Loe raamatut: «The Journey Home»

1

Midlothian, Scotland

1999

By the time he’d missed his third pheasant, Jack Buchanan was in a foul mood. It did not improve when, instead of falling to the ground with a satisfying thud, the last bird fluttered into the gray Scottish sky, unscathed.

He lowered the shotgun, irritated. Pheasants did not fly away. They fell obediently, just as junior executives and the other members of his entourage jumped into action when they were supposed to.

He entered the glen briskly, realizing he was having a bad day. He knew to expect it, for this particular day was always bad. Each year he thought he’d get the better of the pain that still rose to the surface, as boldly now as it had then, and every year it got the better of him. He cocked the gun in preparation, willing his mind to concentrate fully on the task at hand. The next bird would not escape him.

He didn’t have long to wait before catching sight of his prey, and he aimed carefully before slowly squeezing the trigger.

A split second later he stood frozen to the spot, his gut clenched, cold sweat breaking out under the heavy shooting jacket. He’d just missed a figure who’d walked straight into his line of fire.

Missed, by an inch of fate.

Thank God for the reactions he’d learned years ago that enabled him to deviate the shot, sending it ripping into a tree trunk a few degrees to the right.

“Are you okay?” he shouted anxiously, trying to make out who it was. There was a moment’s silence followed by the echo of his own voice. Horrified, he slung the shotgun through his arm, the dogs following close to heel. Bracken crackled noisily under his boots as he strode quickly toward a tall slender woman standing motionless among the trees, her ashen face surrounded by long chestnut hair.

“Are you all right?” he asked, eyeing her anxiously. Slowly tension gave vent to annoyance as he realized she was unhurt. “Don’t you know it’s not safe to walk in the woods in the middle of the shooting season?” he asked accusingly.

“Hey! Wait just one minute. You nearly killed me,” she exclaimed, suddenly coming to life with a shudder. “Plus, if anyone has no business being here it’s you. This is private land.”

“I’m well aware of that, but I have the owner’s permission to shoot every darn grouse or pheasant that happens to cross my path,” he answered sarcastically, irked by her sudden self-assurance. “I’m sorry I scared you, but you’re to blame for this incident, you know. You should keep your eyes on the ground, not up in the clouds, and be aware of where you’re walking. Sit!” he snapped curtly, for the pointers were still scuffling in the undergrowth, trying to pick up the scent of the bird their master had missed.

“What nerve!” she exclaimed. “This land belongs to the Dunbar estate, and you’re trespassing.” She glared at him, steadying herself against the tree as she spoke. Jack looked at her properly now, suddenly struck by the strange color of her eyes, a grayish-green that reminded him of the North Sea on a windy summer’s day. They also held a very determined look, and he was in no mood to argue.

“See that tree over there?” He pointed to his left. “That is where this property, namely Dalkirk—” he began patiently.

“Rot and rubbish. You’re on my land, and if you don’t leave immediately, I’ll call the authorities,” she said, cutting him short.

“And just how do you plan to do that?” he demanded, his tone as challenging as hers.

“None of your business. If you don’t know how to use a gun properly, you shouldn’t be carrying one. You’re careless.”

He bristled. No one called Jack Buchanan careless. “Look, miss. I’m a houseguest of Sir Peter and Lady Kinnaird. As I’ve already told you, I have their permission to shoot on their property.”

She straightened, drawing her tall, slim figure to its full height, and cast him a withering look.

“Maybe in America being a houseguest gives you the right to invade other people’s property, but let me assure you that in Scotland it doesn’t. Now, I’d like to get past, please.” She took a step forward, then halted. “By the way, for future reference, that fence over there is the boundary between the two estates.”

Jack’s eyes followed her gloved finger over the dogs’ heads to a dilapidated fence, barely visible among the foliage and bracken.

Seeing it only made him more exasperated. He bowed in mock surrender as she strode past him, her head held high, and watched as she started down the incline, her shoulders ramrod straight in an old green jacket worn over a pair of faded jeans.

Feisty, he remarked to himself with a spark of grim amusement, then whistled to the dogs. The incident had unsettled him. He knew he was at fault. Not entirely perhaps, but he should have been paying more attention instead of brooding over the past, as he had done on this day each November for the last twelve years.

