https://books2read.com/Dancing-the-Reel
Chapter One
If pirates roamed the twenty-first-century Scottish coast, he would be their king.
A sudden wind gust rocked Jazz’s baby car and rain hammered on its roof while she waited to drive onto this floating tea tray, euphemistically described in the timetable as a car ferry. The pirate guy, presumably the deckhand, his height and build imposing in head-to-foot yellow oilskins, spoke to the SUV parked next to her, whose reverse on surely took up more than his fair share of deck. Reversing? Help! A plumber’s minivan with a pipe protruding lethally far from its roof reversed smartly, cramming itself beside the SUV. These vehicles took up the whole deck width, leaving barely enough space in front of them for the remaining two. The deckhand appeared to share a joke with the driver of a rusty pickup truck, who backed on next and stopped a hair space in front of the SUV.
Jazz moistened her dry lips and swiped her clammy hands on her jeans. Her turn.
As he approached her, a blast of wind blew his oilskin hood from his head. He tugged it back, but not before she noticed his shoulder-length black ponytail and one gold-hooped earring. Broad fingers rapped on the rain-lashed car window while a wicked mouth with two rows of even white teeth offered a flirty smile. She lowered the window, letting in a hiss of wind and a million raindrops, and handed him her ticket.
His face, a young pirate face, vigorous black eyebrows, midnight eyes, several days’ rather sinister dark stubble on a cliff-face jaw, angled close to hers. She shivered, a quarter from the cold and three quarters from the proximity of such a lust-worthy creature.
Oh boy. She wouldn’t mind being this pirate’s captive. Taken to his hideout on a remote island…seduced…whoa there. She was headed for an island, although one perhaps not particularly remote, in the Scottish Inner Hebrides. As for seduction—fat chance.
“You okay with reversing on?” His Scottish-accented deep voice stirred her pulse.
Masking her reaction to him, as well as her apprehension about boarding, Jazz nodded. She, who rather than reverse park would drive three times around the block looking for a straight-in spot, was far from okay. She wouldn’t let him see it. A girl had her pride.
He pushed the nearside wing mirror in. “You’ll fit under the plumber’s pipe. Watch me in your other wing mirror, and I’ll guide you when to stop.” His cheeky face split into a wide grin. “Promise. I’ve never let anyone hit anything yet. Reverse now.”
Never? Doubtless his first day on the job.
She turned her car, and inched backwards, gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled fingers. Lining up with the ferry’s side, she sensed the car go up the ramp onto the deck. As she edged farther, she watched him while trying to keep an eye on the truck next to her. A large black and white dog on the passenger seat put its tongue out at her. Impulsively, suiting her mood, she poked her tongue out in return, glimpsing a grin on the face of the elderly driver. She couldn’t see the plumber’s pipe, and half expected a crunch as her roof scraped it. But—ouch! She heard the grate of metal on metal when the passenger door slid along the deck rail. The deckhand raised a hand for her to stop.
Taking a deep breath, she swore. Still, a bit more damage to the car wouldn’t matter; it needed to last only a few more weeks anyway. He squeezed between the vehicles to her side.
She lowered the window. “A first for you, a vehicle hitting something.”
To his credit, he appeared suitably contrite, as if he’d schooled his face into lines of commiseration. “We were both aware of Hamish’s truck.”
“What about my car?”
“I’ll get it fixed for you.”
“Well, thanks. On the island?”
“Uh huh. You’ll be first off. Park and wait for me.”
“Is everyone going to Wee Gilmachor?”
“Only you.”
“But—”
With one hand, warm, smooth, and rain-damp, he closed her mouth. With the other, he took a chocolate bar, somewhat squashed, from his pocket, and tucked it into the neck of her sweater. The ferry hooted.
“Time to cast off.”
With her fingertips, Jazz rubbed her mouth, wondering why she didn’t feel that kind of touch from a stranger to be presumptuous. But pirates were known to be bold… She watched him raise the ramp, secure the barrier gates, and deal with the ropes. Even in clumsy wet-weather gear, he moved with a kind of animal grace. Learned, no doubt, from keeping upright while fighting with cutlasses on marauding galleons.
She hadn’t expected the ferry to be this small. People had to stay in their vehicles since there was no room to open a door. In her ignorance, she’d thought she could get coffee and something to eat aboard, and now, three hours since breakfast in Glasgow, her stomach tingled with hunger. Still, lack of food may be as well, considering the potential here for seasickness. She nibbled on the chocolate—doubly welcome since it was her favourite fruit and nut.
The boat churned and lurched its way through waves thumping against the hull. Several times the sea washed over the railing, while blustery rain rode on the wind. She could add rust to her car’s list of problems. Surely, sometime in her three weeks here the weather must improve. If the area was this cold and wet in a July summer, whatever would it be like in winter? Happily, by then, she’d be far, far away.
Thirty minutes later the ferry entered a small U-shaped harbour. Although the sea calmed down here, fishing boats, dinghies, and large smart yachts still bounced and swung at their moorings. The ferry slowed and reversed for the vehicles to drive onto land. WELCOME TO GRAND GILMACHOR, a notice board announced. Grand? She was supposed to be going to Wee. The deckhand fixed the ropes, lowered the ramp, and opened the gates. He reached across to reposition her wing mirror and gave her a thumbs up.
The best thing about disembarking was driving forwards, though the whole arrangement seemed a tad iffy. Water, depth unknown, slapped between the end of the boat’s ramp and dry—relatively dry—land. She suspected she’d stall the engine and/or drive into the sea and drown. Amazingly, her car splashed off the ramp still functioning. Manoeuvring up the steepish concrete slipway—slip being the operative word—was tricky, and her car needed new tyres. These three weeks had better be worth it. Avoiding puddles, she parked and waited for him to tell her why she’d ended up here and not on Wee Gilmachor.
* * *
Watching the rest of the vehicles disembark, Angus thought about the woman in the beat-up car. He’d get her damage patched up, though the bodywork carried so many dents and scratches one more would be hardly noticeable. Obviously she didn’t understand about the crossing to Wee Gil. He’d have to enlighten her, and she probably wouldn’t be pleased. He wondered if she’d last the three weeks Boots had booked her for. From his point of view, he certainly wanted her to, since a decorative female newcomer might add a welcome pizzazz to his social life.
“I’ll be right back,” he shouted to Skipper, as he headed for her car.
She lowered the window. “Chocolate was nice, thanks. How am I going to get to the other island?”
He recognised her accent, though one seldom heard here. He’d discuss it later, confident there’d be a later. “They should have told you. The ferry between Grand Gil and the mainland operates to a schedule. From here to Wee Gil it’s on demand. But—”
“I booked. I demanded!” She tossed her head, sending her gold-tipped brown curls dancing.
“I know. To Wee Gil, we take this ferry or sometimes an outboard dinghy if they’re day visitors, depending on the number.”
“And if they have a car.”
“No cars. Wee Gil is hills and cliffs, no roads.”
She smacked a fist on the steering wheel. “Nobody told me. What am I supposed to do with my car?”
Her eyes narrowed accusingly at him, as if he’d personally changed the local topography. Brown eyes lit with gold, like her hair. Unusual eyes he might like to appreciate under different circumstances.
“Leave it on this island. You get around Wee Gil on a quad bike.” How would she go with this? She didn’t appear fragile—determined cheekbones, a firm, enticingly curved mouth… Down boy, let’s not think about her mouth right now. “Will you be okay with that?”
“No problem. We use them on my parents’ farm. When am I going to get to the damn place?”
“Not today. You’re lucky you’re this far. We’re cancelling the rest of today’s trips due to worsening weather.”
“I’m stuck here?”
“Afraid you are.” With his thumb, he indicated across the road. “You’ll be able to book into the inn. They’re used to stranded passengers. Someone will tell you when you can cross to Wee Gil.”
“But I’m expected today. I’m going to Ms McWellie and I must tell her.” She turned to an assortment of bags stacked on the passenger seat. “I’ll email. My laptop’s right here, and I’ve been communicating with her that way.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll radio her for you.”
“You will? Okay, thanks. This is rather out of the blue…” She grinned, a sudden sassy smile. “…or rather, out of this black sky. Don’t break your promise!”
“Touché. What’s your name?”
“Jazz. Er, Jasmine. Yours?”
“Angus. Good luck, Jazz.”
As he headed back to the ferry to finish his work, he feared she might need all the luck she could muster.
