The Dream Catcher (13 page)

‘Wake up or he'll die. They're coming for him.'

The French woman's voice was louder, more urgent.

A French woman, here in her room at the Lodge in the middle of the night? Perhaps it wasn't a dream after all. Rose's eyes flew open and she sat up.

‘Who's here?
Qui est là
?'

There was no answer, and the only sound was the sound of her heart thumping.

‘Don't be silly. Of course it's a dream,' she said aloud, talking to herself.

She was about to slide back under the covers when strange lights shone through the uncurtained windows. Green, blue and red, they moved along the bedroom walls, on the floor and ceiling, forming exquisite patterns and arabesques. Pulling the sheets down, she ran to the window, and pressed her nose to the cold glass. The whole sky was alive with shimmering colours and vast, swirling shapes which stretched from one side of the horizon to the other.

What magic was this?

She grabbed the first warm things she found – McGunn's thick socks and his plaid. The socks were so thick it was a struggle to lace up her boots but she managed it at last, and wrapping herself into the plaid, she rushed out of the room, down the stairs and across the hallway. Someone had left the castle's front door open.

Her breath steaming in front of her, she walked across the deserted courtyard and out onto the clifftop, hardly feeling the cold. The multi-coloured lights swirled, danced and reflected on the surface of the ocean, and along the horizon a line ran, bright red like crushed rubies.

She tilted her face to the sky and twirled around herself, a smile of wonder on her face.

Then she saw him in the distance, a tall figure standing on the cliff edge, his white shirt almost glowing under the shimmering lights. Lord McGunn.

The warning in her dream rushed back to her mind.
Hurry or he'll die
. What if it was true and his life was in danger? Surely he knew his cliffs and wouldn't be so careless as to step over the edge. And did she really care if he did?

Of course she did! She might dislike the man intensely, but she wasn't that callous and would never go back to the Lodge without making sure he was safe.

‘Lord McGunn!' she called, hurrying towards him.

He turned slowly and frowned, as if he couldn't quite remember who she was. ‘I know you, don't I?'

‘Of course you know me!'

What was wrong with him? His voice was soft, his eyes dreamy with none of their usual harshness. ‘What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?'

He turned back to the ocean which stretched like a sea of coloured lights in front of them. ‘They're coming for me.'

‘Who is coming? Are you expecting a ship at Wrath Harbour, now, in the middle of the night?'

He didn't answer. He must be drunk, even though she couldn't smell liquor on his breath and his speech wasn't slurred. Whatever the matter with him, he couldn't stay here, without a coat, not even a jacket, or he'd catch his death.

She slipped her hand under his arm. His shirt was stiff with frost. How could he not feel the cold?

‘Come with me, we need to go back.'

She pulled him away from the cliff edge, and heaved a sigh of relief when he didn't put up any resistance but followed her meekly back to the Lodge. There was definitely something the matter with him, she thought as she led the way into the hall.

‘Right. I'll leave you now,' she said after closing the door behind them. ‘Good night.'

He didn't answer. Maybe he hadn't heard what she'd said.

‘Good night,' she repeated more loudly as she started up the stairs. When she was half way up, she couldn't help but glance down. He hadn't moved at all, but stood on the same spot, as if lost in a dream.

‘Lord McGunn, you must change into warm clothes,' she called, leaning over the stair railing.

‘Do I?' He closed his eyes, rubbed his hands on his face, raked his fingers through his hair but still didn't move.

What if he stayed here all night, in this strange drunken stupor? Ah well, she shrugged, she'd done him a favour by helping him back home, and it was enough. He was a rude, bad-tempered oaf. A man who had made fun of her, humiliated her from the moment she'd arrived. Worse still, he wanted to keep her hostage while he blackmailed her husband. Why should she care then if he spent the night in the hall, and caught a chill because he was too drunk to go to his room?

In fact, it would be better if he fell ill. This way he wouldn't watch over her, and she might be able to escape Wrath more easily.

