He wasn’t sure to which of his two statements she was referring. Perhaps both, he thought, and in spite of himself he felt a little shiver of excitement. But his voice remained firm. ‘You can’t escape, Isobel. Make up your mind to accept it.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t accept things,’ she retorted. ‘Even if you do. I’m a fighter, and I’ll fight this. If you won’t help me, then I’ll manage alone. Now, you’d better go, or your men will miss you in the hall.’
He hesitated. ‘Don’t do anything foolish.’
She tossed her head. ‘I don’t intend to.’
‘You won’t try and ride anywhere alone?’ Almost unwillingly he had stepped closer to her again. His hand strayed to her shoulder, touching her hair.
‘It’s none of your business where I go or what I do,’ she replied softly. ‘Not now.’ Her mouth was close to his. He saw the tip of her tongue for a moment between her lips, unconsciously teasing.
Unable to stop himself, he held out his arms and drew her to him, his mouth urgently seeking hers, crushing her breasts against his chest, imprisoning her arms against her sides.
‘Oh God forgive me, but I do love you,’ he breathed.
‘Then help me.’ Somehow she freed her arms, winding them around his neck. ‘Please, Robert.’
‘And make you my little queen, love? I can’t. Don’t you see, I can’t.’ Anguished, he kissed her again, stifling her words.
Isobel stiffened, then with a sob she tore herself free of his arms. ‘Then go!’ she cried. ‘Go now. I never want to see you again! You shouldn’t have come here! To kiss a woman in here before Our Lady is wicked – it’s sacrilege!’
‘Then it is a sacrilege I gladly commit.’ Gravely Robert took a few steps towards the door. ‘May Our Lady protect you always, Isobel, my love. I wish I could,’ he said. Then he was gone.
The ground-floor office in the sixteenth-century building on the north side of the Grassmarket in Edinburgh was untidy, piled high with books and pamphlets; files overflowed from shelves and chairs on to the floor, and posters covered more posters on the walls. Sitting at the desk in the centre of the room, Neil Forbes paused in his writing and, dropping his pen, stretched his arms above his head with a sigh. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was after 9 p.m. Behind the blind, the Grassmarket was deserted, the dark street wet in the wind-swept rain.
He gave an exclamation of irritation as the phone rang.
‘Neil? I’m so glad you’re still there. I didn’t have any other number –’
He frowned momentarily, not recognising the voice.
‘It’s Sandra Mackay. You remember. I came to the Earthwatch meeting when you were talking about pollution. We had a drink afterwards – I’m a friend of Kathleen’s –’ Her voice trailed away uncertainly.
‘Of course I remember.’ He squinted up at the ceiling, noting a new place where the lining paper was beginning to peel away. ‘What can I do for you, Sandra?’ He had a pleasant voice, deep and musical with a slight Scots inflection.
She gave a strange half sigh. ‘It’s difficult. I know I shouldn’t tell anyone this – it’s breaking the rules of the office. I’m supposed to keep everything I see and hear confidential. I always have, but –’ He could hear the indecision in her voice.
‘Sandra, if it is something that worries you, and you think Earthwatch should know about it, then you have done the right thing in ringing me. Personal loyalty is a wonderful thing, but not at the expense of the environment or the safety of the people as a whole. These days we must all learn to accept that.’ It was what he always said. Trite, but true, and something he passionately believed. ‘Now, can you tell me over the phone, or would you like to meet me somewhere?’
‘No, no.’ She sounded terrified. ‘Listen, I’ve only five minutes to talk before my mum gets back.’ She paused for a moment, then began in a rush.
‘I typed out a letter last week to a Mrs Clare Royland in England. We were transmitting a client’s offer to buy her estates. She owns about one thousand acres up on the coast at Duncairn, including the village and the old castle. Today she wrote back refusing to negotiate. She said the estates were not for sale and never would be. Well, Mr Archer called me in to dictate a reply without even consulting the client again. They are offering more money than you can imagine!’ She paused. ‘When I’d taken down the letter he told me his client was prepared to go much higher if necessary to get it.’
Neil had risen to his feet. Still holding the telephone he walked across to the map of Scotland pinned on one wall of the office. The phone in one hand, the receiver in the other, he peered at the map, even though there was no need. He knew only too well where Duncairn was. ‘Mr Archer said there were rare birds and plants on the cliffs there and he thought they had some sort of development in mind, and he said he didn’t like the sound of the offer at all,’ she went on.
Neil scowled. ‘Neither do I,’ he said grimly, ‘and I would guess they are offering well over the normal market price. Do you happen to know the name of the prospective buyer?’
‘I shouldn’t tell you.’
‘You have already told me most of it, Sandra.’ He was at his most reassuring. ‘And no one will ever know how we found out any of this, I promise.’
‘Well,’ she sounded only half reassured. ‘It was a man called Cummin. He works for something called Sigma Exploration.’
Neil stood staring at the map for several minutes after she had hung up, then slowly he returned to his desk. He took a file out of one of the drawers and opened it. So it was true, the rumour that someone had been carrying out surreptitious geological surveys along that stretch of coastline. And it looked as though the worst had happened. The surveys had been encouraging.
‘Gossip has it that it is onshore oil, Neil,’ Jim Campbell had said in his note. ‘I can’t believe that, unless the geological structure of Scotland has changed recently, but for what it’s worth someone has been surveying pretty thoroughly up and down the coast over an area of several miles. And doing it far from openly. It is an area that contains several SSSI and some of it is owned by the NTS and is protected coastline …’
‘And some of it is owned by Mrs Clare Royland,’ Neil murmured to himself. He threw down the file and, standing up again, began pacing the short space of empty floor between his desk and the window. He was remembering the visit he had paid to Duncairn in June shortly after Jim had sent in his report.
It was a place he knew well, a place he had visited on several occasions as a student, a beautiful place, ruinous – including the hotel, he thought wryly – wild, unspoiled, peaceful, with several miles of rocky, dramatic coastline, which had to be preserved at any cost. He had wandered around all morning, going to the hotel for a pint of Export and some sandwiches for lunch, then, drawn back almost against his will, he had walked back to the sprawling ruins of the castle for one more look before driving back to Edinburgh.
It was then that he had seen her. He was certain it had been Clare Royland. Who else could it have been? She had arrived in a flash green Jag, dressed for a London garden party, even to the high-heeled shoes. Young, beautiful, oh yes, undeniably beautiful, rich, aristocratic – looking at him as though he had no right to be there, which, strictly speaking, he hadn’t, and then, later, looking through him as though he wasn’t there at all. Bitch. He remembered how the whole place changed after she arrived. The joy had gone out of his visit. It was as if her arrival had released strange, unhappy memories in those ancient stones. He shivered at the thought. The haar had come in off the sea, drifting up the cliffs and cutting off the sunlight, and he had left her to it.
She was the type who would sell, damn her. She