He was about to leave when something on the ground caught his eye. He stooped. It was a solitary diamond pendant glistening on the bed of dead leaves and broken twigs. Scooping it up, he called after the woman as she reached the clearing.

“Hold it, I think you dropped something.”

He watched her stop, sway for an instant as though trying to maintain her balance, then crumple silently to the ground, like a limp marionette. Dropping the pendant into the depths of his pocket, he raced down the incline to where she lay, prostrate on the dank earth.

Habit made him prop the gun against a tree trunk, sheer discipline keeping him from allowing emotion to cloud his mind. He banished all feelings of remorse and self-recrimination to the nether regions of his brain, and assessed the situation.

The raw November afternoon was fading fast, the sky heavy with clouds, and a chill in the air announced snow. Gently lifting her limp body, he gazed at her lifeless face. All at once, past images sprung before his eyes, a shaft of uncontrollable anguish tearing through him like a bullet, ripping his heart and piercing his gut as another face, a face so beloved and yearned after, replaced the one of the woman lying still and pale in his arms.

That this should have happened today of all days was the cruelest twist of fate. For a brief moment pain slashed into him, as rampant now as it had been then.

He forced himself to breathe deeply before heaving the woman carefully into a sitting position against his chest, her head propped against his shoulder. He sent up a silent prayer when she moved ever so slightly. Thank God she was going to be okay. When she finally stirred, he caught the fleeting whiff of her perfume. It lingered in the sea breeze that blew inland from the Firth of Forth and could still be felt, even here, in the heart of Midlothian. Her eyes twitched and he leaned closer, trying to catch the gist of her whispered words as she drifted back to consciousness. Then he set himself to the task of seriously reviving her.

India Moncrieff came to with a splutter. Something strong and pungent was burning in her throat. She struggled to sit up farther, but was restrained by a powerful hold.

“Drink some more,” a firm, masculine voice ordered.

Before she could answer, more liquid was tilted down her throat. Finally she found her voice.

“Please stop,” she begged, choking, her disjointed thoughts slowly taking shape. All at once she remembered. She’d been shot at. She hadn’t been hit, but the shock and fear of the moment must have caused her to faint. She felt suddenly ridiculous. She’d never fainted in her life. Then she realized, to her dismay, that the arm behind her head must belong to the obnoxious American, the one responsible for this whole mess.

“Just do as you’re told and stop arguing,” the deep voice continued. “The alcohol will get your blood moving. I’m going to move you over there.” Before she could protest, India was scooped up by a pair of strong arms, lifted as though she were a featherweight and deposited gently on a large tree stump.

“Where do you live?” he demanded, his hands still securing her arms in a firm grip.

“It’s really none of your business,” she muttered, wishing he would shut up. Perhaps then her head would stop spinning.

“You’ve made it my business. Whether I like it or not, you’re my responsibility.” He loosened his grip and stood up.

“Responsibility? I’d hardly call leveling rifles at people responsible. I’ll be fine on my own, thank you very much.” She passed a hand over her eyes and sat up straighter. Then, pulling herself together with an effort, she eyed the stranger, taking in the thick dark eyebrows that loomed ominously over a pair of piercing blue eyes. Eyes that held concern and, to her irritation, a touch of amusement.

“Do you think you can walk?” he asked doubtfully.

“Of course I can,” she lied, attempting to rise. “I’ll be perfectly all right. You can go now.”

“I won’t leave you here.”

“Oh, please just go. You’ve caused enough trouble already. I’ll be fine.” But he stood his ground, looming over her, tall, dark and scowling, as confident as though he owned the place.

“All you’ve done from the moment I’ve met you is complain,” he exclaimed, his mouth breaking into a smile that lit up his handsome face. “Now please. Stop arguing and be reasonable. If we don’t get moving we’ll be stuck out here in the dark, and I don’t have a flashlight.”

India eyed him with suspicion. “Who are you anyway?” she asked.

“My name’s Buchanan. Jack Buchanan. Like I told you, I’m staying at Dalkirk with the Kinnairds. Are you their neighbor?”

“I suppose so.”

“What’s does that mean?” he asked, puzzled. “Either you are or you aren’t.”

“Yes, I am the neighbor—in a way. Though I fail to see what that has to do with you,” she added, noticing the shadows flitting eerily to and fro in the failing afternoon light. She found the idea of being stuck by herself, with no light and little notion of how to get back to the house, rather daunting. She reluctantly swallowed her pride and rose.

