Secret Things and Highland Flings. Tracy Corbett

let him out, locking the door behind him. As fast as her heels would allow, she ran across the gallery showroom and charged downstairs. ‘Marcus? MARCUS! Did you forge my bloody signature?’

      He was nowhere in sight.

      He’d obviously been searching for the holdall, because his belongings were scattered on the floor, a trail of discarded clothes leading to the rear doors … which were left open. Bastard! She had a stack of valuable paintings stored down here, including a recent shipment from the Wentworth estate in Scotland, and Marcus had left the place unsecured. Arsehole!

      And then she spotted his note next to the empty black holdall:

      I WANT MY MONEY.

       Chapter Two

      Tuesday 29th May

      Oliver Wentworth took the opportunity of his sister’s phone ringing to take a breather from playing the dutiful carer. The distress at witnessing his pregnant sister being trampled on by an irate Shetland pony had sapped all of his energy. Thankfully, apart from a fractured fibula, she and the baby had escaped relatively intact.

      As his sister answered her phone, he listened to her attempting to calm her distraught husband, reassuring him she was okay and relaying the story of how she’d toppled over the feeding trough when the aptly named Goliath had upended her. Having spent several years trying for a baby, he couldn’t imagine Harry taking the news of his wife’s injury too well. Poor bloke.

      When the conversation switched from Louisa’s health to declarations of love, Olly tuned out. He adored his sister, but he didn’t need to hear about the intimate details of her marriage.

      Instead, he gazed out of the taxi window and admired the scenery outside.

      Medical services were few and far between in the Highlands, so they’d ended up at the Broadford Hospital on the Isle of Skye. The treatment had been first-rate, but it was a slow drive back to Shieldaig, the lanes winding and narrow. At least it allowed him time to recover from the trauma of Louisa’s accident and absorb the sight of his heritage passing by bathed in the May sunshine.

      Shieldaig was sixty-eight miles west of Inverness in the Wester Ross region of Scotland, a quaint village with a miniscule population but with a huge influx of visitors during the summer months. It was both beautiful and brutal. Mountainous landscape dominated the view, framing the expanse of lochs and villages nestled between. It was the stuff of postcards, picturesque and enticing. But it was also challenging – as many an inexperienced walker had discovered when attempting to conquer Beinn Eighe ill-equipped. Even more so as the area had a poor phone signal.

      As an adult, he could appreciate the appeal of the rugged terrain, where land merged seamlessly into sky. But as a kid, he’d hated the place. It had been a prison. A punishment. A place from which he’d been desperate to escape. And although he still harboured painful memories from those early years, he was hopeful of finally shedding his dislike of the place and reconnecting with his siblings.

      As the taxi driver negotiated the narrow lanes, Rubha Castle came into view. The grey stone construction sat ominously against its tranquil surroundings. It was strange to think this was his home. There’d been a castle on the site for over eight hundred years, but the Wentworth family had only been resident for four hundred. His grandfather had briefly opened the castle to the public during the Sixties, hoping it would generate an influx of cash, but closed it again when the venture failed to prove cost-effective. They still hired out the venue for weddings and special occasions, but it wasn’t enough to maintain its continuing upkeep – a current bone of contention between his two sisters.

      As the current Earl of Horsley, Olly was expected to take over running the family estate, socialise with blueblood aristocracy and sit in the House of Lords – something he had absolutely no interest in doing. Thankfully, recent reforms had abolished automatic hereditary rights, so he was off the hook in terms of his peer duties. And Louisa was more than happy running Rubha Castle, so he was superfluous to requirements.

      Okay, so he was the Edward VIII of the family. The wayward black sheep who’d shirked his ancestral duties in favour of chasing pipedreams. It had been his parents’ favourite accusation, thrown at him many times during his adolescence. And they’d been right, of course. Even as a kid he’d craved freedom, a desire to see what the world had to offer. But his departure from their lives at barely eighteen was entirely down to their doing, not his.

      Louisa had just ended her call when the taxi bumped onto the bridge joining the castle with the mainland. The driver pulled up in front of the open portcullis but left the engine running, an indication that he wasn’t offering any assistance. Olly couldn’t blame him. Trying to manoeuvre an eight-months-pregnant woman with her leg in an orthopaedic boot out of a car wasn’t going to be easy.

      With a sigh, Olly got out the taxi and went around to open the door.

      Louisa smiled up at him, her green eyes rimmed with dark circles. ‘Are you feeling strong?’

      He grinned. ‘Positively herculean.’

      She laughed and took his hands but winced when he tried unsuccessfully to pull her from the vehicle. He could tell she was in pain, however much she tried to hide it. Louisa’s outward fragility concealed an inner strength that enabled her to cope with adversity. Which was just as well, considering the upbringing they’d had.

      Assistance appeared in the form of Gilly Jennings scurrying across the courtyard, red-faced and panting. Technically, she was the hired help, a cook-cum-housekeeper, but she’d always been more of a ‘parental figure’, bossy but warm-hearted, filling the gap caused by their own parents’ coldness.

      ‘Och, you poor love,’ she said, reaching the taxi. ‘Here, let me help you.’

      Olly was bumped out of the way. He was about to object, when he realised his seventy-year-old housekeeper had already eased Louisa out of the car, usurping him as primary carer.

      He tried not to feel disgruntled. But then he remembered they’d survived without him for eleven years. They didn’t need him. It stung, but it was the price he had to pay.

      He paid the driver and unloaded the wheelchair from the boot.

      As they made their way across the inner courtyard, Gilly issued instructions, sending him ahead to open doors, clear the stairway and put the kettle on.

      Suppressing his frustration at being ordered around, he did as he was told, knowing he was still ‘in the dog house’ and it would be a long time before anyone felt he’d made amends. Gilly only allowed him to push the wheelchair when they reached the steps leading into the west guard tower.

      Shortly after Louisa and Harry had married, they’d moved into the private area of the main keep, near the grand banqueting hall and billeting room, which were used for events. In contrast, upon his return, Olly had been given a small room in the south-west wing, an area previously used to stable horses. That said it all, really.

      Having deposited his sister in her bedroom, he went to make drinks.

      He returned armed with sugary tea and shortbread biscuits, grateful for Gilly’s baking skills. He’d always had a sweet tooth.

      On entering the bedroom, he heard Louisa yelp.

      Gilly was trying to roll her onto her side. ‘Her back’s hurting,’ she said, continuing to push.

      ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said, placing the tray on the Jacobean sidetable. ‘Move over, will you.’ He pulled up short when he saw the hurt look on Gilly’s face. He tried for an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, Gilly. What I meant to say was, as my sister is currently the size of a small elephant, it might be better if I do it.’

      Louisa threw a pillow at him.

      Gilly laughed and stood back to allow him access. Disaster averted. He winked at Louisa, who normally didn’t carry an ounce of fat on her and