* * *
At six-thirty that evening, Jazz sat at one of the inn’s restaurant window tables. Rain sluiced down the glass. Beyond the pond-size puddles on the road, the ferry bumped against the huge tyres attached to several concrete posts to which the boat was tied. For sure, the inn knew how to look after marooned visitors; her fish pie smelled and tasted like heaven, while the white wine agreeably massaged her throat. Her attic room was warm and comfortable, with a sea view east towards the mainland that in better weather conditions would be magnificent.
Sensing glances directed at her, she checked the bar along the back wall of the room. The two men there, the barman and a kilted guy, suddenly found great interest in a bottle of something brown. She strained her ears to listen to their voices but made out no English word. Were they speaking Gaelic? With another quick look from the barman, she guessed they were talking about her. When she’d entered the room, other customers were already seated at tables, and no one was at the bar. Kilt hadn’t entered through the front door, so he must be staying and come down the stairs.
Wait! Didn’t that cheeky deckhand sport a short ponytail like Kilt? Finishing her meal, she had room left for a slice of the delicious banoffee pie she’d enjoyed on arrival, and coffee. She stood up to go and order from the bar—and almost stumbled. The dark gaze of the piratical deckhand arrowed straight at her. He raised a glass towards her and said something to the barman. Bravely ignoring the sudden catch in her chest, she dropped back onto her seat and crossed her arms. How easy to flirt with this nicely put together specimen of manhood, but she’d see if he made the first move. She fixed her eyes on the dismal scene outside.
“Jazz.”
Hmm, move made. He stood by her table, a glass of amber stuff in each hand. Placing them down carefully, he sat opposite her.
“You do drink whisky?”
This was more a statement than a question. He regarded her with magnetic almost black eyes fringed by thick, curling lashes. Eyes impossible to ignore. She curled her fingers inside her fists to resist the temptation to skim them along his closely trimmed beard. Licking her lips, she found her voice. “Looks like I do.” She didn’t, being more of a white wine or vodka girl, but wouldn’t admit this to a native of whisky’s home country.
“Good. This is our best single malt, distilled on another Hebridean island.” He touched his glass to hers. “Welcome to Grand Gilmachor. We meet again under improved circumstances.”
“Yes. Um, you do look somewhat different.”
Indeed he did. In oilskins, he’d appeared bulky, but now she saw he was in fact perfectly constructed for his height, six one or two. He wore a silky black polo neck sweater under a tweed jacket, the forest-green tone of which predominated in his kilt. She caught the light, fresh scent of his cologne, and wished she’d bothered with a mist of fragrance. As he turned his chair sideways to the table, she glimpsed a pair of beautiful knees, not knobbly, slightly rounded, and, a surprise in this climate, a light tan that contrasted somehow sexily with his long black socks. His fancy shoes with their laces tied up his legs fascinated her. She shifted her gaze to his hands. Not pale, unlike the hands of almost everyone she’d met since leaving home; rather, they told of a man who spent time outdoors.
She sipped her whisky, managing not to gag on the fiery taste. “This is a charming inn. Are you staying here too?”
“No, I live on this island.”
“I thought you must run the ferry with your…” She allowed her glance to range over him. “Your best clothes in a backpack in case you couldn’t get home.”
He chuckled. “We do carry spare kit, but the ferry workers on this route live here and if we have to cancel trips, we try to make it home first. I came into the bar the back way, via the car park. I wanted to check your damage.”
“Well, thanks, but it doesn’t matter. As long as the thing keeps going for another few weeks, I can’t worry over the odd scrape. I bought it cheap because of its dings. You can relax—I won’t sue the ferry company.”
“Promise?” Amusement sparkled in his eyes.
“Promise. What’s the chance of getting to the other island tomorrow?”
“Fifty-fifty. The weather changes quickly here. I checked the forecast—the wind should drop overnight and the rain turn to showers. I let Ms McWellie know. Er, I don’t always break my promises.”
He flicked her a killer of a smile. The kind of smile that scrambled her pulse, zipped heat up and down her spine. A long draught of iced water would be the best idea, but she took too much whisky and hiccupped.
“Sorry. Thanks. I guess she understands about the weather.”
“Of course. She’s spent enough time here.” He raised his black brows at her. “If you’ve done your research, you’ll know that.”
“I have done some research on Ms McWellie, though not enough on the area. I was in a great rush to leave London, and I gave the Gilmachor website only a hasty glance, enough to find out where the islands are. I didn’t check anything except the home page. I assume from that remark you know why I’m going there.”
He nodded. “To ghostwrite her memoirs, aka Dishing the Dirt.”
“Dirt? Excuse me, what are you talking about?”
“Your research must have turned up a few sods of muck.”
She pushed her glass away. “I don’t think I should be having this conversation. While I understand these are small islands and probably everyone knows everyone else’s business, in a job like this what I do is confidential.”
He moved her glass closer to her hand. “Okay, Ms Prissy. Tell me about yourself. What is an Australian doing a long way from home?”
“How do you know I’m Australian?”
“Your accent. I spent a year on a West Australian sheep farm.”
She blinked in surprise. “Oh? Can I ask why?”
“I’m a farmer.”
“Not deckhand?”
“My day job. I did work experience in New Zealand and Australia. I have a hundred sheep on Wee Gil and a hundred here. A handful compared with the numbers on your farms.”
She nodded. “My parents graze merinos in Victoria’s Western District, last estimate four thousand. I understand the economics of sheep farming, and I’d guess here it doesn’t keep you.”
“It doesn’t. I’m working on it.” He finished his drink. “We were talking about you. How come it’s you working for Boots?”
“Boots? I came across the nickname in some of the Internet material concerning her. Is Boots used here? I gathered it’s not only from McWellie, but because of her tendency to walk all over people.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s common knowledge. She was a Member of Parliament for twenty years.”
“Yes, until she lost her seat in the recent general election. Hence the memoir. I was out of work except for a cleaner’s job when I saw her advertisement in a newspaper. I prefer a visit to Scotland with three weeks free board and lodging plus cash to mopping floors, and the start date was almost immediate.”
“You’re a writer?”
“A journalist. I was. Probably now unemployable as such.”
“How come? What have you done? Libelled someone? Plagiarised?”
“After university, I worked on a magazine based in Melbourne. I was lucky enough to be promoted a few times, until I became features editor. Then the publication folded and I took off to try my luck in London..”
He didn’t need to know lack of work was not the only reason. In hindsight, she’d like herself better if it were. If she hadn’t been such a fool… Still, she’d recovered from the humiliation of arriving without warning, with the intention of surprising the man she’d thought she loved, who’d left Melbourne for a prestigious London job and asked her to follow him. She’d found him in bed with some orange-haired floozy. While the experience had taught her not to give her heart easily, she’d maintained her flirting skills. Opposite her sat the best opportunity in months to give them a workout.
“Go on,” Angus prompted.
“I had enormous luck to start with. Only three weeks after arriving, I landed a plum position on a women’s monthly. Deputy features editor, a great job. You may not be surprised to hear that magazine folded after a year too. Then an outdoor quarterly took me on. Working with them was fantastic, as we visited out-of-the-way places—” She flicked him a smile. “—but not Scotland in my time. We trialled excursions, equipment, courses, and reported on them. I learned a lot, but guess what, after I’d worked on two issues the economy hit, advertising revenue fell away, and last in was first out—me. I’m death to any publication.” She picked up her glass, astonished to find it empty. She hadn’t been aware of drinking the whisky, so its taste couldn’t have been too awful. “After my assignment here, I’m going home to find another career.”
“Sounds like a long run of bad luck. Another wee dram?”
“Dram?”
He touched her glass. “This.”
“Ah. No thanks. I was about to ask for a coffee when you arrived with a, um, a dram. I wondered if they had any banoffee pie left. Banana, toffee, and cream, I’m already addicted.”
“I’ll check. How do you like your coffee?”
“Black with separate cold milk. Ask them to put it on my room number.”
As she watched him stride to the bar, kilt swinging around long, muscular legs, she reflected they weren’t truly flirting. Rather, they’d talked as if genuinely interested in each other’s lives. There was more about him she wanted to know. Much more, like how he managed both the sheep and the ferry, his time in Western Australia…and, too, she admitted to herself, what he did in any spare time he might have. Surely, she’d have a day off sometime.
Angus placed two coffees, milk, and one plate of pie on the table. “In luck with the pie, this is the last slice.”
“Great, thank you. Have you had your dinner?”
“Before I left home. I don’t always come to the inn afterwards, but tonight…” He sat down, inching his chair a fraction closer to hers. “I thought you might be here.” So he’d changed into what Jazz called his best clothes, ready for a spot of flirting. But instead, they seemed to be having a reasonable conversation.
