I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun— staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and

Caroline

, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is

mystic-am@msn.com

and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Monkshood

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

IT had been snowing when Melanie left Fort William, small, driving grains of white that filmed the windscreen of the car and kept the wipers at full urgency, but nothing like this. Now the flakes were large and soft and unwieldy, apparently impervious to the slowing scrape of the wipers, settling in heavy cumbersome drifts against the windscreen, almost obliterating her view.

Melanie quelled the sense of panic the situation aroused in her, comforting herself with the thought that she could not be far from her destination. After all, she had passed the sign for Loch Cairnross some time ago, and even allowing for the delay, she must have covered several miles since then. But darkness was drawing in, and although it was not late in the afternoon, Melanie found it all rather unnerving. Even so, she was loath to admit that Michael had been right when he had called her foolish and irresponsible driving all the way to Cairnside from London in the middle of December.

Now she peered grimly into the blizzard, trying to distinguish some sign of civilization in the wilderness ahead. Surely there must be some habitation somewhere. Surely someone lived in these remote wastes, even if it was only a shepherd or a farmer. She thought of stories she had read of the Scottish Highlands; of descriptions of the lonely lives of crofters in isolated valleys between the hills, and her spirits plummeted. Hard on the heels of these thoughts came others of motorists and climbers imprisoned in their cars or in lonely hostelries and found days later dead from cold and starvation …

She heaved a deep breath. She was allowing her imagination to get the better of her and there was absolutely no reason to suppose that she was going to be trapped in a snowdrift or anything else, and so long as the car kept moving she was perfectly safe.

Another thought struck her, causing her to slow the car almost involuntarily. Once darkness came down what was to stop her from leaving the road altogether and maybe driving into bog or marshland, or even into one of the lochs themselves? Coated with snow, how would she be able to distinguish her way?

A moment later her wheels began to spin. The slowing of the car combined with an impulsive depression 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 appraisal, deciding she did not care for such harshly carved features. He was by no means handsome; indeed, she was sure his nose had been broken at some time, and his eyes were too deeply set above high cheekbones, and yet she could not deny that some women might find the sensuality of his mouth and the pale intensity of his eyes below dark brows attractive. She already knew he was about five feet ten inches tall, only three inches taller than herself, and his frame was broad and muscular, but it was his undoubted masculinity that she found the most provoking. He was, she decided, a typical example of the kind of man who used to terrorize the Borders in the days when England and Scotland were ruled by different queens, and when that other Bothwell held sway over thousands of his countrymen.

So absorbed was she with her thoughts that when he spoke she started. ‘Exactly what is a girl like yourself doing out here in the depths of winter?’

Melanie bit her lip. The outspokenness of his question was in keeping with his manner, she thought, and she was tempted to tell him to mind his own business. Only the realization that he was the only person capable of returning her to civilization caused her to have second thoughts. To some extent he was an unknown quantity so far as she was concerned, and he was most definitely not the kind of man she was used to. She thought he was primitive and uncouth, and she resented his assumption that because he was helping her he should be privy to her private affairs almost as much as having to accept his assistance in the first place.

Now she said: ‘I’m going to the Black Bull at Cairnside.’

Bothwell raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Indeed? That’s a strange place to be going at this time of year. There are no skiing facilities near Loch Cairnross, and we don’t go in for entertaining much.’

Melanie ran her tongue over her dry lips. ‘That’s quite all right, Mr. Bothwell. I don’t expect to be entertained.’

His eyes narrowed and then with a shrug he turned and flicking off the interior light started the engine. He swung the vehicle round in a body-shaking curve and started back the way they had come. The Range-Rover covered the ground powerfully, and presently they turned again and Melanie guessed they were back on the road.

The snow was not falling so heavily now and the sky had lightened considerably, illuminating the road ahead more adequately than headlights. The wind still howled around them, but at least now Melanie could see where she was going. Bothwell was, if nothing else, an expert driver, and she felt secure in this knowledge, realizing she would have had immense difficulty on this glassy surface even had she made it this far. Bothwell did not speak to her again, and she could only assume that her final comment had made her feelings clear to him. Whatever his reasoning, she was glad. He was altogether too disturbing when he gave her all his attention, and she deliberately directed her thoughts to Michael. She tried to imagine what he would have made of her companion, and decided he would have found his overwhelming masculinity distasteful.

