A Dream of Thee Read online

  ‘I believe he’s acting for an agent who’s dealing with the houses. So you’d have to see him first.’

  ‘Does he live here?’ Simon asked.

  Again the look passing between the old couple, and again it was Mrs. Forbes who answered. ‘He’s come back to live for a while,’ she said gently. ‘He grew up here.’

  ‘Doesn’t he work?’ Catriona couldn’t speak. She was leaving it all to Simon. But she wanted to know as well as he.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Mrs. Forbes smiled. ‘Oh yes, indeed.’

  ‘What at? Surely there’s nothing much to be earned fishing.’

  ‘Oh, he’s not a fisherman!’ She laughed merrily. ‘Though I dare say he dresses like one.’ It was almost as if Simon was having to fight for every scrap of information, a fact of which he seemed only too well aware. Catriona gave him credit for that. He had a quick temper, but was controlling it superbly well. It was also, she thought a moment later, as if her grandmother was enjoying the situation. Considering that their letter to her had been a desperate plea for her to go and see them because their health was failing, it was also a surprise. She had never seen them looking more robust. She watched, and listened to what had assumed the proportions of a battle of wits between the two, the elderly woman and the young hard-headed, wealthy businessman. The grandmother’s face was a picture of innocent amusement.

  ‘What is he, then, Mrs. Forbes?’ Simon asked gently. He might well go outside afterwards and let out a roar of frustration, but here and now, all was placid on the surface.

  ‘Why, I believe he writes plays, doesn’t he, Ian?’ She beamed at her husband, missing Simon’s barely concealed snort of disbelief.

  ‘Plays? A playwright?’ Simon echoed. ‘How interesting! For amateur groups, you mean?’ He hid the sneer well. Catriona could see it, but then she knew him better than they did.

  ‘Oh no, dear. At least he might do that as well, I dare say. But he’s been working in London for a long while,’ Catriona felt as if she would faint. London. He had been in London—dear Lord, Lachlan Erskine, in London!

  ‘I go to a lot of plays, in my job,’ Simon told her. He was enjoying this now. His confidence had been fully restored. He was shortly going to do a demolition job on Lachlan Erskine, and he was looking forward to it. ‘But I’ve never heard the name Lachlan—what’s his other name? Erskine—before.’

  ‘Well now, you wouldn’t have. He doesn’t write under his own name, does he, Ian dear? What was the name he told us?’

  Both of them, Simon and Catriona, waited to hear the answer. But for different reasons.

  Mr. Forbes snorted with laughter. ‘You’ve forgotten, Mary? Shame on you! And it the name of one of Scotland’s most famous men in history.’ He looked at them. ‘His pen name, as I believe you call it, is Robert Bruce.’

  Stunned, silenced, Catriona and Simon looked at him. Shock waves hit her with the force of a physical blow. Robert Bruce—one of the most successful playwrights of the past decade, with three plays running to packed houses in London’s theatre-land, was none other than the man she loathed. Lachlan Erskine.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Simon, white-faced, paced up and down the neat rows of growing vegetables. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he muttered. He glared at Catriona as if she were to blame. ‘And you mean to tell me you didn’t know?’

  ‘How could I?’ she retorted angrily. ‘How the hell would I know?’

  ‘You’re a bloody actress,’ he answered.

  ‘So? I’m on television. He doesn’t write for TV. I’ve never met him at any parties. Don’t you think I’d have remembered if I had?’ The shock had been as great—if not greater—for her.

  ‘He’s lying. He’s spun them a yarn—that—that thug we met today couldn’t write a play to save his life. Where does he live?’ Simon looked round as if a house might appear.

  ‘What do you mean? You’re going to him?’ she gasped.

  ‘Yes, I damned well am. I have to, about the cottages as well, don’t I?’

  ‘Do you think he’ll give you the keys to view?’

  ‘He can’t refuse. Not if he’s acting as agent—Agent, hah! Oh, sure, all famous playwrights go round touting for estate agents in their spare time. Where’s his house?’ he finished fiercely.

  ‘Don’t try and boss me, Simon,’ she warned. ‘I’m not one of your women, remember?’

  He softened fractionally. ‘Sorry. But people like him get me so mad.’

