Shores Of Love

It was a good job it was only a dream, Avalon told herself. The top cover was whisked away, leaving her lying naked on the bed. Then the man’s voice became a face. The shape hovering over her was blurred and indistinct but she had an impression of raven-black hair and piercing blue eyes. Then his hands were exploring her body. She should have told him to stop being so familiar but her limbs seemed to be filled with warm honey and she couldn’t even murmur. Besides…there was something exciting about his touch.

Finally he stood up but continued to stare down at her. ‘She’s young,’ he remarked. ‘Eighteen or nineteen.’

‘And a right pretty wee thing, Fraser. Look at that fine blonde silvery hair and the lovely green eyes. Just like a sea nymph. She’ll make a bonnie bride, I’m thinking.’

‘Aye…’ the voice replied gruffly. ‘But I need to know more about her.’

‘She’s perfect, I tell you. They wouldn’t have sent her otherwise.’

‘Well, perhaps you’re right and perhaps not. We’ll have to wait until she wakes up, then we’ll get to the truth of the matter.’

Avalon tried to smile up at him and tell him that she came from London but she was too tired, and slowly the faces and voices disappeared as she slid back into the darkness of her mind.

When she awoke she blinked in the sunlight streaming through the window. For a moment she lay, staring around the strange room, wondering where she was, then the memories rushed back and a shiver of fear ran through her body as she recalled her ordeal in the sea. The porthole…The plunge into the icy water…The roar of the surf dashing against the rocks. She wondered now how she’d ever had the nerve to go through with such a thing. By some miracle she’d been saved and brought here.

She struggled to sit up, then groaned as a heavy band of steel seemed to tighten viciously round her head. Cautiously, she raised her hand and felt the bump on her temple.

She opened her eyes again slowly and took in her surroundings. The room was simply furnished—just the bed she was on, a dressing-table and a chair. The walls, like the ceiling, were bare and whitewashed and the only touch of colour about the place was provided by a huge jar of wild flowers on the windowsill. The floor was pine, deeply glossed through years of polishing, and boasting a huge sheepskin rug by the bedside. There was no sign of her clothes, however, and she had no intention of walking around naked looking for them.

A faint sound from beyond the door caught her attention and she cried out. ‘Hello? Hello? Anyone at home?’

An instant later the door opened and a woman poked her head round. ‘Well, well! So you’re awake at last.’ She opened the door wider and came in. ‘And none the worse for wear by the look of you.’

She was a stout, amiable old dear with iron-grey hair and button-bright eyes the colour of hazelnuts. Her ample figure bulged beneath a chunky sweater and she wore thick stockings beneath a tweed skirt. Motherly was the description that sprang to Avalon’s mind.

From the bed she smiled up uncertainly. ‘Hello…How did I…?’

The woman raised a hand. ‘Just you wait till I put the kettle on. You’ll feel much better after a cup of tea.’

As she left the room Avalon looked at the closed door thoughtfully. The woman’s voice had sounded vaguely familiar. She recalled a dream. Or had it been a dream? There had also been a man…Tall…dark…Her frown deepened as she tried to remember the details, then she gave up.

There was one thing she did remember only too damn well, though. Mr Smith’s threat to deal with her later. They were bound to have discovered about her escape by now. What would they be doing about it? Well, they might think that she’d drowned—but could they take that chance? In all probability they’d have turned round and would be at this very moment trying to find out if she’d managed to get ashore somewhere.

The first thing she had to do was to notify the local police and let them deal with Mr Smith and his friends. Impatiently she got out of bed and stared through the window. The house seemed to be built on a slight rise but the view, from this window at least, consisted of nothing more than miles of empty, desolate moorland stretching into a purple, hazy distance. It was like no land Avalon had ever seen before and she wondered where she was. The woman’s accent had been oddly soft and lilting, yet it hadn’t sounded Irish. Scotland, then? Some place on the west coast of Scotland? Thoughtfully she climbed back into bed. All right. So she was stranded in some Godforsaken spot in the wilds of Scotland and she didn’t have a penny to her name nor a pair of shoes to her feet. But at least she was still alive.

The woman bustled in a few minutes later with a mug of hot, sweet tea. ‘Now, just stay there and drink this. And here’s an old dressing-gown and a pair of slippers to wear until I’ve finished drying and ironing your clothes. When you’ve finished your tea you can have a nice hot bath. We must have you looking your best when the Chief arrives.’

Avalon looked at her with a blank expression. ‘Chief? Chief of what?’

‘Of the Clan, of course. Young Fraser of Suilvach. Lord of the Deer and Eagles, to give him his correct title.’ She paused. ‘By the way, you seem to have lost your shoes. I’ll phone the harbour store and have them send up a pair of plimsolls. What size do you take?’

Avalon’s mouth had been hanging open and now she got her wits back. ‘Er…size four. And thanks, Mrs…er…?’

The woman gave a hearty chuckle. ‘My name is Kirsty. And it’s Miss. Can’t you tell an old maid when you see one?’

‘Well…you’re being very kind, Kirsty. My name is Avalon.’