The road suddenly curved downwards and Melanie slid forward on her seat before she could grip its edge and propel herself back again. To either side of the road stretched forests of pines, their branches laden with snow, while above them now she could see the towering mountains that covered this area. She wanted to ask what mountains they were, but hesitated about breaking the silence between them, and presently the road flattened out again and she realized they were in a narrow valley.

Ahead of them lights were gleaming and she leant forward with undeniable excitement. As they drew nearer she saw her destination. The hotel nestled at the foot of a high mountain whose peak was shrouded in mists, and whose lower slopes were dark with pine trees that encroached to the hotel itself. The Black Bull was small and compact and welcoming, smoke curling from several of its many chimneys and dogs to announce their arrival. Melanie lay back in her seat with some relief. She had arrived, and for the moment that was all she could cope with.

Bothwell brought the Range-Rover to a halt in front of the hotel and switching off the ignition slid out without speaking to her. Melanie gathered her gloves and handbag and fumbled with the door catch. But before she could open the door, he swung it open for her and then turned away into the hotel.

By the time Melanie had climbed out and closed the door, he had disappeared and she was left to enter the hotel alone. Contrarily, she missed his escort, and she approached the entrance with some trepidation. What if they had no rooms? What if the hotel was closed to guests?

Inside the heavy oak door she was pleasantly surprised. Beyond a small enclosed lobby there was a small reception area, carpeted and furnished with old but highly-polished furniture. There was a reception desk with a register and a bell to be used for service, and if the lighting was shadowy, at least it was electric.

Encouraged by this evidence of comfort, Melanie approached the desk and rang the bell, wondering as she did so where Bothwell had gone. There was no sign of him here and she glanced surreptitiously up the wooden-balustraded staircase to the floor above.

A door opened behind the reception desk and a young woman emerged. She was unexpected, too. Small and very blonde, with a rounded figure that was clearly outlined beneath the close-fitting woollen dress she was wearing. She smiled politely at Melanie, and said: ‘Yes? Can I help you?’ in an unmistakably Scottish brogue.

Melanie smiled in return. ‘Er – I realize this is rather short notice, but could you possibly put me up for a couple of nights?’

The girl showed little surprise. ‘I think that could be arranged, Miss – er—?’

‘Oh, Stewart, Melanie Stewart,’ supplied Melanie at once. ‘Oh, thank goodness! I was afraid you might be full up or not taking residential guests at the moment!’

The girl consulted the register. ‘Och, at this time of the year we always have plenty of room,’ she said smoothly. ‘There are one or two regulars, of course, but they won’t trouble you.’ She looked up rather questioningly. ‘For a couple of nights, you said?’

Melanie bit her lip. ‘At least,’ she agreed awkwardly. ‘I – er – I have business in the neighbourhood, and I’m not sure how long it will take. Tell me, is the village far?’

The girl frowned. ‘It’s a very small village, Miss Stewart. But such as it is – it’s about half a mile down the valley.’ She hesitated, obviously curious to know why Melanie should be interested in the village, but Melanie chose not to enlighten her right now. That could come later.

‘My – er – car – is stranded some miles back, off the road,’ she said. ‘I wondered if there was a garage …’

‘I see.’ The girl shrugged. ‘The nearest garage is in Rossmore, about five miles away. You could possibly telephone them tomorrow if the weather improves.’

‘Oh, yes! Thank you.’ Melanie glanced round. ‘Er – a Mr. Bothwell – gave me a lift. He came into the hotel. Do you happen to know where he is? I’d like to thank him, Oh, and my cases are in the back of his car.’

The girl hesitated and then turning went to the door which led into the room behind the desk. Opening the door, she called: ‘Sean!’ rather sharply, and a few moments later Bothwell himself emerged.

