Falkone's Promise Read online

  FLINKOTE’S PROMISE

  Rebecca Flanders

  They couldn’t agree on anything!

  Dawn’s assignment to write an article on Byron Boyd’s Hebridean castle wasn’t going to be easy. He was harsh, sarcastic, unlikable and clearly resented the prospect of tourists invading his home.

  Dawn thought him selfish for wanting to keep the treasures of his Scottish heritage hidden from the world.

  ‘If I am,’ he grated, ‘it is my right!’

  He was infuriating. Impossible. She could never like him. But she could, and did, learn to love him ...

  CHAPTER ONE

  There was an enchantment to the land, one which Dawn had read about in the dozens of travel brochures she had accumulated and dreamed about every night for the past two weeks, but nothing had prepared her for the very real majesty and mystery of the Scottish Hebrides. She had felt it from the moment she had stepped off the commuter plane at the tiny, old-fashioned airport at Oban. It was in the fresh, damp air that blew across her face through the open window as the little car now wound its way up the north coast. But never had it been so striking as when she had caught her first glimpse of Falkone’s Acres.

  Its gothic peaks and towers rose tantalisingly from the wooded island as she boarded the ferry that was to take her across, and she found herself straining for more as each creeping sea mile was put behind them, eagerness and anticipation swelling to a flutter in her heart and a tightness in her throat. The ancient castle faded with a mist and grew close again, dipped behind the covering of trees and reappeared, and with each reappearance it became more alluring, like a flirtatious woman withholding promises.

  Dawn Morrison had been waiting over three years for an assignment like this. When she had taken the job as an assistant photo-journalist on the staff of a widely read travel magazine she had expected her life to be filled with adventure and glamour. Until now, the farthest she had been from New York was the Grand Canyon—and that was on vacation. When she heard the assignment on Falkone’s Acres was coming up she had fought for it, schemed for it, and at last begged for it— and now that she was here, she could hardly believe it.

  To her disappointment, nothing could be seen of the actual castle as they docked. In fact, the scene before her was the perfect antithesis of the gothic romance she had imagined it would be. Signs of busy industrialisation were everywhere. Cranes lifted large cases on to waiting barges, and from the watchtower someone with a megaphone barked unintelligible instructions to the dozens of workers who kept their own easy pace on the ground below. Several other cars got off the ferry with the car that carried Dawn and proceeded to take one of the asphalt roads that branched out in several directions. Dawn knew that Falkone’s Acres was far better known for its modern-day distillery than its historic past, and that progress was the order of the day, but it was still rather disillusioning to come face-to-face with that fact so soon.

  The driver turned off the main road, leaving the bustle behind them, and here the scenery became more interesting. On either side were neat little whitewashed cottages which Jeff, her taciturn and craggy driver, explained were rented by the distillery workers. Housewives beat rugs over their back fences or hung laundry on lines strung between trees, and occasionally a sheep grazed placidly on a front lawn. Then the cottages were left behind and gave way to fields of rolling grain, orchards and meadowland.

  ‘Is it very far to the castle?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘Not more’n a mile,’ he replied, not glancing at her as he spat a stream of brown tobacco juice out the window.

  ‘Then—I know this might sound silly—but I’d like to walk the rest of the way. To get some shots, you know.’

  He slowed the car to a stop. ‘No business o’ mine. Stay direct to the road,’ he added as she got out, dragging her camera bag with her, ‘an’ ye can’t miss it.’

  She waved cheerfully and received not a backward glance as he drove away.

  She had more than one reason for wanting to walk, but immediately the little car disappeared from sight she wondered if she had done the right thing. As with all new situations, she felt a little ill at ease and she had thought the walk might give her a chance to gain her composure and allow her to give the impression of intense professional dedication she most of all wanted to project. She did most earnestly want to make a good impression on these people, me wealthy aristocracy of a foreign culture, but now she wondered if her decision to walk might be deemed too independent, or a flaunting of their hospitality, or a display of eccentricity.

  It was true that when one accepted an assignment or contracted for the completion of a task one was representing the company and must keep that in mind at all times. What did not seem fair was that when an American went abroad she seemed to be held responsible for the reputation of the entire nation, and in Dawn’s case, in whatever she did she felt herself to be representing females everywhere. She did not want to appear to be one of those brash, aggressive American women she had heard Europeans so loved to mock, but she would have to go a long way towards curbing her natural impulses to maintain a low profile.

  Her editor often teased her about having an inferiority complex, an accusation which immediately made her well-known temper flare. In actual fact, it was probably closer to the truth than she would ever admit. There was nothing inferior about her work, nor a fear of it, for she was good at what she did and she knew it. But there was a great deal of resentment because she had to work twice as hard as anyone else to prove it. Like a person with a handicap, she was constantly pushing herself to excellence to prove herself as good as anyone else, and Dawn’s handicap was her own striking good looks.