‘Yes. I know.’

Her mouth dropped open again. ‘You know?’

‘Of course. They told me your name. And they described you perfectly.’

A knot of fear settled in Avalon’s chest. ‘They? Has…has there been anyone asking about me? A stranger calling himself Mr Smith?’

Kirsty frowned, then shook her head. ‘There’s no one called Smith around here. And definitely no strangers.’ She smiled benevolently. ‘Don’t you bother yourself about folk asking questions. You’re perfectly safe here. You’ve nothing to worry about.’

Nothing to worry about? That’s all she knew, Avalon told herself wryly. ‘Is…is there a police station near here?’ she asked hopefully.

For the merest second Kirsty’s smile lost some of its warmth, then she scoffed, ‘The nearest police station is in Oban and that’s over four hours by boat. We don’t need the police here. We’ve always man aged without them. What happens here is our business and no one else’s.’

Avalon’s spirits sank. Four hours by boat! This place must be even more remote than she’d thought ‘You mentioned a harbour,’ she persisted. ‘Is it far from here?’

‘Put on that dressing-gown and I’ll show it to you,’ offered Kirsty.

A few moments later they were standing at the front door of the cottage. From here there was a commanding view over the fair-sized fishing village. Nestled in a sheltered bay the white-painted houses and buildings looked clean and well-looked-after. A few brightly painted fishing boats were tied up at the jetty in the sleepy-looking harbour but there was nothing remotely resembling a motor-cruiser.

Avalon breathed a silent sigh of relief. She was safe for the moment, at least.

‘What do you think?’ asked Kirsty at her elbow. ‘Pretty little place, isn’t it?’

Avalon wasn’t yet in the mood to appreciate the finer points of the scenery but she murmured politely, ‘It’s lovely. Very picturesque. What’s it called?’

‘Port Suilvach.’ Kirsty pointed across the bay to an imposing, granite-built mansion, half hidden behind a stand of pine trees. ‘That’s the Chief’s house. You’ll be staying there from now on.’ She paused for a moment, then added, ‘I really expected you sooner, but better late than never, I suppose.’

Avalon eyed her uncertainly. There was something decidedly odd going on here. Or perhaps it was just Kirsty. She was pleasant enough but seemed a bit eccentric.

They went back inside the cottage and Avalon had a chance to look around. Although there was an atmosphere of solid comfort she had the peculiar feeling that she’d entered some sort of time-warp. A fire burned brightly in an ancient blackleaded grate that apparently served for cooking and heating water as well as providing warmth. An old Victorian sideboard surmounted by silver-framed photographs and two blue and white china dogs took up most of one side of the room while a sombre-looking grandfather clock stood in the corner, reluctantly ticking off the seconds.

‘Bacon and eggs suit you?’ Kirsty asked cheerfully.

Avaion, feeling lost and rather foolish standing there in her grossly oversized slippers and dressing-gown, nodded and admitted quietly that she felt as if she hadn’t eaten for a week.

Kirsty beamed. ‘A healthy appetite is a good sign. Well, the bathroom is through that door. By the time you’ve had your bath I’ll have your breakfast ready.’

The bath was a cast-iron and chipped enamel museum piece, but as Avalon relaxed in the hot sudsy water she wasn’t inclined to be critical. She had far too much to be thankful for—not least the fact that she was being offered such overwhelming hospitality by a complete stranger.

More relaxed now, Avalon considered her next move. Perhaps she should just try to forget all about Mr Smith and his friends and put it down to experience. No doubt the law would catch up with him sooner or later. She definitely didn’t want to see or get involved with them again, and if she reported them to the police she’d end up having to go to court and answer a lot of damned awkward questions. Once she got back to London she’d simply fade anonymously into the population and try to start a new life.

Half an hour later, pink and glowing and feeling at least halfway civilised in her own freshly laundered clothes, she sat at the plain deal table and pushed her empty plate away. ‘That was delicious, Kirsty. I’ve never enjoyed a breakfast as much as that.’

Kirsty chuckled. ‘Aye. I could tell by the way you were tucking in.’ She produced a battered tin full of dark tobacco and deftly rolled herself a cigarette then, after tapping it expertly on her thumb, lit it and blew an acrid cloud of smoke at the ceiling. ‘I don’t suppose folk from London ever bother to bake their own bread. And of course the eggs come from my own hens out the back and the butter is fresh-made in the village creamery. And the water here isn’t full of chemicals. Oh, aye, you’ll find a big difference living here in Port Suilvach.’

It was on the tip of Avalon’s tongue to tell her that she’d no intention of staying here any longer than she could help when there was a loud rap at the front door and her heart gave a lurch. Could that be Mr Smith—or one of his gang—searching for her?

Kirsty gave her an odd look followed by a reassuring smile, then called out loudly, ‘Come in, Jamie.’

A tousled, red-haired, freckle-faced eight-year-old burst in and handed Avalon a shoebox along with a torrent of Gaelic and only stopped when Kirsty reproved him gently. ‘Mind your manners, Jamie. Avalon doesn’t have the Gaelic yet. You must talk to her in English.’