Although, from the somewhat speculative look she gave him, he couldn’t be sure about the not flirting. She poured milk into her coffee and pointed at the two spoons.
“You didn’t have dessert. Now you want to share mine.”
“Only one mouthful. You go first.”
“Gee, thanks.” With one spoon, she divided the slice into one-third and two-thirds portions. “Guess which is yours.”
“Since I’m a gentleman, I’ll take the smaller.”
“I’m partial to a man with manners.”
She pushed the sleeves of her honey-coloured sweater to the elbows. Unlike the high neck of the sweater he’d tucked the chocolate into, this one’s low neck revealed smooth creamy skin and a slender gold chain. The sparkle in her gold-brown eyes told him she was definitely up for a flirt. His fingers itched with the desire to load his spoon and feed her, while some fragment of perception held him back. She was here for only three weeks; for both of them, work would take up much of the time. She’d be on Wee Gil without any independent means of crossing to Grand, and he hadn’t yet recovered the nerve to take a dinghy over.
“Angus?” Her voice, almost anxious, brought him back to the present. “You look like you’re thinking worried thoughts.”
Hesitating, he wondered what, if anything, to tell her. But she was a journalist. Last year’s uncomfortable experiences with intrusive journalists, plus the one who made up what she didn’t know, had taught him to be wary. He tossed back his short black coffee and decided flirting was the way to go. “Uh huh. You on Wee. Me on Grand.”
She smiled, a lively curving of her generous mouth. “I could swim.”
“No!” His desire to flirt evaporated in a nanosecond.
“Only joking. It would be far too cold to swim here.”
“You’re not wrong, but you must never go near the water at the lighthouse end of Wee Gil. There’s a whirlpool.”
She bit her bottom lip. “Whirlpool? Lighthouse? I’m staying in the lighthouse.”
“I heard.” He clenched a fist. “All by yourself. Tough..”
“At first, Boots said I’d be in what she called The Big House. Then she told me a party of six birdwatchers was booked for some days during my time and there wouldn’t be room for me, what with them and the extra staff she needs.” She toyed with the gold chain. “So I should stay in the lighthouse for the whole period, and she’d make sure it was stocked with food. I’m not sure about living in a lighthouse, but I’d signed the contract before she told me and it seems I have no alternative. I guess I’ll survive.”
Her wobbly smile clearly cost her effort. He wanted to cup her face in his hands and tell her everything would be fine. But that, he could never promise.
“The lighthouse is decommissioned and recently set up for holiday lets. I haven’t been inside, but I understand the two lower floors have a kitchen, living area, bathroom, and bedroom. Should be quite comfortable.”
He watched her carefully, trying to judge how seriously spooked she was. She’d wrapped her hands around her coffee cup so tightly he worried for the safety of the china. Her forehead creased in a frown. He finished his pie and coffee while he waited for her to speak.
“Why do I have to go over there anyway?” Letting her cup go, she licked the last mouthful of pie from her spoon. “It occurred to me we could meet in London if she still had a house or apartment there. Though a trip to Scotland did appeal.”
“It’s the general impression she wanted out of London fast after the election.”
“I understand that, but why not come to this island? Surely there’s somewhere for us to stay and work. This afternoon I went for a walk. Quite a long way and I got soaked. I found the shop cum post office, a health clinic, an enormous community hall, a tiny school, and a nine-hole golf course. In good weather, the coastline would be lovely, a mixture of rocks and beaches. At the end of the island, I came across this huge house with an interesting garden.”
“Grand Gil’s Big House.”
She nodded. “I’m thinking maybe it takes guests. Of course, it could be full of birdwatchers or golfers or fishermen or people waiting forever for a ferry out, or it’s occupied by a grumpy old recluse, but if not, why couldn’t we stay there? She told me she’s received an advance for her book, so any expenses would be a tax deduction. Surely that’s more convenient.”
Angus shook his head. The grumpy old recluse could never put up with the woman in his house. “I doubt she’d even consider it. Since she lost her seat in Parliament, she’s used the Wee Gil house to lie low.”
“Is she angry, humiliated? Is this what you meant about dishing the dirt?”
“You will find out.”
“Now it’s you saying we shouldn’t be discussing her. One more question. What’s this about a whirlpool?”
“It’s below the lighthouse. A strong tide runs between these two islands, and under certain conditions the sea hits an underwater rock pinnacle, creating huge swirling waves.” He needed to be sure she understood the dangers and gripped her hands. “The whirlpool’s unpredictable and treacherous. Promise me you won’t walk on the rocks above it.”
She unpicked her hands from his and skimmed a fingertip across his knuckles. “I promise. I’ve heard enough about Wee Gil for now. Were you speaking Gaelic with the barman?”
“Trying to. My Gaelic is rusty and I want to improve it, and I practise on anyone who’ll put up with me.”
“Are there a lot of Gaelic speakers here?”
“English is everyone’s first language, and some people have the Gaelic too. We use it as well as English for formal or ceremonial occasions.” He grinned. “Next?”
“Sorry, I don’t mean to interrogate, but journalists can’t help asking questions. Have you always lived here except for the overseas farming?”
“No. Born on this island, boarding school in England from the age of eight, followed by agricultural college there. From eight until last year, I didn’t actually live here, just visited on vacations.”
“A long time away from home—if it is home now?”
“Yes, it’s home.”
Had to be home. Now, he had no choice. She watched him with more questions in her eyes.
“You’re trying to do the arithmetic,” he smiled. “The eight-year-old boy had ten more years of schooling, three years of ag college and three years of farm work in England, New Zealand and Australia.”
“Hmm, I did think you were, um, younger than me.”
“Having made that statement, you have to give me the arithmetic to do. Even if you’re ten years older, I still want to flirt with you.”
He loved her bubbling laughter. A sound he could take a lot of. When she fluttered her eyelashes at him, he was a lost man.
“Not quite ten, and I’m relieved you still want to flirt. Same number of years at school and university. Seven years in Melbourne. Eighteen months in London. Got that?”
He made a performance of counting on his fingers. “Plenty of flirtable years left. Seriously, I would like to see more of you. Make sure you have time off, and I’ll work something out.” He walked his fingers up her bare arm, feeling her skin quiver. “Without me, you’ll be lonely.”
“I don’t like to be lonely.”
At her husky whisper, pure, insane lust coiled through him. “Thought not.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “Ah well, since we’ve eaten all their pie, they’ve shut down the espresso machine and worst of all, put the bottles away, we’d better be going. Skipper or I will let you know about the crossing tomorrow.”
She stood up, the top of her head level with his shoulder. “Thanks for the dram and for keeping me company.”
He went with her to the bottom of the stairs. “The ferry bosses like their employees to demonstrate good customer relations. Night, Jazz.” He touched his lips to her cheek.
He changed out of his ‘best clothes’ into jeans, parka, and boots, called goodnight to the staff, and trudged his wet and lonely way home.
Chapter Two
Jazz stood at the window of her attic room. In her two summers in London, she hadn’t become used to how late the evenings stayed light. Here, at this latitude way north, and even in this murky weather, daylight lingered at ten o’clock. She glanced down at the road and sucked in a breath.
Angus had just come out of the inn’s front door with a large backpack, and in trousers. So he’d changed into his ‘best clothes’ at the inn, and done it in the expectation of seeing her. A fuzzy warmth curled through her…she admitted she’d been flattered, and yet, wasn’t there a dash of arrogance about him? She watched him splashing through puddles in booted feet; his smart socks and shoes would not have arrived in such a pristine condition if he’d walked here wearing them. He put up a large scarlet umbrella, and set off in the direction of the shop, hall, and school. She’d noticed a few cottages farther on, before the golf course, while most of the houses seemed to be along the coast road in the opposite direction. Did he live with parents? Share with other ferry workers? She couldn’t imagine him living alone, and surely he wouldn’t have come on to her if he were married or with a girlfriend.
And she’d done her share of the come-on. She couldn’t help it. But where did this instant attraction, this instant buzz, come from? While over the years she’d had enough boyfriends, she didn’t recall any one of them stirring her hormones into such a screaming uproar on first sight. Not even the one she’d intended to join in London. Just her luck she’d now come across a man geographically impossible. Even here, defeating the geography would be a challenge. Yet he’d said he’d work something out. Huh—in her experience, that was what men said when they didn’t have a clue what to do.
She would survive in the lighthouse. If she got lonely, she’d talk to the sheep. She’d do the best job possible on the memoir, collect her pay, farewell Angus when he took her back on the ferry, have a week to explore some of Scotland with her friend from the outdoor magazine, and catch the flight home, already booked.