He had shed the heavy fur-lined jacket he had been wearing, and looked darker and more muscular than ever in tight-fitting dark trousers and a polo-necked navy sweater. Melanie felt impatient with herself for asking his whereabouts now that he was here. She thought he would more than likely imagine she was deliberately drawing attention to herself again, and she tried not to speculate on what his relationship might be with the girl behind the desk.

In consequence, she was very brief in her expressions of gratitude, and he bowed his head politely at her words. She thought he was perfectly aware of her discomfort and his face took on an expression of sardonic amusement as he said: ‘It was nothing, believe me. I’m used to rescuing lambs in distress, and your predicament was not so different!’

Melanie managed a forced smile and then turned back to the girl. ‘I’ll just get my cases,’ she said.

Bothwell came round the desk. ‘I’ll get them,’ he said, his tone brooking no argument, and Melanie said: ‘Thanks!’ rather ungraciously.

The girl surveyed her curiously as Bothwell disappeared outside and Melanie moved a trifle restlessly under her regard. Heavens, she thought impatiently, what was she? An oddity, or something?

Bothwell came back a few seconds later and stood in the hall, a case in each hand. The girl handed Melanie a key and said: ‘Room seven. Up the stairs and it’s the third on your right.’

‘Thank you.’ Melanie took the key and turned to the stairs.

‘The maid will be up later to make up your bed,’ continued the girl, casting a speculative glance in Bothwell’s direction, and with a casual gesture he indicated that Melanie should precede him upstairs.

Melanie hesitated only a moment and then began to mount the wooden staircase. It wound round at the top and then reached a small landing with a corridor running from it. She looked along the corridor and Bothwell nodded rather impatiently.

‘Number seven,’ he said, nodding.

Melanie was making her way down the passage when another door opened and an elderly man emerged to stand and regard them curiously. Bothwell greeted him casually, and the old man frowned.

‘Who’s this, Sean?’ he inquired sharply.

Bothwell stood Melanie’s cases down outside her door. ‘This is Miss Stewart, Alaister,’ he said, flexing his shoulder muscles. ‘A fellow guest!’

‘Oh, ay, is that so?’ The old man eyed Melanie dourly. ‘Ye didna say ye were expecting anyone.’

Melanie’s eyebrows lifted, but Bothwell merely shrugged. ‘We didn’t know we were,’ he observed dryly. ‘Are you away for your tea ?’

The old man stomped off towards the stairs. ‘Oh, ay, ay,’ he said mutteringly, and with a faint smile Bothwell turned back to Melanie.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘can you manage from here?’

Melanie fumbled with her keys and he bent past her and pushed open her bedroom door. ‘It’s not locked,’ he said, unnecessarily. ‘We don’t go in much for security here, I’m afraid.’

Melanie compressed her lips and stepped into the room as he switched on the lamps. It was a very attractive room, she had to admit, with colourfully printed curtains and a fringed bedspread. The furniture was light oak, and as downstairs old but mellowed with years of polishing. Bothwell drew the curtains and turned to face her and she moved quickly, bringing her cases inside the door to avoid that brilliant gaze.

‘There are no private bathrooms, I’m afraid,’ he went on, ‘but there are two at the end of the corridor and if you’re a late sleeper you should find no difficulty.’

There was sarcasm in his tones again and Melanie reacted to it. ‘Why should you imagine I’m a late sleeper!’ she inquired coldly.

He shrugged. ‘Town-dwellers are not known for their early morning fatigues,’ he remarked mockingly.

‘You’re sure I am a town-dweller.’

‘Undoubtedly.’ He walked past her to the door, without waiting for any retaliatory comment. ‘Dinner is at six-thirty. It’s early, I know, but the cook likes to get away home soon after nine.’

Melanie clenched her fists. ‘You seem to know a lot about it, Mr. Bothwell!’

‘I should do. I run the place,’ he replied smoothly, and went out, closing the door behind him.

Melanie stared after him in astonishment. He

ran

the place! She shook her head helplessly. So that was why that old man had commented upon the suddenness of her arrival to Bothwell. She had thought at first he must be a guest here, too. And that also explained why he had been in the room behind the reception desk. As for the blonde girl, she might con

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