to see what that has to do with you,” she added, noticing the shadows flitting eerily to and fro in the failing afternoon light. She found the idea of being stuck by herself, with no light and little notion of how to get back to the house, rather daunting. She reluctantly swallowed her pride and rose.
“Since you’re determined to come along, we’d better go, though I’m sure I could manage. Thank you all the same,” she added as a grudging afterthought.
“Okay. Let’s get moving. By the way, what’s your name?”
“India Moncrieff,” she replied, cross that she couldn’t just walk off and dump him.
“Nice to meet you, too,” he replied, making no effort to conceal the cynical glint in his eyes.
India straightened her jacket. If he was a friend of Peter and Diana’s, there couldn’t be much harm in letting him take her back to the house. Except for the damage it was doing to her pride, she realized ruefully, watching him pick up his shotgun and whistle to the dogs, his dark hair tousled by the wind.
They emerged from the glen and headed toward the burn. At the first blast of biting wind whipping her face, India’s mood changed, as suddenly, all her reasons for being here today came to mind. She trudged on, thinking bleakly of what awaited her back at the house. She’d gone to the glen to flee reality, to try to find some peace, if only for a little while. But it had been a short-lived reprieve.
They crossed the rickety wooden bridge, the dogs splashing through the ice-cold water of the shallow burn, then shaking themselves vigorously on the other side.
As they began the short trek up the steep hill that led to the gardens and the lawn, India thought of the future, and what it would hold for her now that she was alone. Serena, her half sister, was her only close family now; she barely knew her cousins. A stab of loneliness made her catch her breath, but she pushed the thought aside, and directed her focus to the man beside her. His presence was rather forbidding, despite his rakish American good looks and determination to escort her home.
She quickened her pace and reached the top of the hill ahead of him, exhaling small white wisps into the cold wind. She leaned against the huge trunk of the ancient oak tree that stood tall and alone and gazed over at Dunbar. To her astonishment the sight filled her with an unexpected feeling of expectation rather than gloom.
All was not lost, some unknown voice seemed to say.
A sudden surge of new strength coursed through her, followed by a mantle of peace that descended strangely upon her from out of the mist. The tight knot that had been in her stomach ever since she’d arrived at Dunbar slowly began to unwind, and for an instant she could have sworn someone was next to her.
But the moment passed, disappearing into the penumbra so fast she wondered if she’d been dreaming. It was all too easy to be entranced by the mysticism of the place. Too easy to sigh, too easy to hope, too easy to dream dreams that could never, would never, come true.
Scotland had a soothing effect on Jack. Ever since his first visit four years earlier he’d loved it. The rough natural beauty, the unspoiled landscape and heather-covered hills bathed in soft shades of white and purple had enchanted him, and he’d felt an immediate connection. Now the auburn tones of autumn were fading into winter, as the trees bared their branches, and frost sparkled, a fairylike blanket covering the fields. Damp leaves were being burned nearby and the smell brought back childhood memories of Tennessee, of his parents, both dead long since, and Chad, his little brother, running, kicking leaves up in the air to the sound of their mother’s laughter.
He reached the top of the incline shortly after India and stopped, lowering his shotgun, drinking in the magnificence of the sight before him.
Across a vast stretch of manicured lawn stood Dunbar House, stately and majestic, its clean architectural lines softened by the gentle pink hue of the local stone, still visible among the fading shadows. A herd of Highland cattle, barely discernible through the mist, grazed peacefully in a field to the right of the east wing. Not a sound disturbed the magic tranquillity that reigned, serene and timeless.
It was an awesome sight, one that sent shivers running through him. “Does this place belong to your family?” he asked at last.
“Yes.” Her eyes, like his, were fixed on the house. “There have been Dunbars here forever. At least since the late 1200s. They were baron raiders then, roaming the countryside in hordes, stealing their neighbors’ sheep.”
“The house is amazing. When was it built?”
“The mid-1700s. William started it, building on to a previous smaller structure, but it was finished by Fergus Dunbar, a cousin who inherited when William’s son Rob was killed at the Battle of Culloden.”
“What was the old house like?” he asked, suddenly curious.
“I think it was a small hunting lodge, but I’m not quite sure.” She seemed anxious to go, but Jack stood still, entranced.
“It would make a fabulous hotel,” he remarked thoughtfully.
“Hotel?” Her head shot round, her expression horrified. “What a dreadful idea. I can’t think of anything worse. Dunbar has always been a home.”
“It was just a thought,” he countered apologetically. “Tell me more about Fergus.”
“Fergus did rather well for himself,” India said, moving toward the lawn. “During the uprising in 1745 he supported the English, and made lots of money. Since the rightful heir, Robert Dunbar, was conveniently dead, Fergus inherited and added on to the house. There’s a picture of him in the portrait gallery. I can’t say I like the looks of him, though. He’s always given me the creeps.”
“Why?” Jack asked, amused. “What did he do that was so bad?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged as they walked. “Some say he was a traitor. Lots of people around here were Jacobites, although they couldn’t admit to it. But even though they didn’t fight for Bonnie Prince Charlie, they never would have done anything to aid and abet the English.”
“Is that what Fergus did?”
“According to legend.” Again she shrugged and smiled. “I suppose stories get enhanced as the years go by. But he certainly made enough money to hire Adam to complete the house.”
“One of the Adam brothers?”
“Yes, the most renowned architect of that period.”
“He did a fine job.”
India glanced at him, her eyes softening. “I think so, too. It’s so serene, so…I can’t quite explain it.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
Their earlier antagonism seemed to have dissipated mysteriously in the cloak of gray mist surrounding them. By the time they reached the house and headed for a small door in the east wing, it was nearly dark.
Jack shuddered again for no reason and turned, glancing back across the lawn at the huge oak tree etched majestically on the dim horizon. Then his gaze moved to India, who was twisting the stiff brass doorknob on the heavy oak door.
“I guess you’ll be okay now.” He hesitated, catching a sudden glimpse of welcoming