Meanwhile, a hot fling with surely the sexiest man in the islands would help pass the time.
There’d be no long-term she’d have to wriggle out of, as she had in the past. No man making demands on her. No man making it obvious his work meant more to him than she did. No man hopping into bed with some fancy piece the minute she was out of sight. Heavens, those thoughts made her ex-boyfriends sound like a bunch of losers. Well, they were. What did that say about her? A poor judge of men? A trusting fool? She ought to have learned a lesson by now. When she got home, establishing a different career would take priority over establishing any kind of love life. She was in no hurry for a relationship.
On the other hand, right now, why not indulge with the pirate? He may or may not possess any or all of the above inclinations, but in three weeks she’d be gone, so none of it would matter.
Entering the restaurant for breakfast at eight o’clock, Jazz settled at last night’s table. No rain streamed down the windows this morning. The sun was well up over the mainland hills, and the tips of the dancing waves shimmered gold. In the harbour yesterday, she hadn’t noticed any sand, but the tide must be out now, since three scarlet dinghies with Gilmachor and a number painted in black lay pulled up out of the water. Except for the experience of yesterday’s weather, she might almost imagine she’d washed up on a tropical island. One with a pirate’s lair…she gave herself a mental shake. Stop being ridiculous.
Angus was overseeing the reversing of four cars onto the ferry, hopefully doing a better job than with her. Still, in honesty, the scrape had been her fault when she’d momentarily lost focus playing tongues out with that dog. From this distance, wearing what must be the ferry uniform of navy cap, sweatshirt, and trousers, he could have been any deckhand, except for his height and the easy way he moved.
The barman, redeployed as the waiter, handed her a brown paper bag. “Good morning, Jazz,” he smiled. “Angus brought this in for you.”
“Oh, thanks, er, I didn’t get your name yesterday.”
“Craig. I’m the manager, barman, waiter, and odd job man.”
“Thanks again. This is a lovely inn, and I’m sorry I have to leave.”
He angled his head towards the harbour. “Ferry’s running. You’ll make it to Wee today. What would you like for breakfast?”
She did a quick scan of the menu. Not knowing what kind of foodstuffs would be in the lighthouse, and when, or even if, she’d have a decent meal during the next three weeks, she should perhaps order the biggest item on offer. “This full Scottish breakfast will do me nicely, with a pot of the Scottish breakfast tea too, please, and porridge to start.”
Craig brought the tea almost immediately, and she poured her first cup before opening Angus’s bag. Two chocolate bars, the same kind as he’d tucked down her neck. Did he think she would need lots of chocolate for company in the lighthouse? And a note, scribbled with broad black strokes on the back of the bag.
Hi Jazz. Ferry at 3 pm. Do you need EVERYTHING from your car? Less is better. There’s a ceilidh, (say it like cayley, it’s a dance) on Grand Gil Sat eve. Like to come? Unless you already have a date! I’ll make arrangements for you. A.
Would she like to come? Silly question. She was always up for a dance. And with Angus! Today was Monday. After five nights in the lighthouse she’d probably be ready for a change of scenery. She sipped at the scalding tea. What did make arrangements for you mean? A pirate’s hideout like she’d conjured up during the ferry crossing? There she went again, letting her imagination run wild. Yet her fingers itched with anticipation, tea slopping into the saucer as she put her cup down.
She reread his note. Yes, it sounded like a date. While she understood that weather ruled here, she would like to know what he’d come up with for her transport; presumably he couldn’t run the ferry to collect a date. He was the deckhand anyway, while someone else actually made it go. He’d work something out, he’d said last night. Hmm. She poured a second cup of tea. and watched the ferry pass from the harbour to the open sea.
Craig brought her porridge. “Some Scots put salt on it,” he murmured, “but I’m sure you’d prefer these.” He placed brown sugar and a small jug of cream by her bowl.
“Yes, I would, thanks.” She smiled. “This looks good.”
She sprinkled sugar and poured cream onto the porridge and considered this dance with the Gaelic name. Supposing she managed to get there and back, what to wear? Would the men be in kilts? What was the women’s equivalent? What kind of dancing did they do? With a band or a disc jockey? Where did they hold the dance? What about food and drink? She sprinkled more sugar onto the porridge, added the rest of the cream, and began to regret she’d chosen the largest breakfast.
The plate arrived, loaded with one fried egg, a rasher of bacon, a sausage, two halves of grilled tomato, and a pile of mushrooms, with a stack of oatcakes on the side.
“Heavens, Craig, this will last me a week.”
“It won’t have to.” He gave her a thoughtful look. “You’re staying in the lighthouse, and Morag from the shop will have sent over plenty of food.”
So he knew not only her name but where she was headed and probably also why. Angus must talk a lot. “A breakfast made by me will never match this.”
“Then enjoy.”
In her room after breakfast, she emailed her parents with an update, then repacked her few overnight things and headed for Reception to settle the account. An older woman had checked her in, but now a sensationally pretty girl was on duty. Probably early twenties, the receptionist boasted glossy, straight dark hair curving over her shoulders, jade-green eyes, and pink-slicked, neat mouth. Feeling inadequate beside this apparition, Jazz pushed fingers through her rebellious brown curls and wished she’d bothered with lipstick. The girl ignored her.
“Good morning.” Jazz smiled, hoping for a response. “Room ten, checking out.”
No smile, not even a duty one. Without the slightest movement of a facial muscle, the receptionist handed her a printout.
“But I had dessert and coffee too,” Jazz said, offering her credit card.
“Craig does the accounts. Ask him.”
So she could speak, even if in a tone that suggested she had better things to do than deal with this guest. She processed the card, passed it back, and turned to her computer.
Something odd going on there, Jazz thought as she went out to her car. Craig and the couple of other inn staff she’d met were friendly and helpful. What was with Ms Ice Princess?
She re-organised the wheelie case, bags, backpacks and boxes in her car. She’d arrived from Australia with only the airline’s baggage allowance, but in the eighteen months since, she’d accumulated too much. Before leaving London for Scotland, she’d disposed of most of her possessions; some sold, others given to a charity shop, and a full carton sent to her parents. Still, her small car was jam-packed. Bending over the open boot, she was riffling through a box for something to wear to the dance, when someone smacked her backside. She straightened and whirled around.
“Angus!”
“Good morning. Get my note?”
“Yes, the whatchamacallit dance sounds great. I’ll cancel my previous date now I have a better offer. How will I get here?”
“Let you know. I have only five minutes between sailings and I wanted to check you’re not taking the contents of a department store.”
“I am re-organising. Why is it important not to take too much?”
“Because you have to walk from the jetty. About ten minutes.”
“You mentioned a quad bike yesterday.”
He shook his head. “That track’s too narrow. You can use the quad to get up to The Big House.”
“I see. Wee Gil must be one wild island.”
“It is, and you must take care.”
Surprised, she read concern in his eyes. “Is it too late to change my mind?”
“Don’t. Have to go back to work. See you later.”
She decided on taking the largest backpack, the small one which hooked onto the large one’s front straps, a canvas bag to sling across her body, and her laptop in its shoulder bag along with her camera, tape recorder, and sketch book. If she needed more, she’d be able to fetch it on Saturday when she came back for the ceilidh. Hopefully came back. Disappointment edged her mind at the thought she might not. Placing the skirt, top, wrap, and sandals for the dance in a bag, she stowed that and other superfluous stuff into the boot and locked the car.
Such a beautiful morning called for a walk, but first she went to the shop for a map. While the woman behind the counter served another customer, she glanced around. A handsome old wooden dresser held an assortment of hats, scarves, gloves, socks, sweaters, all knitted or woven in shades of black and brown. Against her fingers, the wool felt warm, soft, and smooth. The other customer left.
“Those are made on this island.” The woman gave her a friendly smile. “The sheep growing that fleece are on Wee Gil, and you’re the lassie who’s going there.”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Small island. I’m Morag. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Jazz, and I’d like a local map, please. Is there a history of the Gil islands?”
“A map, yes, on the shelf at your left. A history?” She shook her head. “It was started a couple of years ago, but never finished. People do ask, and we should have one, but…” She opened her hands in a gesture of resignation.
“But no one wants to finish it? What happened to the original writer?”
Her face closed up. “He’s, er, no longer with us.”
The journalist in Jazz sensed a story here, but she wouldn’t push for it right now. She picked up the map.
“Taking a wee walk?”
“Yes, it’s a gorgeous day and I don’t leave until three o’clock.”
The woman nodded, as if she already knew this. “Boots ordered a box of food for you that we sent over a couple of days ago. I popped in a few extra bits and pieces. When you need more, radio us.”