“Since you’re determined to come along, we’d better go, though I’m sure I could manage. Thank you all the same,” she added as a grudging afterthought.

“Okay. Let’s get moving. By the way, what’s your name?”

“India Moncrieff,” she replied, cross that she couldn’t just walk off and dump him.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he replied, making no effort to conceal the cynical glint in his eyes.

India straightened her jacket. If he was a friend of Peter and Diana’s, there couldn’t be much harm in letting him take her back to the house. Except for the damage it was doing to her pride, she realized ruefully, watching him pick up his shotgun and whistle to the dogs, his dark hair tousled by the wind.

They emerged from the glen and headed toward the burn. At the first blast of biting wind whipping her face, India’s mood changed, as suddenly, all her reasons for being here today came to mind. She trudged on, thinking bleakly of what awaited her back at the house. She’d gone to the glen to flee reality, to try to find some peace, if only for a little while. But it had been a short-lived reprieve.

They crossed the rickety wooden bridge, the dogs splashing through the ice-cold water of the shallow burn, then shaking themselves vigorously on the other side.

As they began the short trek up the steep hill that led to the gardens and the lawn, India thought of the future, and what it would hold for her now that she was alone. Serena, her half sister, was her only close family now; she barely knew her cousins. A stab of loneliness made her catch her breath, but she pushed the thought aside, and directed her focus to the man beside her. His presence was rather forbidding, despite his rakish American good looks and determination to escort her home.

She quickened her pace and reached the top of the hill ahead of him, exhaling small white wisps into the cold wind. She leaned against the huge trunk of the ancient oak tree that stood tall and alone and gazed over at Dunbar. To her astonishment the sight filled her with an unexpected feeling of expectation rather than gloom.

All was not lost, some unknown voice seemed to say.

A sudden surge of new strength coursed through her, followed by a mantle of peace that descended strangely upon her from out of the mist. The tight knot that had been in her stomach ever since she’d arrived at Dunbar slowly began to unwind, and for an instant she could have sworn someone was next to her.

But the moment passed, disappearing into the penumbra so fast she wondered if she’d been dreaming. It was all too easy to be entranced by the mysticism of the place. Too easy to sigh, too easy to hope, too easy to dream dreams that could never, would never, come true.

Scotland had a soothing effect on Jack. Ever since his first visit four years earlier he’d loved it. The rough natural beauty, the unspoiled landscape and heather-covered hills bathed in soft shades of white and purple had enchanted him, and he’d felt an immediate connection. Now the auburn tones of autumn were fading into winter, as the trees bared their branches, and frost sparkled, a fairylike blanket covering the fields. Damp leaves were being burned nearby and the smell brought back childhood memories of Tennessee, of his parents, both dead long since, and Chad, his little brother, running, kicking leaves up in the air to the sound of their mother’s laughter.

He reached the top of the incline shortly after India and stopped, lowering his shotgun, drinking in the magnificence of the sight before him.

Across a vast stretch of manicured lawn stood Dunbar House, stately and majestic, its clean architectural lines softened by the gentle pink hue of the local stone, still visible among the fading shadows. A herd of Highland cattle, barely discernible through the mist, grazed peacefully in a field to the right of the east wing. Not a sound disturbed the magic tranquillity that reigned, serene and timeless.

It was an awesome sight, one that sent shivers running through him. “Does this place belong to your family?” he asked at last.

“Yes.” Her eyes, like his, were fixed on the house. “There have been Dunbars here forever. At least since the late 1200s. They were baron raiders then, roaming the countryside in hordes, stealing their neighbors’ sheep.”

“The house is amazing. When was it built?”

“The mid-1700s. William started it, building on to a previous smaller structure, but it was finished by Fergus Dunbar, a cousin who inherited when William’s son Rob was killed at the Battle of Culloden.”

“What was the old house like?” he asked, suddenly curious.

“I think it was a small hunting lodge, but I’m not quite sure.” She seemed anxious to go, but Jack stood still, entranced.

“It would make a fabulous hotel,” he remarked thoughtfully.

“Hotel?” Her head shot round, her expression horrified. “What a dreadful idea. I can’t think of anything worse. Dunbar has always been a home.”