Dark Castle. Anne Mather

but it had been discarded. And now she was glad it had. She would have hated him to think she was using this interview as a futile means of showing him exactly what he had lost. No, dressed as she was, in her plain city clothes, the thick, waving coil of golden chestnut hair confined in the unbecoming chignon, she would incite no man’s interest, least of all a man like Jonas Hunter …

       CHAPTER TWO

      THE outboard motor started at the first attempt and soon they were moving away from the jetty, bouncing across the wind-choppy water to where a dark mound could just be seen rising out of the loch. As they drew nearer, Julie could distinguish the twin towers of a small castle that stood in the middle of the island, and the thick belt of firs that surrounded it. It stood on a rise, and the ground fell away sharply in places towards a shoreline fringed with jagged rocks like giant’s teeth. Julie wondered how on earth anyone could land here, but Jonas circled the island until he came to a shingled stretch, perhaps six feet wide, where he could beach the boat. He stepped out into the water in his boots and dragged the craft up the shingle before offering Julie his hand again to climb out.

      The high heels of her boots sank into the small stones as Jonas lifted her cases out of the boat and then drew a torch from his pocket and handed it to her.

      ‘Here,’ he said. ‘You may need this. I know my way. Just follow me.’

      They crossed the stretch of shingle and began to mount steps cut out of the rock. Julie was glad of the light of the torch because the steps were uneven in places and her boots were not meant for climbing. She realized she was out of condition, too, as she began to pant while Jonas strode ahead without any apparent sign of fatigue.

      At last the steps gave on to a rough stone walk and looking back she saw that they were high above the rocky shoreline now. Ahead she could see the stone towers she had glimpsed earlier guarding an inner courtyard that was surrounded on three sides by the fortified walls of the castle. A dog barking somewhere at the back of the building was a reassuring sound, as were the lights at some of the narrow windows, but Julie still glanced rather apprehensively at her host.

      Jonas stopped at the foot of some steps leading up to an iron-studded door set in one of the turreted towers. Julie followed him slowly as he mounted the steps, gradually regaining her breath after the climb, and entered the panelled hall of the tower. It was almost round, of course, with a passage leading off to the left, and a spiral staircase winding away out of sight. The lighting came from gas lamps which cast a mellow glow over the dark wood. The staircase was stone, as Julie knew the walls to be beneath their panelling, but a soft brown and cream carpet added warmth and colour.

      She was still admiring her surroundings when a small dark woman came hurrying along the corridor towards them. ‘So you’re back then, Mr. Hunter.’ The woman’s voice was pleasantly accented, with the same brogue as old Angus had used. ‘And this would be Mrs. Hunter, of course.’

      ‘Of course.’ Jonas had put Julie’s cases down and now turned to her with enigmatic coolness. ‘Julie, this is Mrs. Macpherson. She and her husband, Rob, have lived and worked here at Castle Lochcraig for over twenty years.’

      Julie was still getting over the shock of being introduced as Mrs. Hunter. For years she had thought of herself as plain Julie Preston, the name she had always used professionally. That was why she had been so astounded that Mark should have discovered her relationship with Jonas. She had never discussed that period of her life with anyone, not after they had split up, and when Angela had introduced her to Mark it had been as Julie Preston.

      But here, apparently, Jonas had explained that she was his estranged wife, and with no small feeling of embarrassment, she shook hands with Mrs. Macpherson and hoped she looked less confused than she felt.

      ‘Your hands are frozen, Mrs. Hunter,’ exclaimed the housekeeper, looking reprovingly at Jonas. ‘I’m sure you must be tired after your journey. If you’ll away with me, I’ll show you to your room and you’ll have a few minutes to warm yourself and freshen up before I serve dinner.’

      Julie forced a smile. ‘That would be lovely, Mrs. Macpherson,’ she agreed, looking down at her suitcase. ‘Shall I bring this?’

      ‘Rob will see to your case, Julie,’ said Jonas quietly, divesting himself of his duffel coat, revealing a navy silk shirt beneath. The dark colours accentuated the tan of his skin, heightened no doubt by the years he had spent in South America. The shirt was open at the throat and Julie could see the silver medallion suspended from its slender chain which she had given him for his birthday five years ago. The sight disconcerted her. She would have expected him to have got rid of it long ago. She was almost glad when Mrs. Macpherson touched her arm and said:

      ‘Come along, Mrs. Hunter. It’s this way.’

      All the same, as they mounted the spiral staircase with the narrow windows let in at intervals, Julie couldn’t rid herself of the remembrance of that silver medallion or the memories it so painfully evoked. Memories of Jonas in the first year of their marriage, relaxed and laughing, on that holiday they had spent in Barbados. She had bought him the medallion there and it conjured up memories of Jonas trying to teach her to sail, to go snorkelling and skin-diving – of him asleep beside her early in the morning, when the silver medallion had been his only adornment …

      Her cheeks flamed and she was glad that Mrs. Macpherson was ahead of her and could not see. She must be mad, allowing such thoughts to invade her head simply because she had happened to see again a cheap piece of jewellery she had purchased in a Bridgetown market. She had to remember that at least one other woman had seen Jonas in that lazily intimate state, and that Jonas himself had been responsible for the destruction of their marriage.

      The staircase opened on to a landing with a gallery leading off before continuing on its way, but Mrs. Macpherson indicated that Julie should follow her along the carpeted gallery. The gallery followed the outer wall of the main part of the building and Julie couldn’t help noticing how much thicker the stonework was on one side than the other. No doubt in daylight the view from the windows on the outer side would be quite magnificent, but tonight, with the gaslights flickering disconcertingly, it had an eerie atmosphere.

      Mrs. Macpherson glanced round. ‘All the bedrooms and guest rooms open off the gallery, Mrs. Hunter,’ she explained. ‘And directly below us is the main hall and dining area, and the reception rooms. Mr. Hunter’s private rooms are in the tower where you entered. He doesn’t bother much with the formal apartments, although perhaps he will now that you’re here.’ She smiled encouragingly.

      Julie’s face felt stiff. What on earth did Mrs. Macpherson mean? Surely it was obvious from the small amount of luggage that she had brought with her that she was not here on a prolonged visit. Hadn’t Jonas discussed the length of her stay with his housekeeper? She didn’t know how to answer her, so she merely managed a smile and said nothing.

      They had passed several heavy doors set into the stonework before Mrs. Macpherson stopped and opened one of them and went inside, beckoning Julie to follow her. The gas lamps here had been turned down, but the housekeeper quickly turned them up and smiled in satisfaction when she saw Julie’s obvious admiration of the huge bedroom which they had entered.

      From the minute she entered the castle, Julie had realized that some sort of central heating system was in operation, and along the gallery she had noticed huge pipes and an old-fashioned radiator which had definitely taken the chill from the air. But the bedroom was really warm, heated by an enormous log fire burning in an equally enormous grate. There was an immense tester bed, the hanging canopy of which, although faded, bore the unmistakable imprint of years of intricate tapestry work; there were two massive wardrobes and a tallboy full of drawers, a dressing table with five folding mirrors that could throw back one’s reflection from every possible angle, and two wingbacked armchairs set at either side of the hearth. The silk-hung walls were unadorned, and overhead the ceiling had been panelled and carved. Julie shook her head helplessly. She had never seen such a bedroom outside of a stately home. But, she supposed wryly, that