“Radio? No landline?”
“No, we’re waiting for the phone company. Skipper will explain the radio. It’s quite easy to use.”
“Skipper? Oh, the ferryman.” Not Angus? she wanted to ask, but such a question would sound strange.
“Yes. Is there anything you’d like now?”
“Um, was chocolate in the box?”
“No, but we have plenty.” From a shelf beside her, she took a bar. “This is Angus’s favourite and he bought some for you this morning.”
No secrets on this island. Probably everyone knew she and Angus had spent the best part of the evening together.
“Yes, he left it at the inn for me. Maybe I should stock up and take three more.” She paid for the map and chocolate. “Thanks, and thanks for sending extra food. Such a nice thought. I’m going to explore now.”
Jazz set out along the coast road in the opposite direction to yesterday. Beyond the harbour with its ferry ramp, and next to a jetty for fishing boats, she found a squat grey building with FISH CO-OP painted on its side. Past that, a grassy area on one side of the road led down to a narrow white-sand beach. She crunched across the tough grass and swished her fingers in the sea. Cold!
Stone cottages colour-washed in pastel shades with neat front gardens lined the other side of the road; two advertised themselves as bed and breakfasts. Checking the map, she followed a lane inland, which, after several more cottages, ended at a small lake, or pond. Think Scottish—it’s a loch. Beyond the loch lay fields with black-faced white sheep, and, not far across the sea, the tip of the other island. And there was the damn lighthouse.
Wee Gil. She examined the map. Grand Gil lay roughly north to south, and Wee lay northeast to southwest, with the lighthouse point the closest to the bigger island. Angus had told her Wee was hills and cliffs, and indeed appeared to have no other features. Wishing she had binoculars, she tried to make out more. A roofline with chimneys must be The Big House. Lots of sheep. Seabirds circling. She’d grown up on a farm an hour’s drive from neighbours, but in a loving family, and had spent her adult life in cities. How would she survive this isolation?
She pursed her lips. On the ferry, she’d imagined a pirate hideout on a remote island. Well, here was the remote bit. Pity it came without the pirate.
Okay, Jasmine, you’re contracted to do this, she told some kind of duck she’d never seen before paddling on the loch. Get over it and get on with it.
Back on the coast road, she came to a humble stone church with an unlocked timber door. Inside, she trod softly on the stone-slab floor past the wooden pews, the small organ, and the plain lectern. Ribbons of light streamed through the colourful stained-glass window behind the simple altar. At the small step to the chancel, she paused at an urn containing gold and white roses tastefully arranged with greenery. Breathing in the sweet fragrance, she fingered a velvety petal. Of course, yesterday being Sunday, there would have been a service here.
She’d noticed flowers in some of the cottage gardens, although these roses, perfectly shaped and glowing with freshness, appeared professionally grown. The ferry must bring the order from the mainland. A narrow row of seats lined each side for the choir. Stopping just short of the altar, she studied the sparkling stained-glass window. It featured the sea, with a lighthouse, and boats of varying sizes and types from a scarlet dinghy to a grey warship. For those in peril on the sea, she read on the inscription along the base. She strained her eyes to read the smaller print in a corner: Murchison, and the date—this year. Presumably the window commemorated someone named Murchison who’d drowned. Surprised at the tears welling in her eyes, she blinked hard and headed outside into the sunlight.
In the graveyard adjacent to the church, she wandered around gravestones so old their inscriptions were worn away, while others were in various states of legibility. She, who normally did not visit graveyards or cemeteries, found herself both fascinated and shaken. The stones were simple in design, and several told of men who had drowned. By a side door of the church, she discovered what appeared to be a family plot, not a mausoleum, nothing fancy, just several graves enclosed by a low stone wall. Stepping over it onto a pebble pathway between the graves, she read the names. Murchison! No, they weren’t graves, but four plaques embedded into grass.
Alistair Murchison, Royal Navy, perished at Scapa Flow,1939, World War II. Out of interest, Jazz had studied modern European history at university, and recalled reading of the huge loss the Royal Navy suffered during this battle off the north coast of Scotland. Her hands over her face, she took a moment to respect the fallen.
Duncan Murchison, lost in the Atlantic, doing what he loved, 1975. What he loved? Sailing?
Blane Murchison, taken below the ocean, Western Australia. The date was five years ago. Shock stole her breath. Taken? Below? Did that mean a shark attack while diving? Why would a Hebridean islander dive that far from home? Intrigued, she wondered if Angus would know, since he’d spent time in Western Australia. What a family for the sea. She dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips and moved to the last plaque.
Niall Murchison snatched by Charybdis. Charybdis? Somewhere back in her education she’d heard this name and searched her brain. Yes, a mythological Greek whirlpool. Checking birth and death dates, she found this poor boy was only just twenty-four, his birthday being days before he had drowned— July, this time last year, in the whirlpool, that same horror lying in wait outside the lighthouse. Omigod.
Such bad luck for the Murchison family, losing four generations of men. Did any remain on these islands? With such a history, probably they’d left and settled somewhere inland as far from the sea as possible. Four, all drowned. Maybe there was a curse on this family…Jasmine, you’re becoming fanciful.
An ominous cloud scudded across the sun. Cold hands seemed to clutch at her heart, and she shivered. Wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and sweatshirt, she suddenly needed a jacket too. The cloud sailed away from the sun, but still she shivered. She needed to move on from the melancholy these plaques imparted.
The cottages ended at the church, and beyond that she came to a large field of hay almost ready to cut, and another of crops. A sheep farmer’s daughter, she had little acquaintance with crops. She recognised cereals, but vegetable root crops left her blank. These low, green tops could be potatoes. Others were a mystery. She snipped a couple of leaves and sniffed them.
“Neeps and tatties.” The man and his dog from the pickup truck on the ferry ambled toward her.
“I didn’t know.” She laughed at herself. “I still don’t!”
“Turnips and potatoes to you. Deefer and I live in the last cottage and we saw you go past. So we thought we’d come out and introduce ourselves properly.” He winked. “That is, Deefer won’t put his tongue out if you don’t.”
She had to laugh again and patted the dog’s head. “I’m Jazz.”
“I know. Going to Wee Gil this afternoon. I’m Hamish.” He held out a gnarled hand, one clearly used to spending time with neeps and tatties. His handshake came strong and warm, like the handshakes of farmers back home. “This is Deefer, D fer Dog, so-called because I’ve had that many dogs I’d run out of names.”
“Hello, Hamish and Deefer. It’s a magnificent day after yesterday, so I’m exploring.”
“Grand is indeed a grand island.” He waved toward the fields. “Fertile, not like Wee. Our farm does well. Did you see the sheep?”
“Yes, by the little lake, er, loch.”
“Lochan, a wee loch. They’re Scottish Blackface. We run those here, and Hebridean sheep over there.” He pointed to the outline of the smaller island. “Both for meat and wool.”
We? Angus had given the impression the sheep were his. She was about to ask, when he added—
“The sheep belong to Angus. He came back from your country with lots of ideas. He bought the Blackface and shifted the Hebrideans from here to Wee Gil with a fresh young ram. He doesn’t have much time, and I shepherd for him on both islands.” His strongly Scottish-accented voice carried a note of pride. He drew himself up to his full height, almost that of Angus, and fingered his square grey beard. “When I’m on Wee Gil, I might call into your lighthouse for a wee dram.”
“I’m sure I’ll be looking forward to visitors. Hamish, you said ‘my country’. How do you know I’m from Australia?”
His dark eyes sparkled. “How do you think?”
“Not Angus?” Since Morag knew Angus had bought chocolate for her, it shouldn’t come as a surprise to find he’d been talking about her to Hamish. Probably to everyone else too.
He nodded. “I did ask, after we’d driven off the ferry. Since you were a stranger, I wanted to know who he’d flirted with after he’d let you scrape your car.”
She had to smile. “You also know where I’m staying.”
“I took your food over in my fishing boat.”
“Thanks so much. Morag told me the box had gone.”
“Anything else you want, radio her and I’ll bring it. It will be on Boots’ account.” He studied her. “Be careful.”
Someone else concerned about her, and Hamish had warned her straight after mentioning Boots. Was it this woman or the island, or both, that might be unpredictable? She glanced at her watch. “I’d better get back. The ferry leaves at three, and while my breakfast was enormous, I should have something to eat first. Nice to meet you, Hamish and Deefer.”
Back at the inn, Jazz found Craig taking lunch orders behind the bar.