  ‘So I can see. And if you march in like that you’ll get a dusty reception.’

  ‘All right, I’ll calm down. I’ve seen the vegetables now, let’s go for that walk we’re supposed to be going on. I can’t see a damned thing anyway, it’s getting too dark. Just lead me to his house. I’ll be civilized.’

  ‘You say that now—’ she began.

  ‘I will be. I’m going to expose him for the fraud he is.’

  ‘What if he really is Robert Bruce?’

  His lip curled. ‘Come off it! Robert Bruce is probably whooping it up at some Chelsea party right now. Your Lachlan Erskine might have met him—but I’ll bet a fiver that’s the nearest he’s ever got to a writer.’

  ‘All right. It’s this way.’ Catriona turned and led him away from the big old house. The light shone out from the living room, where her grandparents were watching television. It was the set she had bought for them three years ago, when she had been in her first play on TV. Reception wasn’t easy, but they had an extra booster on the roof aerial, and watched happily every evening. Down the overgrown driveway and out to the narrow track from the village, and Catriona led him away from there, then they began to climb slightly, following the curve of the coastline up a stony track that petered out, and there in front of them, perched on the sloping cliff top, was a large two-storey cottage. A light shone at a window and smoke curled up from the chimney.

  It was at that moment that Catriona realised she didn’t want to go any further. She stopped, and Simon turned impatiently. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Why have you stopped? Scared?’

  ‘No, let’s leave it. I’ll find out all about those cottages for you, and the mill.’

  He turned, slowly, looked at her, his face a pale blur in the strong moonlight. ‘You probably will,’ he said. ‘But that’s not why you want to back out, is it?’ He laughed. ‘I think you don’t want to see lover boy’s face when he knows I’m on to him.’

  She felt herself flush. ‘Don’t call him lover boy,’ she said icily. ‘I can’t stand the man—I just don’t want to be part of your little scheme to humiliate him.’

  ‘He tried to humiliate me today,’ he said softly, dangerously. ‘And why can’t you stand him? You never did tell me that.’ He stood there waiting for an answer, but he wasn’t going to get it. There were some things too deep and too personal ever to tell anyone. Catriona shook her head.

  ‘No particular reason,’ she said lightly. ‘A slight—family feud when I was younger. Nothing that would interest you.’

  ‘That’s odd. Why is he so pally with your grandparents, then?’

  ‘Good heavens, it was years ago. Besides, they’re not the kind to bother, they’re too old.’ He grunted, bored with the subject, wanting only to get on to the house.

  ‘I’m going on my own if you’re not coming, it’s up to you,’ he said. And he meant it. Catriona hesitated, then decided. She didn’t want them to fight, and anything was possible with Simon—and Lachlan, whose temper had been hair-trigger fast, years ago. They wouldn’t fight if she were there.

  ‘I’ll come,’ she said. ‘But please—’

  Simon turned away and walked on. Catriona, after a moment, followed him. She was spoilt, because everyone spoiled her. Even Simon, who loved her as much as he was capable of loving anyone, and in London she only had to crook her finger for people to come running—but here, now, today, he had changed. He wasn’t going to obey any whims of hers. Not now, at this moment.

  She stumbled up the rough ground behind him, and he
was already knocking on the door when she caught up. There was a brief silence following the thunderous clap of the knocker, and the door was opened, and Lachlan stood there, clad the same as he had been that morning, the light flooding out from behind him.

  ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I was expecting you,’ and he stood aside.

  The door opened directly into a large living room, with two doors leading off. A fire blazed up the chimney, and the furniture was old and shabby, but comfortable-looking. A television stood in one corner and several books lay on the settee. The floor had on it a threadbare carpet, an indeterminate shade of brown, faded and worn. Lachlan picked up the books and put them on the table, which still bore evidence of a meal, a plate, a salt pot, knife and fork, tea mug.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. He looked at them both, and Catriona met his eyes coolly. The angry man of the morning was gone and he looked calm, almost amused.

  ‘I won’t sit, thank you,’ said Simon. His voice was the one he used when dealing with difficult clients in his advertising agency. Smooth, bland, giving not an inch. ‘We won’t be here long. I’ve just come to ask you if you’ll let me have the keys to view the cottages.’

