Chapter 7 Lady Lochellen
Any expectations of a quick sojourn in Glennloch were well and truly dashed when on the day following her arrival, Brun invited Lizzie to his office (which he also kept in the manor) to sign a pile of paperwork – all of which he patiently explained to her – and officially hand her full control of the estate.
From that moment, the days passed in a blur.
They spent the best part of their time locked in his office, while he listed assets, incomes, investments and explained everything to her, always in his calm deep voice which was quiet effective in stopping her from completely freaking out.
She now owned sheep, cattle, grain farms, shares in a local distillery, received rents from tenants, andwas even the proprietor of a small house in France, though considering the size of Glennloch, she doubted that she and Brun had the same understanding of what the word small meant.
As Brun had asserted on the day they met, she was essentially a rich woman now.
When Lizzie asked how on Earth an estate which had no legal owner for two hundred and fifty years had remained so prosperous, he had explained that his own ancestor had been the late Viscountess’ steward and then Glennloch’s warden after her husband passed away.
Because no female Endell was born in the following generations, Glennloch remained in the trust of the MacLugh family, who made sure the property would not fall into ruins and managed its incomes. Eventually, when the Endells migrated to Cornwall, the MacLughs lost direct contact with them, but kept track of them occasionally, waiting for a daughter to be born.
Finding the dedication of his family to Glennloch astonishing, she had asked about his family. Brun had been visibly uncomfortable when explaining that he was an only child, that his parents had passed away a while ago, and then promptly changed subject. Obviously, she had not pressed him on the topic.
Brun’s office was a practical and masculine room overlooking Loch Tay. In Lizzie’s opinion it was a rather an old-fashioned space for someone of his age, but it had all facilities of any modern office.
Large flat computer screens seemed to clash with the gilded frames of bucolic Highland landscapes and the leather-bound books on the shelves were at odds with the big multi-function laser printers, telephone with conference call facility and paper shredders. A huge mahogany desk was set in front of the large window, providing Brun with plenty of natural light, and a couple of dark green leather armchairs faced the desk in case of visitors.
The main oddity in her opinion, was that there were no pictures of any kind in his office: not of his family, nor of friends.
Nothing.
The only personal items were small trinkets from travels.
That morning they were going through the list of horses that she now owned, some of which were race champions, including at Ascot.
Horses. Plural.
Just wow…
Lizzie leaned back against the chair, rubbing her sore neck. They had been locked in his office since breakfast and by now she desperately need a quick Yoga session to unwind.
Brun frowned, “I think you need a break,” he stated in his usual matter-of-fact way, setting down the report in his hands.
“You think?” she quipped, stretching up and rubbing the bottom of her back. It cracked loudly.
He looked chagrined.
“Point taken,” he turned his gaze outside. It had rained heavily for the past three days, but today the sky was impossibly blue and the bright sun was inviting, “Since we’re talking about horses, would you like to go for a ride?” then he returned his eyes to her with a questioning frown between his brows, “Do you know how to ride a horse?”
There was nothing in his tone other than honest curiosity, but it still made Lizzie feel very self-conscious and her cheeks burned.
When she was a child her mother had insisted she should take horse riding lessons – for the same reason she insisted on piano and ballet classes: those were skills every young woman should have
She had tolerated piano but had been as graceful in ballet as an albatross landing. Horse riding, however, had been one of the few forced extra-curricular activities which she had enjoyed because she was quite fond of the animals, but had never loved enough to dedicate herself seriously to it and ended drifting away, stopping the lessons altogether when she was about twelve.
“Actually I do,” she replied stiffly, sticking out her chin proudly. Then regretting her offended tone, she added softly, “But you must know that I haven’t been on a saddle in more than ten years…”
After closing the books and shutting down the computer, he stood from his chair. It was a natural and unassuming movement, but his size and strong build always made her think of a warrior surveying his battlefield. Sometimes she pictured him cleaning blood from his sword on the folds of his cloak.
Possibly because you read too many fantasy books.
“Don’t worry, it is like riding a bicycle,” he declared reassuringly as if he were addressing a ten year-old, which made her cringe, “Besides, we have the perfect mare for you, very gentle, an absolute darling,” then he examined her from head to toe, “You can go as you are, though you will need riding boots and perhaps a light jacket to shield you from the wind. I’ll ask Mr Clisham to prepare the horses before I go change and I meet you at the stables in…” he checked his watch, “shall we say, twenty minutes?”
With a smile, Brun walked out of the room before Lizzie could voice any disagreement with his plans.
“Insufferable man!” she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest and pouting like the said ten year old.
Undeniably, going for a ride had been a good idea, after being locked inside the manor for the past few days. It had rained so much that at first Brun had been on full alert, checking on protective spells around the manor, worried that the Dreams Thief might have returned.
Later he had laughed at his own paranoia: notwithstanding the bizarre fact that Lizzie was Triarell’s doppelganger, the parallels between them ended at the physical appearances: there were almost three centuries and several human mothers between them. Lizzie was clearly an ordinary mortal woman and even if she had a drop of magic after all these generations of dilution – for the lack of a better word – it could not conceivably be strong enough to attract the Dreams Thief.
Assuming that the monster was indeed still in the human world.
Most likely, after draining Triarell, the Dreams Thief had returned to the Otherworld.
