Monkshood, page 5
Bothwell removed his hand, but not before she had seen the fire burning in his light eyes at her rejection of his help. He turned away and Melanie smiled once more at Jennifer before opening the door. It was not until the door had closed behind her and she was on her way upstairs that she realized she was trembling.
In her room, she paced about restlessly. Why did Bothwell desire her to leave so urgently? What harm was she doing him by staying here? She was sorry about the house, of course, but against his cold contempt she could do nothing, and he would not believe that she really did feel badly about it. He was a proud, arrogant man, she conceded at last, and he obviously wanted nothing from anyone like her. From the beginning his attitude towards her had been one of scarcely-veiled impatience, and he clearly considered her irresponsible for disobeying his suggestions. But they had not been suggestions, she told herself angrily, they had been commands, and that was why she had reacted against them so strongly. He had no right to attempt to tell her what she should or should not do, and just because she had been confiding enough to tell him of her hopes for the house he considered her silly and sentimental and totally lacking in common sense.
She walked moodily to the window. The most sensible thing to do would be to do as he had said and return to London right away. Now that she knew the house would be well cared for she could leave all her vaguely-formed plans and ideas for the spring, when it would be a far less arduous task convincing Michael of the merits of the place. And, in addition, Michael could come up with her next time and share her enthusiasm.
She turned back and looked round the room. A deep core of resentment was building up inside her, and she knew she did not want to leave. She wanted to stay and spring-clean the house as she had stated so carelessly downstairs. She wanted to see the shutters taken away from the windows and smoke curling from the chimneys, and the whole place clean and shining.
Her mind worked furiously. Her publisher expected her back at the end of the week, but the sketches she was working on were well on the way to completion and could be left for a further two or three days. Considering the number of rooms in the house, she thought another week would suffice and Michael could surely be placated for that length of time. Besides, he was busy, and no doubt he would have little time to miss her.
She thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her trousers. It was an exciting prospect and one which she couldn’t wait to put into operation.
With determination, she went downstairs and rang the receptionist’s bell. The girl came through from the back room and smiled when she saw who it was.
‘Is it your bill you’re after?’ she inquired, rummaging through some papers on the desk.
Melanie’s brow clouded for a moment. ‘No,’ she declared firmly. ‘I—I wanted to let you know that I have decided to stay for a further week.’
The girl looked up in surprise. ‘A week, Miss Stewart? But your car’s just been delivered outside! I understood from Sean that you’d be leaving in the morning.’
Melanie compressed her lips. She would not allow herself to be angered, not now.
‘Well, I’m afraid Mr. Bothwell made a mistake,’ she stated clearly. ‘I’ve decided to stay on.’
The girl looked rather put out. ‘Then I shall have to ask Sean if it’s all right,’ she said, rather shortly.
Melanie heaved a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, you do that. And by the way, you can also tell him that if he finds it impossible to allow me to stay on then I shall probably take up residence at Monkshood!’
CHAPTER FOUR
MELANIE dressed with care for dinner that evening. For some reason she wished to show Sean Bothwell that his irritability did not trouble her in the least, and she intended to maintain an air of indifference when next she was in his presence.
Her gown was made of wine-coloured velvet, long and straight, moulding her breasts with deliberate emphasis before falling in concealing folds about her ankles. Her hair, parted in the centre to fall softly against her cheeks, gave her rather a demure air and as she wore little make-up the clear lucid violet of her eyes was all the more pronounced.
Satisfied with her appearance, she made her way down to the dining-room and was pleasantly cheered by the admiring glances the two old men sent in her direction. Ian Macdonald got up from his seat by the fire at her entrance, and said:
‘Helen tells us you’ve decided to stay on for a few days.’
‘Helen?’ Melanie frowned. ‘Oh, is that what the receptionist is called? Yes, yes, I’m staying for about another week.’
‘What made you change your mind?’ inquired Elizabeth Sullivan, with interest. ‘Mr. Bothwell said you were only staying a couple of days.’
