Monkshood. Anne Mather
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of the accelerator caused by a desperate desire to reach her destination as soon as possible had achieved what her careful driving had avoided until now, and she realized that to continue revving her engine would simply embed the wheels deeper in the snow and slush.
Fastening the top button of her sheepskin coat closer about her throat and pulling on the fur hat which had been lying on the seat beside her since she left London the day before, she pushed open her door and emerged from the warmth and comfort of the car into the blinding chill of the blizzard. For a moment the sudden icy blast took her breath away, but then she wasted no more time trying to look about her when it was impossible to see more than a few yards and bent instead to the rear wheels of the car. As she had already suspected, the wheels were caked with snow and had no grip against an already slippery surface. Sighing, she straightened and wiped tendrils of hair back from her forehead, wet now in the driving flakes of snow that melted against the warmth of her skin. What was she to do? She had no real idea where she was, never having visited Scotland before, never mind this remote area of the Highlands, and being alone seemed infinitely worse than having someone with whom she could have commiserated.
Deciding she might as well keep dry while she considered her desperate position, she climbed back into the car again and consulted her watch. It was only a little after three-thirty, but already it seemed like early evening in this wintry wasteland. She glanced about her, shivering, and her eyes alighted on her suitcases in the back of the car. Inside these were her clothes, and an idea occurred to her. If she could take out some garment, some old garment, and spread it under the rear wheels of the car, she might just succeed in getting the vehicle moving again, and then she would have to try and keep moving until she reached some kind of habitation.
Turning, she knelt on the seat and extracting her keys from her handbag she used them to open one of the cases. As she surveyed the mass of woollens and lingerie that confronted her, she wondered how she could use any of these things for such a purpose, knowing that whatever she did use would have to be written off as she would be unable to stop and pick it up again. She bit her lip. She was not thinking constructively. What use would any of these clothes be to her if she froze to death instead?
With determination, she drew out two sweaters, made of wool, which she thought might serve the purpose. Then she climbed out of the car again and bent to push the woollens hard against the rear tyres. The wind whistled through the pines at the side of the road and the biting particles of snow stung her cheeks. She was trying desperately to remain calm when everything around her seemed determined to arouse a sense of panic inside her, and she was concentrating so hard on what she was doing that she did not see the glimmer of headlamps through the gloom or distinguish the sound of a vehicle’s engine above the roaring of the wind.
Awareness came swiftly, and she had only just enough time to get out of the way as a huge Range-Rover ground to a halt beside her on the narrow track, showering her with slush. Shivering and breathless, as much with shock as with cold, Melanie saw a man climb out of the driving seat and stride heavily round the bonnet of the vehicle to her side. It was impossible to make out his features as she blinked rapidly in the blinding blizzard, but she could see that he was reasonably tall and broad and male and relief overwhelmed all other emotions.
She was about to make some thankful comment about his timely arrival, when he halted before her and snapped: ‘Do you want to get yourself killed?’ in a harsh, angry tone.
Melanie stared at him helplessly, shading her eyes with a mittened hand. ‘I beg your pardon—’ she began.
‘Oh, English!’ he muttered impatiently, glancing down at the tyres of her car and their woollen accoutrements. ‘Exactly what are you trying to do?’
He had only a faint accent, but he was unmistakably Celtic in the brusqueness of his manner, and as her eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom she could see that his hair was thick and very black against the whiteness of the snow.
‘My car is stuck, as you can see,’ Melanie explained now, refusing to allow his manner to annoy her.
The man surveyed the car with some derision. ‘It isn’t actually the kind of vehicle used to this kind of terrain, is it?’ he commented dryly.
Melanie kept her temper with difficulty. ‘No,’ she agreed carefully. ‘I will admit it’s used to more – well – civilized routes!’
The man allowed a faint smile to lift the corners of his mouth. ‘Undoubtedly. Exactly where are you making for?’
‘Cairnside. Am I far from there?’
‘As the crow flies, no. Just a couple of miles, that’s all. The way you’re going you should reach there some time tomorrow.’
Melanie compressed her lips. ‘What do you mean?’ she snapped.
He shrugged. ‘What do you think I mean?’
‘I’m going in the wrong direction.’
‘Exactly.’ He bent and tugged at the sweaters she had pushed under her wheels. ‘You’d better put these away. I somehow don’t think they’re going to be of much use.’
‘What do you mean?’ Melanie was past caring about being pleasant now. ‘Where have I gone wrong?’
He smiled mockingly. ‘Maybe you know the answer to that better than I do. But you left the road to Cairnside almost half a mile back.’
‘What?’ Melanie was horrified.
‘I’m afraid so.’ He shrugged and in less sardonic tones added: ‘It’s easily done in these conditions. I saw your tracks and followed them. If you’d continued on in a straight line you would most probably have ended up in Loch Cairnross!’
‘What?’
Melanie was aghast, and her legs felt quite weak when she realized how close she had come to disaster. Leaning against the bonnet of her car for support, she said: ‘I – I suppose I ought to thank you.’
He shook his dark head. ‘That’s not necessary. I’d have done the same for anyone. However, you’ll have to leave your car here tonight. I don’t intend to try towing it back in this. If you’d like to put your luggage in the Rover I’ll drive you to the hotel. You can arrange about your car when the weather breaks.’
Melanie hesitated. “That – that’s very kind of you. But I don’t even know your name.’
He frowned and brushed past her to open her rear door and take out her suitcases. He slammed the opened suitcase shut with complete disregard for its contents and then turning said: ‘I don’t consider this either the time or the place for formalities, however, if it means anything to you you can call me Bothwell!’
‘Bothwell!’ Melanie stared at him incredulously. It seemed such an appropriate name somehow. ‘I – er – I’m Melanie Stewart!’
Bothwell didn’t seem to hear her, or if he did he considered it of no import, and with a shrug Melanie stepped aside as he carried her cases to the Rover.
‘You’d better get inside,’ he advised brusquely, ‘before you freeze to death! I’ll lock up your car. Are the keys inside?’
Melanie nodded and climbed obediently into the vehicle. It was so much warmer inside out of the driving sleet and she began to realize exactly how cold she had become almost without being aware of it. Her fingers and toes were numb and a trickle of water was making its way down her neck, past her collar, to the warmth of her spine.
Bothwell closed her car and came towards the Range-Rover tossing her keys in a gloved hand. He aimed a kick at each of his tyres with a booted foot as though to check their serviceability before getting into the front of the vehicle beside her. Then he switched on the interior light and regarded her clearly for the first time without the protective shield of snowflakes.
Melanie for her part found his scrutiny rather disturbing, and she was annoyed to find the hot colour running up her throat to her face. Certainly he seemed to find her appearance interesting, but she refused to return that insolent