“Craig, when I paid my account, I noticed the banoffee pie and coffee weren’t itemised. The receptionist said to ask you.”
“Angus put it on his tab.”
“I didn’t expect that.”
“Of course you didn’t, and I appreciate your checking with me. A dram before you leave?”
“I don’t think so. I’ll go for a coffee and a…” She pointed at the menu. “A cheese and tomato toastie, and is there banoffee pie?”
He smiled. “Yes. We have several visitors at the moment, and the pie seems to be customers’ favourite. The chef made four today. Your window table is free. Would you see me before you leave please?”
A waitress brought Jazz’s toastie, pie, and coffee, together with a white bakery box. “Compliments of the inn.”
Jazz peeked inside. A slice of the pie! What a lovely idea, for her to take this to the lighthouse. For a minute, she fantasised about abandoning the memoir and holing up in this comfortable inn for a week. But no, she must get the job done, lighthouse or no lighthouse. Her lunch finished, she went to pay Craig.
“I’ll enjoy the pie tonight, a nice thought, thanks. You said for me to see you.”
“Yes. First, leave me a car key in case we need to move your car.”
“Sure.” She dug her spare key from her purse and watched him seal it in an envelope, writing Jazz on it.
“Second.” A serious expression tightened his face. Taking a card from beneath the bar, he passed it to her. “These are emergency instructions.”
“Emergency?” Sudden fear dried her mouth.
“I’m our emergency coordinator. In the unlikely event of an emergency, radio on this call sign. It’s for emergencies only.” He looked at her with concern in his eyes. “Also, since there’s no landline phone or signal on Wee Gil, would you like to give anyone in Australia the inn’s phone number in case they need to get in touch with you quickly? We’d radio their message to you.”
She swallowed down the panic rising in her throat. More concern. Please no emergency here or at home. “Thank you, yes, I’ll let my family know. Bye, Craig, I hope to stay here again before I leave for good.”
In her car, Jazz emailed her parents with the inn’s number, hoping they wouldn’t be as worried as she was. She blinked back tears. I want to go home.
* * *
Just before three, Angus strolled into the car park. “Your cruise ship awaits, madam.”
He shouldered her backpacks while she carried the rest of her luggage.
“I met Hamish this morning,” she said as they walked to the ferry. “Lovely man. He told me he shepherds for you.”
“Yeah, and I worry because he does too much. We have a clinic with a full-time nurse, and I’d like him to have a check up, but he won’t go. He’s a stubborn old thing. Says he’s strong, and he’ll die on the island when he’s ready.”
“Does he have relatives here?”
“A cousin on our nearest island. Boarding now, please.” Going first along the gangplank, he watched that she negotiated it safely. He opened the door into what they jokingly termed the stateroom and waved her inside.
“Your five-star cabin, madam.”
“I didn’t know there was anywhere for people to sit.” She dropped her things onto a seat.
He put her backpacks on the floor. “Yes, because not everyone comes with a car. Sorry there’s no refreshment, except—”
“Let me guess. You have a bar of chocolate hidden. You already gave me two today.”
He took one from his trousers pocket with the air of a man producing a rabbit from a hat. “And this too, but not for now.” From the other pocket, he brought a small bottle of whisky.
“For me?”
“Natch. Keep you company.”
“Thank you. I don’t usually drink alone, though Hamish said he might call in for a dram. I’d like to repay your hospitality, not only for the dram, but I found out you put the pie and coffee on your tab.”
“Since I was too late to invite you to dinner, I could at least do the rest. What’s in the white box?”
“A big slice of banoffee pie, compliments of the inn, and I’m going to eat it all tonight. If you have time to come over sometime for a wee dram… See, I’m speaking Scottish.”
He tried for a smile. And failed. “I probably won’t get to the lighthouse.” Before she queried this, he added, “Have to work now. I’ll be back when we’re out of the harbour. Go on deck if you want but be sure to hang on.”
As the ferry nosed out to sea, he found Jazz at the bow. The breeze blew her hair around her face and touched her cheeks with pink. Gripping the rail with one hand, she held the chocolate in the other and pointed to the shore with it.
“Why are we going this way? I could see Wee this morning and it looked to me quicker to go around the top end of this island.”
“The ferry jetty is further along. You’ll understand why when we get there.”
“Angus.” Her voice sounded urgent, with a small catch. “There’s no phone. I have to radio. Does email work in the lighthouse?”
“It will. Wireless broadband.” He took a ferry timetable from his pocket and wrote on it. “Here’s my email. Give me yours.”
“My bag’s in my five-star cabin. The chocolate wrapper will do.” She pulled it off the remaining chocolate and eyed him. “Two squares left. Open up.”
Obediently, he opened his mouth. As she placed the chocolate on his tongue, he closed his teeth over her fingers.
“Ouch! Not a nice thank you.” The seriousness of her tone didn’t match the sexy gleam in her eyes.
He freed her fingers and ate the chocolate. “I can do a lot better than that. But not aboard a ferry.”
Not when the sudden spark between them might set the boat alight.
“I guess not.” She took his pen and wrote her email address. “Tell me about this dance thing.”
“It’s a custom between us and three nearby islands. We take it in turns to host a ceilidh on the first Saturday of the four summer months, and August is Grand Gil’s.”
“How many come?”
“Hundred, hundred and fifty. The others come in their own boats or charter their ferries. Place will be buzzing.”
“No wonder you need such a big village hall. Supposing I get there, what should I wear? What do other women wear?”
“Seems to me most wear anything they can dance in.”
“Okay. Is there a band? What kind of dancing?”
“There’s a ceilidh band, and the dancing starts with Scottish country dancing and ends with a free-for-all.”
“Huh? Country dancing? Whatever’s that?”
He cupped her face in his hands. “Jazz, I’m not going to tell you any more. Be surprised. In a good way. I’ll email about your boat.” He raised an arm at the coastline. “I’m wearing my tourist-guide hat. We’re passing The Big House and we’re close enough in that you can make out the vegetation.”
“But palm trees? How can they survive in this climate?”
“The North Atlantic Drift brings warmer waters to Grand Gil here. It’s partly why this island is fertile.”
“Do you get snow?”
“Sometimes, but it rarely lasts. Plenty of rain and wind. Can you see the seals on those rocks?”
“Yes. Are they common?”
“Fairly. The wildlife—seals, dolphins, whales, seabirds—is why a lot of visitors come.”
“My last employer, the outdoor magazine, is interested in wild places like this.”
“Shame they haven’t been here. Is that job why you have such smart outdoor gear?”
She raised one foot. “I bought these trekking boots and the parka from one of the advertisers, and the staff gave me the backpacks when I had to leave.”
“Did you enjoy working there?”
“Very much. I’m still in touch with one of the staff, but I guess it will fizzle out when I go home.”
Fizzle out? He frowned—she’d made it sound like a relationship. The small irritation that she might have a love interest somewhere in England clouded his mood. The ferry rounded the southern point of the island, and headed straight across to Wee Gil.
“See that little beach?” He pointed to the strip of sand. “The only beach on Wee, and where people land dinghies. You can see the jetty now, halfway along the shore.” He could also see Boots waiting for them, and the coming confrontation filled him with anger.
Jazz waved toward black and brown animals nibbling the grass on the hillside. “Angus, are those sheep? Their horns are almost like antlers!”
“Hebrideans usually have two or four horns, and occasionally six or even no horns.”
“Polled.”
He squeezed her hand. “Yes. Of course, you know sheep lingo.” At least she wouldn’t be afraid of these creatures even though they were nothing like the merinos her parents grazed. But her face paled. “Jazz? Are you okay about this?”
“No, I don’t think I am. Perhaps I can get the work finished before the three weeks.” She turned to him, her gold-brown eyes bleak. Angus wrapped his arms around her. “I’ll do everything I can to make things easier for you.”
To be honest, he didn’t know what he could do other than have her over to Grand Gil at the weekends, if he wasn’t working. Curse this stupid memoir. Except without it, he would never have met Jasmine. Turning her with her back to the shore, he pressed a gentle kiss on her mouth, and sensed her need to respond.
The ferry hooted. “Gotta go.”
* * *
Jazz took Angus’s hand, warm and reassuring, to steady her as she stepped off the boat onto the jetty. He’d jumped across to tie the ferry to its posts, since there was no gangplank here, merely a rough structure, with a quad bike parked at the end and a small shed tucked into the hillside. A tall woman waited, her back straight, her shoulders squared, haughty screaming from her posture. She wore stylish jeans and a matching jacket, an outfit that Jazz could tell had never known a discount store.
As Skipper passed Jazz’s bags to Angus, the woman stepped forward.