Melanie just managed not to show any emotion. ‘I suppose I must like it here,’ she replied carefully. ‘Is—is it still snowing?’
It was not, the sky was bright and clear for the first time since she left Fort William the day before, but the question successfully changed the subject and when Alaister brought up the possibilities of a hard frost covering the loch, Melanie’s reasons for remaining at Cairnside were forgotten.
When dinner was over Melanie decided to go into the bar lounge. She had had nothing stronger to drink than coffee since leaving London, and the idea of a liqueur after her meal was appealing.
The bar lounge opened from the reception hall and was almost empty she saw as she entered. As with the rest of the hotel, it was tastefully decorated and furnished with a curved bar of polished wood strung with multi-coloured lights. The bartender was a young man she had not seen before, and it was quite a relief to see another youthful face. Melanie smiled and perched on a stool by the bar asking for Chartreuse.
The young man turned to get her drink and then pushing it across to her, he said: ‘You’re Miss Stewart, aren’t you?’
Melanie nodded, cupping her chin on one hand. ‘Yes,’ she said curiously, ‘who are you?’
‘Jeffrey Bothwell,’ he replied at once. ‘Sean’s brother.’
‘Oh!’ Melanie was nonplussed for a moment. ‘I—I didn’t realize he had a brother…’
‘Why should you? You’ve only been here since yesterday, haven’t you, and I was off duty last night. I’ve been staying overnight with friends and only got back at lunchtime.’
Melanie twisted the glass in her hands rather speculatively. ‘I didn’t use the bar last night,’ she admitted, and then looked up. ‘Do you like working in the hotel?’
‘It’s okay. It’s only a part-time occupation as far as I’m concerned. I’m at college in Glasgow, but as I’m on holiday at the moment I lend a hand.’ He picked up a glass and began to polish it. ‘The hotel is quite a family concern. I suppose you’ve met my sister too.’
‘Your sister?’
‘Yes, Helen. She’s usually on the reception desk.’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Melanie was surprised.
Jeffrey put down the glass he had been polishing and picked up another. ‘We all do our share,’ he went on. ‘The hotel is Sean’s now, of course. He’s the eldest son.’
‘The eldest son!’
Melanie could not suppress the incredulous echo of his statement, and even as she said the words she became aware that they were no longer alone at the bar. A man had come to join them, a tall, dark man looking sleek and immaculate and more saturnine than ever in a dinner suit and a brilliantly white shirt.
‘Good evening, Miss Stewart,’ he said politely, coming to stand beside her. ‘I understand you left a message for me with Helen.’
Melanie had to force herself to remain where she was when all her senses urged her to put as much distance as possible between herself and Sean Bothwell. It was impossible for her not to be aware of his disturbing personality, particularly as he chose to regard her with unconcealed appraisal, his strange light eyes insolently assessing the qualities of her gown and resting for a long moment on the creamy whiteness of her throat rising from the round neckline. She found herself looking at him, attempting to challenge his confidence in a similar manner, but the powerful width of his shoulders and the latent strength of his thigh muscles straining against the expensive cloth of his suit simply caused the hot colour to stain her cheeks yet again and aroused the most uncomfortable sensations inside her.
With confused haste, she lifted her drink and swallowed a large mouthful, almost choking herself in the process. He waited until she was composed again, outwardly if not inwardly, and then said: ‘Helen tells me you have decided to stay on for a further week.’
Melanie was forced to look at him again. ‘That’s right,’ she agreed carefully. ‘Providing my arrangements don’t clash with yours.’
Bothwell’s eyes narrowed, and to her annoyance he seated himself on the stool adjoining hers. ‘What arrangements do I have?’ he queried rather mockingly, and Melanie’s fingers tightened convulsively round the stem of her glass.
He was for some reason determined to disconcert her, and she did not care for it. She preferred his arrogant ebullience to this more dangerous side of him. Perhaps he had realized that by bullying her he was getting nowhere and had chosen instead to use other methods to get her to leave.