  She had an ethereal, fairy-like beauty, which she tried to disguise with sternly tailored suits in heavy fabrics and harsh lines. Rarely, even on the most lighthearted social occasions, were her slender shoulders bared or the svelte lines of her body revealed through shimmery crepes or jerseys. She had a diminutive, doll-like face, deceptively innocent, accented by large, misty-grey eyes. But her most arresting feature was her hair. A peculiar blend of mink and flax, it needed no artificial bleaching or streaking to bring out the summery highlights of a thousand shades of blonde and brown, and it cascaded in a shimmery fall of silk down her back. This, too, she disguised by wearing it tightly braided or knotted and pinned up on her head, for her feminine characteristics, she had discovered, were her worst enemy in the fight for success in the business world.

  She wished now she had behaved properly and arrived on the castle grounds in the car sent for her, rather than to come tramping through the j woods like a vagrant. She was to be the guest of these people, Margaret and Byron Boyd, for two weeks while completing her assignment, and it was very important to get off on the right foot. Like most artists, she was invariably influenced by her environment, and it would be very difficult to produce a sensitive piece in an atmosphere of hostility and disapproval.

  At the moment it was very hard to imagine such an atmosphere could exist, however, as the scenery around her became more and more absorbing. The countryside bore a visage of almost studied neglect, nature run rampant in trailing vines and twisted trees, black rocks jutting here and there randomly. The scent of wild heather permeated the air, and when she wandered a little off the road she discovered the most astounding thing—a perfect circle of sea thrift, about six feet in diameter, growing wild in the woods. She had seen the bright pink plant climbing the cliffs as they approached from the sea, noticed it brightening the shoreline of other islands along the way, but had not imagined it could grow so far away from the ocean. With an exclamation of delight, she snapped several shots and mentally filed it away as a good topic for dinner-table conversation tonight with her host and hostess.
It was then that she first noticed the strange sound.

  Perhaps it had been there all along, such a low, monotonous note that it hardly claimed notice over the joyful chirping of the birds—repetitive chords now joined by a soft strumming in a higher key, and she recognised a guitar.

  Had curiosity not prompted her to follow, professional pride would have. This was one shot she simply must have—lowly shepherd boy and guitar reposing in the glen, dreaming love songs on a lazy spring morning.

  In her sensible tweed pants suit and sturdy travelling shoes she did not hesitate about clambering to the top of a rocky mound near the side of the road for a better view. And there, squatting down low, she caught her breath, for he was much closer than she had thought. Directly below her and only a few yards away, leaning against the tree whose branches she had to duck her head to avoid, was not a boy at all, but a full grown man. His head was bent in profile away from her over a guitar and his fingers lightly brushed the random chords in a sad, almost eerie melody.

  She studied him with an artist’s eye, both intrigued and a little awed by the picture he presented. He was wearing tight jeans and black turtleneck sweater, the muscles of his thighs and arms were taut and sinewy, clearly outlined as they strained against the material. The chest which cradled the guitar was broad and his hands were large, long slender fingers wielding a peculiar fascination in the rhythmic stroking motions they made against the strings of the instrument. His hair was jet black and rather long, and his eyelids were heavily fringed with long, dark lashes. His face, too, was dark, in the manner of the Scots, shadowed by the branches of the tree and the hint of a beard. His expression as he bent over the instrument might have been great sorrow or thinly reined violence, his lips were tightly compressed and his facial muscles taut. It was a black mood, and he definitely gave the impression of one who did not wish to be disturbed.

  This put her in a very awkward situation. She dared not begin clicking the shutter of her camera, although her fingers itched to do so. Character profiles were her most absorbing hobby, and she could hardly have wished for a better subject than this. Neither had she the courage to break his self-absorption and ask permission, and at any rate that would only shatter the mood. Her only choice was to climb down as quickly and as quietly as she had got up, and hope that she escaped unnoticed.

  Carefully, she inched back, seeking her footing, straightening a little to turn. But as she did so a branch snagged on the single clasp that pinned up her hair, she jerked in surprise and pain, and the ornament went tumbling down the rock to strike him on the shoulder. Her braid swung loose and forward towards him and she simply knelt there on all fours, looking and feeling very foolish.

  His first expression as he looked around was surprise, then swift anger, and then a softening which might have been amusement as he spied her among the branches. His eyes, she noticed, were as dark as his hair, and could be very foreboding when reflecting such a rapid assault of emotions as she had just witnessed.

  He got slowly to his feet, setting the guitar aside, and came towards her. He was very tall. Directly below her, his hands on his hips, his face tilted towards her, he said softly, ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair...’ And in his eyes was a light of soft appreciation as his gaze travelled over her face, her small, perfectly shaped body, and the long rope of light hair that almost touched his shoulder.

  Dawn was embarrassed, and annoyed for that embarrassment, and her tone was somewhat sharper than it should have been as she replied, ‘I’m nothing of the sort, I assure you. I merely heard the music.’

  There might have been a hardening of his eyes as one brow quirked, but it quickly disappeared as he drawled smoothly, ‘A spy, in my carefully-guarded fortress?’ His hand reached forward to clasp her braid lightly. ‘Shall I climb up to you, Rapunzel-spy, or will you come down?’

  She shrank back. ‘I’ll come down the same way I came up,’ she answered stiffly. ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you.’