“Welcome, Jasmine. I’m Elaine McWellie.” Her accent was English with a touch of Scottish.
“Please call me Jazz.” Jazz sensed she was under inspection and didn’t miss the woman’s slight frown as she proffered her hand. The skin felt cool, the touch a crash tackle.
“Elaine.” Her smile did not reach her eyes. “Skipper will help you with the bags and show you around the lighthouse. A word before you go.”
She edged Jazz away from the men. “Come up to The Big House for dinner at six-thirty and we’ll discuss your program. I have this to say now. Keep your eyes off my son.”
Jazz’s mind reeled with confusion. “I don’t know your son.”
“He just kissed you.” Her mouth curled.
Angus? This hard-looking woman’s son? Surely not possible.
“He is my son and he’s spoken for.”
Chapter Three
Jazz set off along the path to the lighthouse, following Skipper with her luggage in the sturdy wheelbarrow he’d taken from the shed. Disappointment niggled at her that Angus clearly had never any intention of seeing her to the lighthouse. She cut a fast glance over her shoulder. He and his mother appeared deep in conversation. His mother, for God’s sake. Why hadn’t he said? Spoken for, was he? Possibly his girlfriend, or fiancée, or whatever she was, lived elsewhere. Why had he invited her, Jazz, to the dance? He was all talk, all hot air, and she wouldn’t hear from him about a boat. He’d said he’d email, but if he lost her chocolate-wrapper-scribbled address, how could he let her know? Message in a bottle? Carrier seagull?
Annoyance at Angus blotted out her disappointment. He must have known his mother would be able to see the kiss, and that she would object to some strange female muscling in on her son’s love life, or more accurately in Jazz’s case, lust life. He’d put her at a disadvantage. If he’d done it deliberately to provoke his mother, she’d find it hard to forgive him. Too, wouldn’t Boots warn the girl? She hadn’t come all this way to become entangled in some lust triangle presided over by the lady of the manor.
The narrow path was constructed of well-trodden, packed earth, with an occasional stone poking through. It followed the contour of the hill, with a steep heather-clad slope on her left, and on her right a drop of around six feet to slatey rocks and the sea. Gentle grey-blue waves lapped the shore, and the whole scene appeared a credible essence of innocence. The lighthouse, painted a creamy yellow, glinted in the afternoon sun. A waist-high wall surrounded it. Skipper pushed the barrow through the gap in the wall into a small paved area.
“Welcome to your temporary home.” The heavy, iron-studded timber door creaked under the thrust of his shoulder.
“No key?”
“There’s one on a shelf, but who would come?”
On her parents’ farm, doors weren’t usually locked either, so why did she feel uneasy here? Trying for a casual tone, she said, “No one, I suppose. Is that quad bike for my use?”
“Yes. Angus says you’re okay with a quad.”
“I’ve spent a few hours on one at home.” She examined the bike. “Yes, it’s an agricultural quad and I can do this. What do I need to know?”
Especially, where’s the horrible whirlpool.
Skipper must have read her thoughts. “Follow me outside and watch where you put your feet.”
The lighthouse perched on the last bit of land where the island met the sea. He led her around the circular building, stopping at the loose rocks above the water.
“Behaving today.” He waved a hand toward the calm surface.
“That’s it? The whirlpool?”
“Where it appears. You will hear it when it does. It roars up with huge waves, eddies and foam all around.”
She curled one hand into a fist, nails biting into her palm. “Does it happen often?”
“Enough. Never go off the path, the water won’t come up over it. I’ll show you the best way to The Big House. See those sheep?” He pointed to a group wandering up the steep slope. “They’ve found the best way to get up the hill, and they’ve trodden the ground down. Use that for a guide, and you’ll be okay.”
Jazz couldn’t make out any track other than the one leading to the ferry dock. “I hope.”
Back within the enclosure, Skipper indicated the generator. “No mains electricity of course, but this is reliable for lighting, heating, and cooking.”
She tried for a smile. “Civilised.”
“Hamish brought diesel a couple of days ago and topped it up. That should last you. The generator also runs the pump from the rainwater tank on the other side of the building.” He grinned. “Naturally, you won’t run out of water. Let’s get you inside.” He gathered her bags from the wheelbarrow and took them into the lighthouse.
Jazz was fine with the generator and the water tank, since she’d grown up with these. But her breath caught in her throat as she stepped over the high stone sill. What disturbing surprises awaited her now? Dust and dirt? Spiders? Cobwebs? Nasties specific to Wee Gil?
Surprises, yes. She let her breath out in a huge puff. Angus had said the place should be comfortable, but what awaited her was almost like someone’s private home. Just inside the door of the tiny circular room she noted the mini-kitchen with microwave, fridge, freezer, a two-hob stove top, a sink, and two cupboards. Two armchairs, a small table with two chairs, a low chest, and a floor lamp completed the living area. Daylight came from three windows set at head height, facing inland.
“Check your supplies,” Skipper suggested. “If there’s anything you want, I can let the shop know.”
The fridge, freezer, and cupboards seemed satisfactorily full. “Looks like Morag has done a great job.”
Skipper nodded. “Aye, she would. Bedroom and bathroom are up the spiral stairs.” He picked up a powerful flashlight. “You shouldn’t need this because it’s daylight late, but handy to have anyway. There’s a security light for outside. The first aid kit is under the sink.”
First aid? She hoped she’d never need this.
He put the flashlight on the kitchen counter. “Now the radio.” He talked her through the procedures and the call signs. “I hope you’ll never need the emergency call. If you do, Craig coordinates it.”
“He told me.” She checked the calls. “Craig for emergency. The inn, Morag at the shop, the health clinic, the ferry, the ferry office on the mainland, and The Big House here. Right, got that.”
“Give me fifteen minutes to get back to the ferry and cast off, then radio us to make sure you’re okay with it.”
“Will do.” She went with him to the path. “Thanks for your help.”
“Good luck.”
She could see the chimneys of The Big House and used the fifteen minutes to head towards it up the sheep track. Grazing sheep lifted their heads at her approach, then all except one returned their attention to eating. Jazz paused.
“You are a pretty one,” she murmured. “A young ewe, and polled, none of those ferocious antlers.” With a gentle touch, she fingered the brown fleece. “So soft. You’re growing a nice warm jumper.”
Leaving the ewe, she continued on ground becoming rougher and rougher, and the incline steeper. Approximately a ten-minute walk to the house, she guessed, five on the bike. But by the time she’d slithered back down the track, she decided the bike would go nowhere. At home, the land undulated gently, and quads were dependable. Here, she didn’t trust its traction on a slope as tricky as this. Especially not with the whirlpool lurking almost at the bottom. Feet wearing trekking boots were much safer.
Back in the lighthouse, she radioed the ferry. Angus picked up her call.
“Skipper told me to call for practice.”
“Yeah. Got everything you need?”
“Think so.” Except your company, even if you include two-timing in your pirate skills.
“We’re not allowed to use the ferry radio for personal calls, but I’ll be in touch.” He signed off.
Jazz turned her laptop on. Waiting, she bit her lip until it hurt. Bingo! Broadband came up. Awash with relief that she could communicate with the outside world, she made a celebratory mug of tea. Curled up in the snug armchair with the tea and banoffee pie, she considered her surroundings. The tea was best quality, the mug good china. Classy furniture and furnishings. Shelves held binoculars, a bird identification book, an assortment of novels and a stereo system. Why had someone gone to the trouble and expense of equipping such an isolated place in such a stylish manner? Who would want to stay here? Finishing her tea, she examined the books—quite a variety, with an inordinate number of thrillers. She flicked open the cover of one and inhaled a sharp breath at the scrawled name. Niall Murchison! The young man who’d drowned outside the lighthouse. Had he lived or stayed here? Why? This was hardly the ideal residence of someone his age.
She picked up a guest book. So people did stay here, although there were only two entries. The first, dated two months ago, from Sheila and Mike of York, England, read Hope you approve S’s work in your honour. Miss you, old friend. Then one month ago, Ross and Kirsty of Glasgow had written Sad memories but he would have liked it. A great spot for reflection. Will recommend.
Jazz swiped at the tears trembling on her lashes. She guessed the ‘he’ was Niall, and these people had known him. The S who’d done the ‘work’ was presumably Sheila, and the work probably fitting out the building. Puzzling thoughts filled her journalist’s mind; surely a bigger story lay hidden here. Boots or Angus might tell her. Many questions, and she couldn’t help the fact that any mystery was actually none of her business.