Jeffrey moved away to attend to two men who had just entered the lounge and they were left alone, much to Melanie’s chagrin. She sipped her drink and concentrated hard on the lights behind the bar, but she was aware of his regard the whole time and she wished he would go away and attend to his other guests and leave her alone. With angry determination, she turned on him and said: ‘Exactly what are you waiting for, Mr. Bothwell? I’ve told you what I told Helen. Surely there’s nothing more to say?’
Bothwell was resting his back against the bar, his elbows supporting him on the bar itself. He looked completely at his ease and it infuriated her.
‘I thought we might talk,’ he said, tipping his head on one side and regarding her intently.
Melanie frowned. ‘What about?’
‘Our relationship, perhaps. Or maybe Monkshood.’
Melanie bent her head. ‘You wouldn’t talk about it earlier, why should you suddenly want to talk about it now?’
He narrowed his eyes, and she was again struck by the length of his lashes. ‘Maybe I’m only just beginning to realize what a determined young woman you are, Miss Stewart.’ He swung round in his seat and resting his elbows on the bar he cupped his chin in his hands. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What do you say?’
Melanie bit her lip. She was torn between the desire to get as far away from this disturbing man as possible and the equally strong desire to try and make him understand her feelings about Monkshood. After all, they should not be enemies, not when there was absolutely no reason for them to be so. Only a small nagging doubt about the advisability of her spending much time with Bothwell caused her to hesitate. But finally she said: ‘Very well, let’s talk about Monkshood. Maybe we could come to some kind of compromise after all.’
Bothwell slid off his stool. ‘Not here,’ he said. ‘I prefer to do my talking in private.’
Melanie’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, but—I don’t think—’
‘Come now, Miss Stewart, surely you’re not afraid of having a drink alone with me!’ He swung round the end of the bar. ‘What is your particular poison? Whisky? Rum? Brandy? Gin?’
‘Nothing, thank you.’ Melanie was uneasy now.
‘Oh, come now, you must like something.’ Bothwell’s smile was slightly crooked. ‘Surely a small whisky with dry ginger would be acceptable?’
Melanie heaved a sigh. ‘I’m rather tired, Mr. Bothwell. Perhaps we should save our talk until some other time…’
Bothwell halted in front of her, a bottle of whisky and two small bottles of dry ginger in his hands. ‘Are you afraid of me, Miss Stewart?’ he inquired, softly and challengingly.
Melanie finished the Chartreuse. ‘Of course not.’
‘Good! Then shall we go?’
He indicated that she should precede him out of the bar and they emerged into the reception hall. Someone had left the outer door open and a chill wind was blowing through the lobby door into the hall. Bothwell stood the whisky and the two bottles of ginger on the reception desk and went to close the door, while Melanie stood shivering, as much with apprehension as cold.
When he came back, he gave a sardonic smile at the doubtful look in Melanie’s eyes. ‘I thought you might run out on me,’ he murmured. ‘You had the chance.’
‘Oh, please, Mr. Bothwell, stop trying to play cat and mouse with me,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m sure you’re a very experienced adversary, but games do not amuse me!’
‘Do they not, Miss Stewart? You disappoint me. I thought all fashionable young women enjoyed verbal forays into masculine territory.’
Melanie glanced round. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, refusing to be drawn.
Bothwell walked round the reception desk, picked up the bottles and pressing a hand on the handle of the door behind the desk, he pushed it open. ‘Just here, Miss Stewart,’ he said calmly. ‘Would you like to come round?’
He stood beside the opened door until she came round and preceded him into a room that was lit by firelight. She glanced round nervously as he closed the door, but he did nothing more alarming than to stand down the bottles he was carrying and switch on a tall standard lamp that filled the room with a golden glow.