She carried on up the stairs, and once at the top, leaned over the railings again to cast another glance in his direction. He hadn't moved an inch. Her chest tightened, a strange feeling fluttered inside her. Was it worry, pity or guilt, or something else? Very well, she resolved. She must be the silliest woman alive, but she couldn't leave him here all night.

She ran down the stairs. ‘Why are you still standing here?' she asked as she touched his hand. It was so cold it made her gasp. Taking both his hands inside hers, she rubbed them gently, and lifted them to her lips to blow her warm breath over them.

‘There, it's better,' she said a moment later. ‘Come with me, I'll take you to your room now.'

Once again he let her lead the way along the corridors to his tower and up his spiral staircase. She pushed the door to his study, glad to see that a fire still burned in the fireplace.

‘I'll get some warm clothes for you,' she said before stepping down to his room.

She grabbed the first clothes she found in a heap on a chair, all the time avoiding to glance at the bed into which she had tumbled the night before.

‘There, take these.' She held out the clothes when she returned into the study.

He gave no indication that he'd heard her and stared at the fire.

‘At least change your shirt. It's frozen stiff,' she urged.

This time he looked at her.

‘Aye, you're right. Sorry.' He rose and started fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

She let out an impatient sigh. At this rate, it would take him all night to undo his shirt, and she was in a hurry to get back to her room before someone saw her.

‘Let me help you.'

He stood, as docile and helpless as a child, as she unbuttoned his shirt. As always when she was nervous, she started talking too much, too fast.

‘What was happening to the sky tonight? I've never seen anything like it. All those colours and shapes, it was like a wizard sprinkling magic dust all over the universe.'

Her fingers brushed against his bare skin and she gasped as if she'd been burnt.

‘It was the Northern Lights,' he replied in a quiet voice. ‘The
Na Fir Chlis
– the Merry Dancers.'

Her fingers froze as she recalled the voice in her dream – the voice that spoke about dancers…

‘Merry Dancers? That's a pretty name.'

He sighed. ‘It's not meant to be. They are warriors covered with blood.'

‘Blood?'

‘They are celebrating after battle. Then they take the dead and the wounded away. Tonight they were coming for me.'

A shiver ran down her spine. Looking up, she met his mournful gaze.

‘Why would they? You are neither wounded nor dead.'

He shrugged. ‘I am wounded all right – in there.' He pointed to his head. ‘And I'll be dead soon enough.'

Once again, his words sent chills down her back.

‘Whisky really doesn't agree with you, you know. It makes you even more gloomy than usual. Anyway why should people dance after a battle? There is nothing to celebrate in war, just death and carnage.'

Shaking her head, she added. ‘No, I really don't like your Merry Dancers. I'll stick to my wizard dust.'

She finished unbuttoning his shirt, helping him slip it off his shoulders. It fell to the floor before she could catch it.

‘Now you need to put this on, then I'll leave you to rest.'

Her cheeks warm, her heart in a flutter, she turned away from his bare chest to take hold of the flannel shirt.

‘Please stay,' he whispered. ‘I don't want to be alone… with them.'

Surprised by the wistfulness in his voice, she looked up and met his serious grey stare.

‘There's nobody here, Lord McGunn.'

He shook his head, and his lips stretched in a sad, resigned smile.

‘They're always here, waiting in the shadows. I can see them.'

Rose frowned. His words found an echo deep inside her. She too could feel a presence lurking in the shadows at Wrath Lodge.

‘I'm sorry, even if I wanted to, I couldn't stay in your room. It's not proper and I have to think of my reputation.'

And yet she remained rooted to the spot while he stood close, so close she could breathe in the scent of his skin. Suddenly there wasn't enough air in the room. Light-headed, her heart beating thick and fast, she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

The odd, rough-edged medallion that had scraped her cheek the night before gleamed in the light of the fire but she hardly noticed it. It was the tattoo stencilled in dark blue ink on his chest that mesmerized her. What foreign alphabet was this, and what did it say? If only she could touch it, decipher it.

She lifted her hand to trace the blue patterns with her finger.