  She turned on her toes to do so, and suddenly her uncertain balance gave way. She tottered for a moment, smothering a little shriek of surprise in her throat, and then she felt strong hands clasp her waist. He swung her from the rock and into his arms before she could so much as utter a startled gasp.

  Cradling her against his chest like a child, his dark eyes snapping and his lips parted in laughter very close to hers, he said, ‘The Irish have their leprechauns, we have our fairy-spies, and it’s considered very good luck to catch one.’

  Dawn was scarlet with embarrassment. His arms were strong and powerful, he supported her weight with no effort at all and she felt no sign of his easing his grip. His warmth penetrated her at all points where their bodies touched and she could feel the slow, steady beat of his heart against her breast. About him was the faintly alluring scent of masculinity and whisky, and the way his dark eyes raked her in amusement made her wretchedly aware of her undignified position.

  She said, struggling for a modicum of composure, ‘Please let me go.’

  His eyes were lit with a soft sensual gleam as they travelled over her face; her heart leapt and began to pound as she understood the intent in that gleam. He was confident of his power and was thoroughly enjoying the game, she was suddenly much too aware of his closeness, of his straining chest muscles against her breasts, of the band of his arm beneath her hips and of the warmth of his breath on her face. He said softly, ‘If I do, will you grant me a wish?’

  She stammered stupidly, ‘Wh-what?’ Something was happening to her in his arms. She was rapidly losing the power of rational thought beneath the numbing onslaught of sensual impressions he seemed to be arousing. Common sense and the instinct for self-preservation were deserting her with every moment he held her.

  ‘I told you,’ he said, his eyes magnetising her with that strange light, ‘to catch a fairy spy is very good luck...’ his voice was husky, ‘but to kiss one is even better...’

  And with no further warning, his lips moved to hers, a light brush of electric warmth that explored delicately even as it promised more, and left her for a moment completely helpless to the sudden shock of unexpected sensations that gentle touch generated. For a moment, no more, she was captured in his spell, she felt a rush of rising response to what seemed to her no more than the combined magic of time and place—the tall dark stranger in the mystical wood, the flare of romance, the sudden, electrifying sensation ... and then, just as she felt his arms tighten about her with the deepening of his kiss and her own response became impossible to hide, quick saving reason returned. She turned her face and pushed violently at his chest, she found her feet somewhat unsteadily on the ground and the next thing she knew she was looking up into a pair of wickedly dancing black eyes.

  She was aghast at her own behaviour, embarrassed over the entire situation, and furious because he was laughing at her. She did not know what to say. With flaming cheeks and glittering eyes, she stepped forward to brush past him, but he blocked her way. Pretending not to notice, she started to move around him, but with a slight move of his body he prevented her again. She lifted her eyes angrily and found herself staring straight into his chest.

  Being a small person, Dawn was invariably intimidated by those larger than she, and invariably she tried not to show it. Though she was very much aware of her position as ‘mouse’ in this game of cat-and-mouse he was playing she lifted her eyes defiantly to look squarely into his and demanded, ‘Let me pass, please.’

  His eyes twinkled. ‘And suppose I choose not to?’

  Embarrassment, frustration and helplessness combined to make her temper flare as hotly as her cheeks. ‘I think you’re rude, presumptuous, and—’

  ‘And I think you,’ he interrupted mildly, ‘are very attractive.’

  ‘And furthermore,’ she sputtered angrily, ‘I don’t care in the least for your—your adolescent come-ons! Now will you let me pass!’

  ‘You didn’t answer,’ he reiterated calmly. ‘What will you do if I don’t?’

>   ‘For one thing,’ she assured him with spirit, ‘I’ll most certainly scream. For another, if you care at all for your face the way it is—’

  ‘Say no more, fair lady,’ he declared, his sides fairly shaking with repressed laughter. ‘As it happens, I’m not in the market to have my face redone by the claws of a wildcat. Pray, proceed.’ He swept her an elaborate bow, his arm gesturing the way ahead.

  Dawn stalked past him, feeling somewhat avenged, when she was struck by a terrible thought. She had left her camera bag on top of the rock! For a moment she debated whether to leave it and continue her dignified exit, but the thought of all that expensive equipment lying about in the woods for thieves dissuaded her. She stopped and, shooting him a dark look of warning, crossed before him again to retrieve the bag.

  In this she faced a problem, however. This side of the rock offered no foothold, its surface was slippery and its summit above her head. She stood on tiptoe and groped for it, jumped a little and missed, all the while aware of his eyes boring into her back. And then there was the sound of footsteps moving towards her, and he reached easily for the bag and handed it to her politely.

  She glared at him, swung the bag over her shoulder, and started once again to walk away. She had not gone a dozen steps, however, before she heard his voice again. ‘Miss Morrison.’

  She stopped, and slowly turned, a dreadful fear beginning to form in her chest. He was grinning, and holding her gold hair clasp in his outstretched fingers. He said, ‘Yours, I believe?’

  Very slowly, she closed the distance between them and took the clasp hesitantly. Her throat felt dry as she managed, ‘H-how did you know my name?’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting any other female American photographers today.’ He swept her another mocking bow. ‘Byron Boyd, at your service, madame.’