Now, she must prepare for dinner with Ms McWellie, and refrain from addressing her as Boots. Up the spiral stairs into the bedroom, she was relieved to see that a solid-looking brick wall blocked where the stairs would have continued up to the light. In the small well-equipped bedroom and bathroom, she decided on lime-green linen trousers with a green and cream striped cotton polo neck top, tidy but still casual. In the daypack, she carried sandals, her notebook and pen and the flashlight, though she hoped to be back before dark. Around her waist she tied a warm, brown woollen sweater, expecting to need this on the return trip. Thick socks, trekking boots, a dose of optimism, and she set off.
Her earlier estimate of ten minutes proved over-confident. The hike needed fifteen, allowing for time to talk to the little polled sheep. This route took her to the back of the two-storey stone house, almost wrapped around by hillside. Small windows, two up and three down, broke the uninviting appearance of the building, with one door leading into a cobbled yard. Assuming this was not the main entrance, she traipsed around the side, endowed with only two miserable windows.
What did these people do for daylight? Arriving at the south-facing front of the house, she approved of the four handsome, tall, lead-paned windows, two upstairs, and the others one each side of a massive timber door. She stepped up onto a kind of patio, a lifeless expanse of grey stone that even one plant would cheer up.
But the view! At the bottom of the slope before her, she noticed the small, sandy beach where Angus had said dinghies landed. Above the beach, a sombre pile of black-grey stones retained some resemblance to a ruined castle. She could see Grand Gil to the east, while to the south, the silhouette of an island lay hazy against the milky horizon. Shame the hills blocked a view to the west, while above them the early evening light stretched a gauzy powder blue.
She was changing into her sandals when the door opened.
“You didn’t come on the bike.”
Hmm, no welcome greeting. “Good evening, Elaine. No, too steep for me. I’ve ridden quads on my parents’ farm where the land is much flatter.”
“Come in. We’re eating in the front room. The light is better.”
I’d hope so. Jazz placed her backpack on a carved timber chest in the dismal chilly hall. Boots promptly moved it onto the stone-flagged floor. Huh, she’s going to pick me up on everything I do or say. What’s so precious about that old box anyway? To stop herself shivering, Jazz put on her sweater.
Following the other woman into the room, she decided her employer was a Botox-preserved late fifty. She wore a long black skirt with a white, tailored shirt and a black and purple wrap, clothes which made Jazz wish she’d dressed up a bit more. Not that her sartorial choice was extensive, either in the lighthouse or left in her car. She admired the perfect angular cut of Boots’ chin-length hair, smooth brunette with threads of grey. Her own hair had to last another three weeks, by which time her frantic curls would grow to three times the size of her head. In an ideal lifestyle, she’d visit the hairdresser before the ceilidh, but such luxury would be in her dreams.
She took the indicated chair by the window, next to a low table on which lay a file. Daylight was indeed better in this large, wood-paneled room, and illumination from a many-faceted chandelier certainly helped.
“Drink before dinner?” Boots asked.
Wondering what was on offer, if it were yet another wee dram, Jazz knew any kind of alcohol would not be a good idea. Not when she had to concentrate here, and then negotiate the hillside. “A soft drink, thanks.”
Boots pulled a cord hanging by the enormous empty fireplace.
A servant? Heavens, this is truly feudal. A dour-looking woman, small and skinny, roughly sixty Jazz guessed, materialised in the doorway.
“Flora, this is Jasmine, my secretary. Jasmine, Flora housekeeps for me. A lemonade for Jasmine and a vodka for me.”
Flora nodded and disappeared on silent feet.
Secretary, huh? Well, she didn’t care about a job title, but if she’d known vodka was available…only the thought of the dangerous trip back stopped her from changing her mind and asking for a vodka and tonic. She sat in a silent vodka dream until the drinks arrived.
Boots raised her glass. “To a successful assignment.”
Copying the gesture, Jazz murmured, “Always my aim.”
“Now, Jasmine.”
Jazz imagined her using this disparaging tone to address a politician of the opposition party.
“You may have wondered why I gave you the job.”
She hadn’t wondered. Now it occurred to her that possibly Boots had offered it to someone else who’d done more research than Jazz, and who’d decided she couldn’t face it. Sensible. She sipped her drink and waited for enlightenment.
“Because you appear to have the writing skills I want and because you’re a foreigner.”
“A foreigner? Why?’
“Since you will come to this memoir with no pre-conceived ideas regarding British politics. That would be true, wouldn’t it?”
“Certainly.” Jazz refrained from adding that politics of any kind was not her favourite interest.
“Here’s the file with the notes I’ve made to date. Take it back with you and read through it.”
Flora of the silent feet placed dishes at each of the two place settings, and a soggy green salad between them.
“Let’s eat. Sit facing the window.”
“A wonderful view,” Jazz said, wishing the over-cooked shell pasta in a red glue masquerading as sauce was equally wonderful. “I have quite a different one from the lighthouse, of course.”
In fact, no view at all, since the windows were so high up. Outside, a view of sheep, heather, and menace-filled water.
“You’re settled in.” A statement rather than a question.
“More or less and thank you for the food. The lighthouse is superbly furnished.” She hesitated, then decided to probe. “Does it get many holiday lets?”
“Not yet. It’s only recently been set up as such.”
“There must be potential, otherwise the owner wouldn’t have done all that work. Who owns it, do you know?”
Accusatory eyes like lasers regarded her. “Not your business, Jasmine. You’re here to work for me, not enquire about local matters.”
Jazz dropped her fork onto her dish. “I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m not being nosy”—not half she wasn’t—”but I did admire the lighthouse and thought it must be important to someone.”
“Enough.”
The snapped response told Jazz the building was indeed important to someone, and discussion of it was out of bounds. She didn’t dare mention Niall Murchison. She’d ask Angus.
“Of course,” she said, injecting conciliation into her tone. Tension vibrated across the table between them. Back to why she was here. “May I ask how you wish to schedule my time?”
“Tomorrow morning, go through the file at the lighthouse. At two o’clock, come here with your comments and questions. We will work until five. Other days, your hours here will normally be nine to five with lunch provided. On occasion, I may need to be flexible.”
“I understand. When do I have time off?”
“You can have Saturdays and Sundays, however, God knows what you’re going to do. Especially since—” Her thin lips twisted in a half smile. “—you won’t be able to go to Grand Gil.”
I might have news for you, madam.
“Of course,” the hectoring tone continued, “if you decide to work weekends, you would finish the assignment sooner, for which, naturally, you would receive the same remuneration.”
Hmm, she’d give that serious consideration. After the dance. After she found out whether Angus was spoken for or not. “Thank you.”
“Jasmine, I hope you understand that everything you read about me, and write, is confidential.”
Jazz tried not to be insulted. “Work I do is always confidential unless I’m told otherwise.” Who would she tell anyway? The sheep? Angus, as her son, probably knew it all anyway. “You can trust me.”
Somehow Jazz got through dinner, making a heroic effort at polite conversation. Keeping to books and travel seemed safe choices. Plain cheese and crackers followed the pasta. Where was the inn’s yummy banoffee pie? She declined the offer of coffee, and assured Boots she’d be back at two tomorrow.
Watching where she trod, she made her way back in a lingering, lavender twilight. Silence from the whirlpool, thank goodness. Approaching the lighthouse, she switched on the flashlight and zoomed it around the building. What did she expect, a ghost? She shuddered. In view of Niall Murchison’s drowning, a ghost would not be out of place.
And since when did she believe in ghosts? Since never. Or—since she came to this daunting place? She pushed the door open, closed it tightly, and shoved an armchair against it. She’d left the laptop on, and look—an email.
Angus! Her spirits soared as high as the lighthouse.
How was your evening? I know she told you she’s my mother. We don’t get on. Is the lighthouse OK? How did you go on the quad bike? Sweet dreams.
How she wished she could actually talk to him. She pressed Reply. A fast typist, she entered her message in barely a minute.
Conversation a struggle, food horrible. She told me to stay away from you, you’re ‘spoken for’. True? Not that your life is anything to do with me. Did you kiss me on the ferry on purpose knowing she’d see? She didn’t mention you tonight. I think she has secrets, to do with her political life and to do with the lighthouse as she shut me up when I asked about it. Do you know? Still, lighthouse nice, food good, whirlpool quiet. Didn’t use bike, too steep. When R U coming for a wee dram?
She hit send and was about to log out when he replied.
Pleased re bike. Sorry, I can’t visit.
Interesting start. I like the poetic prose. Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDeleteVijaya, pleased to know you liked the poetic prose. Thanks so much for your comment. Best wishes, Priscilla.
ReplyDelete