turned to look once again at the grim fortress.

‘This has got to be the most brutal landscape I've ever seen,' she said, suddenly thoughtful. ‘In fact it's so brutal it's almost poetic. Listen to the howling wind and the waves battering the cliffs. And those birds! They sound like ghosts of sailors lost at sea.'

A cold shiver crawled down her spine.

‘Look at the shadows filling the sky, as black as the devil's own cloak. And that beacon at the top of the tower is the only light for miles around. It's no surprise Lord McGunn has a dark soul, living here. Anyone would.'

Captain Kennedy arched his bushy grey eyebrows and smiled.

‘These are nice, fancy words, miss, but I'm afraid there's nothing poetic about the place… or the man.'

One hour later, she was forced to admit that he was right.

‘McGunn! Get down here!' MacBoyd shouted from the bottom of the stairs. ‘One of McRae's clippers just sailed into the Kyle. We'd better go down to the harbour; I have the feeling things are about to turn nasty.'

Bruce dropped his pen on top of the papers that cluttered his desk, rubbed his aching forehead and let out a weary sigh. What now? Since coming back from Inverness the night before, there'd been nothing but bad news. In fact, ever since his grandfather had died and he'd come back to take charge of the estate, his life had been a continual stream of bad news – a long, bleak winter.

His tea had long gone cold but he gulped it down anyway, then rose to his feet and walked to the window overlooking the stormy grey expanse of ocean. What was McRae's clipper doing here? Had the man come to taunt him, and remind him that he'd soon be master at Wrath if Bruce didn't come up with the money to repay the bank?

From the look of the sky, dark and heavy with snow clouds, that day was looming closer. No fishing boat would go out today or the following day. There would be no fish to cure, pack and ship away, and no money to be made.

A blinding white light flashed in front of him, pain slashed through his head and settled behind his eyes. His heart started drumming, fast, too fast. He pressed his forehead against the cold window pane, closed his eyes and took a few long, deep, steadying breaths. If only this damned headache would leave him alone…

‘McGunn! Have you fallen asleep up there?'

Bruce cleared his throat with a cough.

‘I'll be down in a minute,' he called back and the pain faded to a dull but bearable ache.

He grabbed hold of his black riding coat, hesitated, and strode towards his desk. Opening the top drawer he took his pistol out. His people were good people – well, most of them were – but there was no telling what they'd do if they found themselves face to face with McRae or the thugs he employed. Hell, there was no telling what
he
would do!

He slipped on his coat, put the pistol in the pocket and ran down the stairs.

‘About time,' MacBoyd growled when he saw him. ‘What kept you?'

With the thick sheepskin coat covering his bulky figure, the matching hat hiding his thick, curly red hair and the scowl on his bearded face, MacBoyd looked more bear than man.

‘Paperwork, what else?'

Bruce opened the Lodge's heavy front door and the two men walked down the steps into the courtyard. A lad brought their horses out of the stable block. Shadow neighed and bucked, skittish as a gust of wind blew across the yard and whipped dust, grit and sleet onto his shiny black coat. Bruce took hold of the reins, whispered soothing words and patted the horse's neck before putting his foot into the stirrup and lifting himself into the saddle.

‘It's the
Sea Eagle
returning from North Africa,' MacBoyd explained as they started at an easy pace on the cliff path.

‘North Africa? Do you think McRae is on board?'

His friend shook his head.

‘No, he sailed back two weeks ago on his other clipper, the
Sea Lady
. According to two crew members who just rowed into the harbour to request shelter, the
Sea Eagle
is taking McRae's
lady friend
to Thurso, en route for Westmore.'

Bruce arched his eyebrows. ‘Another mistress? Damn, how many women does the man need? Anyway, I thought he was getting married to Lady Sophia Fairbanks in a couple of weeks.'

MacBoyd looked at him and winked.

‘There's no reason why he can't have a wife and a fancy woman to play with at the same time.'

‘Maybe, but if Lady Fairbanks hears about it, she might call off the wedding. That new mistress must be pretty special if McRae is prepared to risk losing his fiancée's formidable dowry and the influence her family will bring him at court.'

MacBoyd laughed. ‘Some men have all the luck.'

‘I don't think lumbering yourself with two women is lucky,' Bruce replied with a tight smile, ‘but at least McRae won't get bored at night, or worry about paying back his bank loans.'

Unlike me
, he finished silently, and on both counts… He glanced down at the harbour, lined with fishing boats, the cottages huddling together in the stormy dusk.

‘I haven't had the chance to tell you yet,' he started as they cantered on the way down to the village, ‘but my meeting in Inverness with McCabe and Blair didn't go well. If I don't come up with the money before the end of the year, they'll repossess the estate and sell it at auction.'

His fingers gripped the reins more tightly. ‘And we both know who'll put in the winning bid.'

MacBoyd clicked his tongue. ‘McRae, of course… He and his witch of a mother won't rest until they own Wrath and the whole of Northern Scotland.'

Bruce looked down at the clipper which rocked on the Kyle's choppy waters and frowned.