‘Rose,' he called, his voice bringing her back to reality – and to what she had been about to do, ‘I'm not…very well.'

Her cheeks burning, she dropped her hand to her side and looked at him. He was deadly pale and was breathing too fast. She just had time to push the leather chair closer before he sunk into it, his hand clutched onto his chest. Leaning forward, she touched his forehead with the tip of her fingers. His skin was cold, yet covered with a layer of perspiration.

She had to help him get warm. She wrapped the plaid around his shoulders, then turned to the fire and quickly threw a few peat briquettes on the grate, poking at them until flames shot up.

‘Lord McGunn, what's the matter?' She knelt at his side, touched his hand.

He didn't answer. His eyes were closed, his breathing so faint she could hardly hear it. If anything, he looked even paler.

She moaned in despair and glanced around the room. What could she do? If she fetched Morag, Agnes or one of his men, everybody would know she'd been alone with him in his room in the middle of the night.

What about a drink of whisky? Captain Kennedy told her once that there was no better cure for a hangover than a tumbler of single malt. She rose to her feet, looked around the room. A brown bottle stood on the desk amidst piles of papers and ledgers. She unscrewed the top, took a sniff and pulled a face. It smelled a little like whisky. She lifted the bottle to read the handwritten label.

‘Medicinal Tonic,' she whispered.

Her hand shook as she poured some of the liquor into a glass. She would drink the tonic too, she decided, as she started shivering with cold and tiredness. She drank a long gulp, choked and almost spat everything out. By Old Ibrahim's Beard, the mixture of whisky and herbs was disgusting, and the taste so fierce it could wake the dead. This was just what Lord McGunn needed.

She handed him the glass and he looked up, his eyes were the colour of raging seas and dark, stormy skies. The plaid slipped off his shoulders and his medallion caught the light again. For the first time she noticed the half star and crescent moon engraved on its surface, with two numbers underneath. She squinted to decipher them: they were all blurry and she found she couldn't focus.

Suddenly dizzy, she gripped the arm of the chair with one hand. Something was happening to her, something unpleasant and frightening. It was like being on the
Sea Eagle
in the middle of the storm all over again. She swayed on her feet, her ears filled with the buzzing of a thousand wasps. Her body burned, red hot like the Sahara sand under the August sun.

Behind McGunn, the fire roared and crackled. It grew larger, brighter, hotter, as if about to swallow the whole room.

‘Lord McGunn,' she breathed out, ‘I don't know what's wrong but I'm not feeling very well either.'

The glass slipped from her fingers. She heard a distant crash of crystal shattering. McGunn held his hand out, gripped her wrist and she fell into a deep, dark pit.

Something tickled his chest, something soft and light like a feather. Without opening his eyes, he ran his fingers through long, thick and fragrant hair, along the side of a slender waist, down the tantalising curve of a hip. A woman, barely clothed, nestled against him, her breathing slow and regular. He didn't need to open his eyes to know who she was. He would recognise her scent anywhere.

He lifted his eyelids. A grey blue glare filtered through the window.

Rose McRae was fast asleep in his arms. Slowly he traced the contour of her round cheek with his finger before trailing down to the hollow of her throat and the frilly neckline of her nightshirt. Her skin was as delicate, as velvety as a rose petal.

What was she doing in his arms, barely clothed but wearing her boots and his thick socks, and why was his shirt discarded on the floor next to the armchair? Perhaps she had been chasing after the elusive Dark Lady again.

Had he…? Had they…? He frowned.

No, of course they hadn't. He might be ill and suffer from memory loss but he would remember bedding a woman, especially Rose McRae. Or would he? He sighed, closed his eyes. These days he lost important papers, failed to remember names of people and places. He even forgot meetings about he'd arranged and instructions he'd given to his staff, like sending McNeil to Alltnacailich.

His nights weren't any better. He hardly slept, and when he did he suffered the most disturbing nightmares, which left him every morning with a throbbing headache and a brain so fuzzy even a long, hard ride on the moors didn't help.