It was a comfortable room, small and neat, with the trappings of an office allied to less businesslike fittings. Apart from the desk and a couple of filing cabinets, there were two deep armchairs made of dark red leather, slightly worn but obviously comfortable, and a rather old-fashioned divan, upholstered in green velvet and possessing a scrolled headrest at one end. There were plenty of papers strewn about the desk, but there was a kind of ordered disorder about them, and the only incongruity was the telephone, which was discordantly modern.
Melanie hovered in the centre of the room feeling the embracing warmth from the blazing logs in the hearth while Sean Bothwell found some glasses in a small cabinet and opened the bottle of whisky. He poured a small measure of whisky into one glass and a more generous measure into another, and then adding ginger to the first he handed it to Melanie. Melanie took the glass reluctantly and stood uncertainly while Bothwell walked round her to the fire.
‘Sit down,’ he said, indicating one of the armchairs, and took half his drink in one gulp.
Melanie hesitated, and then did as he suggested, but she stood her glass down on the mantelshelf beside her and did not touch the spirit inside it.
Bothwell finished his drink and walked lazily across to pour himself another. ‘Tell me,’ he said when he turned with his glass in his hand, ‘what kind of price would you think Monkshood would fetch on the open market?’
Melanie was taken aback. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Not a lot, I shouldn’t think.’
‘Nine thousand?’
Melanie frowned. ‘Perhaps, although I think that’s a trifle generous. I thought maybe—eight thousand.’
‘Hmn.’ Bothwell considered the whisky in his glass for a moment and then threw half of it to the back of his throat again. ‘Eight thousand, eh?’ He studied her glass again. ‘So if someone offered you—say—ten thousand for it, you would consider it a generous offer?’
Melanie stared at him incredulously. ‘Ten thousand!’ she exclaimed. ‘No one would offer ten thousand for Monkshood!’
‘I would.’
‘What!’ She was astounded now. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Oh, but I am.’ Bothwell regarded her intently. ‘That’s why I invited you in here. I wanted to put this proposition to you.’
Melanie lifted down her whisky and sipped it hastily. She felt she needed the sustenance it would give. She couldn’t believe her ears. Bothwell was offering her ten thousand for a house that wasn’t worth half that price!
She drained her glass and was holding it absently in her hands when he lifted it from her and taking it away filled it again. She took it automatically, but did not immediately raise it to her lips.
‘But why do you want Monkshood?’ she said, at last. ‘I mean—there must be other houses in the district you could buy. Why do you want Monkshood?’
‘I have my reasons,’ he returned shortly, finishing his second whisky. ‘Monkshood is convenient, and it is the only house in the neighbourhood of any size. At least, it’s the only one that’s empty!’
Melanie swallowed hard. ‘You’re making it very difficult for me, Mr. Bothwell.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t want to sell Monkshood.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Bothwell smote his forehead with his fist. ‘Why? With ten thousand pounds you could buy yourself a country cottage near London, far more suited to your requirements than Monkshood.’
Melanie sipped her second drink, choosing her words carefully. ‘You don’t understand, Mr. Bothwell. I like the house, I like the area. I told you—I don’t want to live near London.’
‘You’re crazy!’ he muttered violently, turning to pour himself another drink. ‘What can Monkshood possibly mean to you?’
Melanie rose to her feet unsteadily. ‘It means somewhere I can call my own for the first time in my life!’ she said fiercely.
‘But any house would do!’ exclaimed Bothwell impatiently. ‘You haven’t been here long enough to form any especial attachment for the place! If I were to tell you tomorrow that that wasn’t Monkshood, and introduce you to some new building, you wouldn’t even notice!’
‘Yes, I would,’ she said quickly. ‘Look, you have a family—brothers and sisters around you—I have no one. My parents are dead and I was an only child! To me, Monkshood represents a link with the past, with my mother, if you like. At least it belonged to someone who was related to me, no matter how remotely!’
‘Sentimental drivel!’ he snapped angrily. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense in all my life! And do you suppose your inestimable fiancé with his fashionable London practice is going to fall in with your wishes concerning a house in the Highlands miles from any sophisticated kind of civilization?’