  Catriona stood by the window. She wasn’t going to sit either. ‘Oh, that’s why you’re here,’ said Lachlan, as if there could have been several dozen other reasons. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, then.’

  ‘You mean you refuse?’ Simon asked him.

  ‘You could say that.’ Lachlan looked across at Catriona, who was standing very still. ‘Why don’t you sit down, Catriona?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘As you wish, of course,’ he nodded pleasantly.

  ‘Let me get this straight, Mr. Erskine,’ said Simon. ‘You are acting as agent on Crannich for the estate agents who have the property for sale, and yet you refuse me permission to view?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lachlan nodded.

  ‘I can find out who the agents are,’ said Simon.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you can. I’ll save you the trouble. They’re Messrs Peabody and Mackintosh, of Inverness.’ He added, in almost kindly tones, ‘They’re in the phone book.’

  Simon had gone slightly pale. It seemed, for the moment, as if he didn’t know what to do, and Catriona said, because she couldn’t bear it: ‘Why won’t you give us the keys?’

  Lachlan’s mouth curved slightly. ‘I would have thought it obvious. I told you my feelings this morning. Now, if that’s all you’ve come to say—’

  ‘But it isn’t,’ Simon cut in. ‘Not by a hell of a long way. First, I’m going to phone the agents on Monday and tell them just how obstructive you are—’

  ‘You do that.’ Lachlan nodded as if it seemed a good idea.

  ‘And second, I’m going to contact Robert Bruce and let him know you’re impersonating him—there are laws about that kind of thing, you know—and third, I never thought I’d meet someone as pathetic as you who can kid old people that you’re someone important. My God, I’ll make sure you’re the laughing stock of London when you get back!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Lachlan. His face had gone very serious, no traces of amusement there now. He seemed to have gone paler too, although that could have been a trick of the light. Catriona was rooted to the spot. She couldn’t have spoken if she had wanted to. She felt sick inside, and empty. She wanted to leave, not to have to see Lachlan humiliated, as he was going to be, even if she did loathe him. No one deserved what Simon intended. She almost wanted to warn him—

  Simon’s mouth curled in contempt. ‘What I said. You are pathetic. You really had Catriona’s grandparents believing your little story. Couldn’t you have picked a lesser name, if you had to assume an air of grandeur? Someone less known? You might just have got away with—’

  ‘I’m not trying to get away with anything,’ Lachlan cut in.

  ‘Oh! You mean you are Robert Bruce?’ drawled Simon with heavy sarcasm. ‘Of course, I should have known!’ He smiled. ‘You’re not Napoleon as well in your spare time, are you—as well as estate agent?’

  ‘No. I have only the one pen name,’ Lachlan said pleasantly. ‘And if I chose to wipe that smile off your face I could do so in one minute. But I think I’ll let you go on. I’m sure Catriona will find it entertaining.’ He looked across at her. ‘You need entertainment, don’t you? Stay and listen—you’ll see your precious friend go green very soon.’ He glanced briefly at Simon. ‘Carry on, I’m listening.’

  ‘You’re mad!’ Simon’s temper was rising. She could see it in the flush of colour high in his cheeks, by the way his hands clenched into fists at his side.

  ‘No, I’m not. Perhaps you are. You think you’re somebody important. You think you can come here and lay the law down, and insult me in my own home, and if there weren’t a woman here I’d have thrown you out bodily by now—’

  ‘Don’t let Catriona’s presence stop you trying,’ Simon blazed. She saw the muscles tense in his shoulders, saw his stance, that of the boxer waiting for the bell.

  ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, man,’ said Lachlan, as if suddenly weary of a game. ‘Just get out and leave me in peace.’

  ‘It’s you who’s the bloody fool!’ Simon almost shouted the words. ‘No one gets away with what you’re trying to, with me—my God, you’ll be sorry!’

  ‘For what?’ Lachlan advanced on him, and his face was dark with anger. ‘For refusing you the keys? You can whistle for those, my friend—or for not giving a damn because you don’t believe I write plays?’ He laughed in Simon’s face. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, little man?’

