Northern Sunset

He knew she couldn’t, Catriona admitted wrathfully as he turned his back on her and calmly turned on the basin tap. If only he had been going to have a bath, she could have left while he was gone. The suspicion that he was deliberately punishing her by remaining would not be denied. He could have as little desire to share the bed with her as she did with him, but he had sensed her fear, beneath her anger, and meant to punish her by arousing it still further. Her shocked ears caught the unmistakable sound of more clothes being removed, and the wardrobe she had left untouched was opened and a case dragged out.

“Seems to me whoever was supposed to tell me that you had my room also forgot to get my luggage removed,” he drawled coolly from the other side of the bed. “Unless you were lying all along?”

“No….”

This time she made no attempt to conceal her panic, rolling as close to the edge of the bed as she could as she felt it depress with his weight. Her heart was thudding like a sledgehammer, and she had never felt less like sleep. Her companion turned over and she froze, unaware of the small protest she had uttered until his fingers grasped her chin, sending shocked fear washing over her.

“Something tells me you’ve never done this before,” he murmured, in a voice which, for the first time, held a thread of humour. “Would I be right?”

More right than he knew, Catriona acknowledged wryly. She hadn’t slept with any man yet, never mind one who was a complete stranger, and even though she prided herself on being a modern girl, his presence overwhelmed her, conscious as she was of his unembarrassed nudity, so totally and frankly male.

As she fought against the panic his touch had aroused, Catriona heard him add softly,

“Too scared to reply?”

Her tense muscles gave him the answer she was incapable of speaking, and she thought she heard him sigh as his thumb stroked softly along her gritted jaw bone.

“You’re quite safe,” he assured her gravely. “I’m not about to ravish you. All I want is a decent night’s sleep. We’ve been out on the rigs for the last five days, in a force nine gale, and believe me,” he told her frankly, “even if I wanted to I doubt I could summon the energy to teach you how to make love.”

“I don’t need anyone to teach me!” Catriona choked back, furious with both him and herself. By rights they shouldn’t be having this conversation. They were complete strangers.

He laughed and she felt the sound shake his body—a body which she was acutely conscious was as naked as her own—and colour flamed momentarily along her cheekbones, curiosity mingling with outrage, a strange desire to know more about this man who treated their presence in bed together as though it were of no more moment than a casual chance meeting at a bus stop.

“Don’t touch me!” she demanded, jerking away from the hand which cupped her chin, gasping with pain as hard fingers suddenly seized her wrists, pulling her against the male body she had mentally been contemplating, its weight pinning her back against the mattress as cool masculine lips feathered lightly against the full softness of her own.

Catriona knew enough about men to know there was nothing of passion in the kiss. It was firm, experienced, and totally platonic, just as the male contours of the body now dominating her own were completely and absolutely devoid of sexual intensity. Before she could protest she was released to listen in bitter chagrin to the male voice whispering in her ear.

“You see? And now that I’ve disposed of your girlish fears perhaps we can both get some sleep.”

There was a pause while she struggled to formulate a suitably crushing response, and then he added suavely, “Disappointed?”

The sardonic question released her anger to spill out over him in heated denial. Disappointed? She glared at him with loathing. Never in a thousand years! How could he have inflicted such humiliation upon her? And yet at the back of her mind was an emotion, far too tenuous to be given a name, which niggled tormentingly.

“Now go to sleep,” she was instructed in much the same tones one might use to an erring child, and much to her own astonishment she found that her eyes were closing; the sleep she had denied she would ever experience washed over her in waves.

Some time during the night those same waves were transformed to the beating fury of the North Sea which had destroyed her parents’ sailing dinghy and robbed them of life, and her cries of protest were drowned out by the roaring sound of the water, until as always she found sanctuary in Magnus’s protective arms and the storm was spent.

When she awoke she was alone in the bed, no trace of its other occupant visible anywhere in the room, and on trembling legs Catriona sped to the door, making sure it was locked and leaving her key in the lock while she washed and dressed hurriedly, trying not to remember the events of the previous night.

How dared he think she had actually been waiting for him! She pulled her jeans on viciously, breaking a nail, and cursing as she searched for an emery board. When you lose your temper it always rebounds on you, her mother had told her when she was a child, and surveying the broken nail with a fierce frown Catriona was forced to reflect on the truth of this statement.

Just how much she had been dreading coming face to face with her unwanted room-mate Catriona could only acknowledge when she got downstairs and found the dining room empty. At least he had had the decency to make himself scarce this morning, she reflected over her breakfast, but that did not excuse him for his behaviour of the previous night. She felt the colour wash over her skin as she remembered the cool feel of his flesh against hers. She started to tremble and dismissed the thought. It was over now, and if she had any sense she would simply forget about it.

She had confined her hair in a neat plait to keep it out of the way and she looked closer to sixteen than twenty-two as she headed for the harbour. Her body felt lethargic—a legacy from last night’s nightmare. Her lips curved into a fond smile as she remembered the deep sense of protective security she had experienced as she dreamed of Magnus’s comforting arms.