  Simon exploded. Catriona screamed as he launched himself on Lachlan, and ducked back out of the way. ‘Stop it, stop it!’ she cried, but it was too late. Trembling, she stood behind the settee and Simon crashed down on to it as if poleaxed. He was knocked out. Lachlan looked at her, his face harder than anything she had ever seen, and strode towards her. For one dreadful heart-stopping second she thought he was going to strike her, punch her as he had Simon, and she backed against the window, eyes wide with terror. He could kill her with one blow.

  He caught her hand, and she felt the room spin round, and whispered, ‘Please—don’t hit me—’

  ‘You fool!’ he grated, voice harsh and deep. ‘Do you think I could strike a woman?’ He pulled her. ‘Come with me.’

  She stumbled round the settee, unable to do otherwise, for his grip was like steel, and he went across the room with her and opened a door to the back. There was a bed in the room—he was going to rape her—she felt her legs going from beneath her, then, finding strength from somewhere, she leaned down, bit his hand, and began to struggle to free herself from the nightmare.

  ‘You bitch!’ he muttered, and let her hand go. ‘You stupid fool, did you think I was going to attack you? I’m not one of your London friends.’ He stood and looked down at her, a man of steel, tough, tougher than she had remembered, and hard, and implacable. ‘Just look,’ he pointed. By the window was a desk, and a typewriter. He switched on the light and said to her, ‘Go over to the desk—now.’

  If she refused, he would very probably drag her over, or carry her, and she didn’t want him to touch her again. Shivering, frightened, she walked over on unsteady legs and he followed her, and opened a drawer in the desk, picked out a bundle of papers and flung it on the desk. There was a letter attached to it by a paper clip. Lachlan lifted it off and put it in her hand. ‘Read it,’ he commanded, ‘and tell me what it says.’

  It was from a famous publisher of plays. She read, silently: ‘Dear Lachlan, this could be the best yet. We’ve already been approached by a backer with a view to staging it, and we’ll be in touch. As we are unable to contact you by phone since you moved to Crannich, will you please ring us any time, reversing the charges, for a chat about it. This could make it four on the go at once for Robert Bruce—’ She read no further. She looked at him and he plucked the letter from her hand and gave her a thin smile.

  ‘Well?’ he said so
ftly.

  ‘You are—’

  ‘Oh yes, I am. And when your lover wakes up, you can tell him—if you want to. I don’t give a damn either way.’ He walked out, went over to Simon, who sat looking drunk and bewildered on the settee, and hauled him to his feet. ‘Fresh air will do you good,’ he said, and to Catriona: ‘Open the door. You can take him home now.’

  She obeyed, and Simon was bundled ingloriously out, still groggy, but on his feet. Lachlan stood in the doorway, and as Catriona put her arm round Simon she turned, as if drawn by an irresistible force, and looked at him.

  ‘Tell him,’ said Lachlan, ‘he won’t get those houses. Not ever. It will save him wasting his time.’ He closed the door very quietly, and they were alone.

  Catriona lay in bed that night, still shocked and numbed by all that had happened. It was only ten o’clock, but she had a thumping headache, and she felt as weak as if she were sickening for ‘flu.

  Simon had gone. He had simply packed his case when they had reached the house, told her he wasn’t staying there any longer, and left, in his car, to drive to the ferry. It had been nine o’clock. She had then had to go in and tell her grandparents—to whom he had not even bothered to say goodbye—and explain.

  Their reaction had been surprising, to say the least. Her grandmother had looked up from the knitting she was doing while she watched a Charlton Heston film, and said: ‘Oh dear, still, I sensed it was too quiet here for him. And after he brought you all that way too!’ She had nodded sadly and gone back to her knitting. Her grandfather had spared her a brief glance from the screen—it was, after all, an interesting fight scene at the time—and said:

  ‘Ungrateful young bounder! And he seemed so interested in the vegetable patch!’

  Catriona had walked quietly out, gone into the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee, and sat there drinking it. It was almost as if Simon hadn’t been there. They didn’t care. They just didn’t care.

  She had gone in, asked if they’d mind if she had an early night, kissed them, and gone up to bed. She lay watching the moon through the window, and tears filled her eyes. She didn’t love Simon, but she was hurt by his action. No one ever walked out on her. And it had all been because of Lachlan.