CHAPTER TWO (#uc6886e7a-d308-5db5-9b1f-787521b73cff)

IT was a four-hour journey to Falla, but Catriona, wearing workmanlike oilskins over her jumper and jeans, worked efficiently, nursing the old fishing yaol across the windswept winter sea. The open cockpit offered scant protection from the elements, but Catriona was barely aware of the fierce wind teasing tendrils of hair which had escaped from her plait, as she concentrated on manoeuvring the unwieldy craft through the dangerous cross-currents. There was something about this battle with the wind and sea that exhilarated, setting her free from all worries and cares.

At last the sheer red sandstone cliffs of Falla came in sight and Catriona started to edge the boat into the smaller of the two deep voes which formed Falla’s natural harbour. The large voe was a true glacial fiord, Magnus had once told her, and its smooth red walls stretched endlessly down into the deep sea-water inlet.

A clutch of houses huddled together by the harbour as though seeking protection from the wind, and as Catriona moved to secure the boat the door to one opened and gnarled fisherman came out, smiling warmly as he hurried to help.

“Thanks, Findlay,” Catriona gasped, as he took the rope and stretched out a hand to help her ashore. She leapt nimbly from the deck, surefooted among the muddle of lobster pots and coiled ropes which littered the harbour.

“I’ll help you get this stuff into the Land Rover,” he offered, swinging up one of the large boxes with effortless ease.

He was the same age as their father would have been had he lived, and had taught both Peterson children to sail and fish, and Catriona felt about him as she did all the crofters; they were part of her family.

It didn’t take long to get the provisions loaded into the ancient Land Rover. The village was quiet, the men out fishing, and refusing a cup of tea, Catriona climbed into the Land Rover and switched on the engine.

The unmade road climbed out of the village and across the peat moors; carpeted with wild flowers in summer, but now in winter, grim and bleak with no tree or bush to break the windswept turf. Here and there were neat bare patches where the villagers had removed peat to heat their fires. There was no coal or wood on the islands and although these luxuries had been imported lavishly during Catriona’s parents’ time, now the fires of the Great House were heated by the same means as those in the crofts.

The road ran past the highest part of the island, the crumbling remains of a single tower all that was left of the once proud castle built during the turbulent times of the wicked Earl Patrick, who had once ruled these islands with cruelty and cunning.

The Great House was built in sandstone, overlooking a small loch, its gardens protected from the fierce wind by the sheltering hill which rose behind it. Falla had good pastures and during the summer the cows and sheep grew fat and contented. The once beautiful heather garden looked neglected and bedraggled as Catriona drove slowly through the huge wrought iron gates imported from England by the eighteenth-century Peterson who had commissioned this elegant Georgian building.

The library, which faced out on to the drive, was the room Catriona and Magnus used most. The once elegant and gracious drawing rooms were now closed off, gathering dust and falling into disrepair. At first on her return Catriona had been shocked and distressed by this, but gradually this had faded under the burden of struggling to keep even one room reasonably warm, look after her brother, manage their finances and feed them.

Magnus was standing by the window watching for her—a good sign, and she pulled up hurriedly, lifting one of the smaller boxes from the Land Rover.

Magnus opened the door for her, Russet, his red setter, jumping up enthusiastically to welcome Catriona home.

As she kissed his cheek Catriona could not help comparing her brother’s gaunt features with those of the man who had invaded her bedroom.

Magnus was twenty-nine and his bulky sweater hung loosely on what had once been a well-built frame. His hair was as fair as Catriona’s, his eyes a deep blue, but where laughter had once lurked in their depths there was now only pain. He never discussed the accident with her, because he wanted to protect her, she acknowledged, but when would he realise that she was no longer a little girl to be sheltered from life’s blows?

He followed her down the stone-flagged hall to the kitchen, and Catriona dumped her box on the large wooden table, heaving a sigh of relief.

“Get everything you wanted?” Magnus enquired, investigating the contents curiously.

“Everything I could afford,” Catriona told him wryly. “Lerwick has become fantastically expensive—another legacy from the oil rigs, I suppose.”

She had her back to Magnus and didn’t see his faint frown at her acerbic tone. He pushed the box away and came to stand beside her, his arm around her shoulders.

“Aren’t you finding it a bit heavy?” he asked her gently.

Nonplussed, Catriona stared at him. This was her usual day for baking and breadmaking and she wanted to check the old-fashioned kitchen range before she started.

“That chip you’re carrying,” Magnus explained. “Look, Cat, I appreciate your concern and loyalty, but what happened to me was an accident, pure and simple—there’s no point in blaming oil for it, nor on feeling this silly hatred of everything connected with it.”

Catriona’s fingers curled into her palms. She found it impossible to understand how Magnus could so calmly accept what had happened.

“Leave all that,” he said suddenly. “Come into the library, there’s something I want to show you.”

Mystified, Catriona allowed him to propel her out into the chilly hall and into the library.

A peat fire burned brightly in the immense hearth and Catriona sank gratefully into a leather chair, her hands outstretched to the flames.