Magic or not, Lizzie was an extraordinary young woman: she was quite bright, with a far more interesting conversation than other women of her own age. Although she had only basic notions of finances and legal issues, Lizzie had had no problem so far in keeping up with Glennloch’s affairs. She had made clear that she would still rely on him or anyone else equally qualified to manage her estate (which was a sensible assessment), because her heart was set on practicing medicine, but she wanted to be informed of everything that was now her responsibility, thus he was confident that she would never become prey to swindlers.
And she had been thoughtful enough to thank him and his imaginary family for taking such good care of Glennloch for so long.
It is mentalthat your family has been shackled to mine for centuries because of this bizarre Royal Decree.
Her words were still stinging. They had triggered a queasiness which had not yet settled. She was such an insightful person! He wondered how she would react should he tell her the real extension of his shackles.
He had been proud to serve as protector to the Endellys sisters, had understood the importance of his duty, but when Triarell died his purpose had died with her. The past two and a half centuries of his life had been meaningless, no more than an empty wait for his years to come to end.
The codswallop he had made up about his family – which obviously did not exist, or at least he had no idea whether he still had relatives in the world – had been curt and cryptic and he had seen in her eyes that her head had been teeming with questions, but one of the many beautiful characteristics of Lizzie was her empathy: she would never push him to talk about something if she sensed it was a difficult topic.
He glanced at her sideways. She was still quite tense atop of her mare, despite the fact that she had the poise of one born on the saddle. The mare, a sweet bay named Poppy, appeared to be very satisfied with her rider.
“One would never guess that you’re not used to riding,” he complimented, discreetly steering his stallion a few inches closer, hoping that that would make her feel safer, “I can see that Poppy likes you.”
Lizzie cut him a glare that could curdle milk, “Are you making fun of me? I know I look like an octopus here!”
Brun threw his head back and laughed heartily. No one in his long life had had the ability to make him laugh as she did, not even Gweyir.
“Indeed I am not!” he defended himself, pressing a hand to his chest, “You truly are a natural rider, just like your ancestor.”
She frowned at him, “How could you possibly know that?”
Realising his blunder, Brun cleared his throat, “I… huh… I read it in a diary… left by her husband.”
She narrowed her gaze at him, not at all convinced. To his fortune, however, she most likely thought that he was making up that story – which was an accurate assessment – rather than suspect that he had actually seen Triarell riding.
“Mrs Clisham was kind enough to pack us some lunch, and I may have spied her including some of her chocolate cake,” he changed subject hastily, patting his saddlebags, “She thought it would be pleasant to have a picnic by the loch.”
At the words chocolate cake her face was brightened by a broad smile and for a moment Brun’s heart skipped a beat at the sight. It was like seeing Triarell’s smile, as if she were alive and breathing right in front of him.
She is not Triarell! She is not Triarell! She is not Triarell!
“Lead the way then, Mr MacLugh! One can never say no to Mrs Clisham’s chocolate cake!” Lizzie’s voice snapped him out of his daily mantra. Her tone was genial, but the small frown between her brows told him that she was still tense.
It was odd to acknowledge that he already could read her emotions like one could read a book. Brun had spent more than a century in Triarell’s company and had never been able to know what she had in her heart. She could be raging with anger and yet seem placid as a lake, whereas Lizzie wore her heart on her sleeve for everyone to see.
Lizzie and Triarell were like the sun and the moon.
Triarell had been equally kind, however she had not been so attuned to other people’s emotions like her great great-granddaughter. She had had an aloof quality, a detachment that only those of her race had possessed, because ultimately Triarell was not human, while Lizzie was as warm as the sunshine. She was life personified and made him feel emotions he did not even know existed.
None of which he could understand, and all of which made him afraid.
They rode at a leisurely pace till a wide stretch of rocky beach which should hopefully be dry enough. He jumped nimbly from his saddle, tethering his horse to a tree where the animal could graze and have a bit of shadow, and unfastened the food bags, setting them on the ground before reaching for the picnic mat.
He turned to Lizzie, but she was still on her saddle, as pale as death, clutching her reins as if she were holding on for dear life.
“Is there something wrong?” he walked towards her while scanning the area out of habit. There was absolutely no one nearby and the only sounds in the air were of the birds and the soft swishing of the loch’s waters.
“Please don’t laugh… But I don’t think I can come down,” she replied with a small, panicked voice that made his heart squeeze.
His gaze softened. He stood beside her mare and stretched his arms to her.
“Swing your leg over the saddle and I will catch you.”
Her eyes widened in terror, looking like two big, polished emeralds, as if he had suggested she jumped off the Burj Khalifa without a parachute.
“No way! You won’t be able to hold me and then I’ll fall like a bag of rotten potatoes on these rocks!”
He wanted to scoff at the ridiculous concept that he could not hold her weight, but her worry was real and one should never dismiss another person’s fears.
“I will never let you fall, Lizzie,” he declared seriously, reaching for the power in his ring and training his eyes on hers, “Trust me.”
Lizzie stiffened and stared at him with a puzzled expression, as if he had spoken in a different language and he was very much surprised by that. Did she sense the magic compulsion in his voice?
Well, she is Triarell’s descendant after all. Perhaps she can sense magic at a very basic level.
“Trust me” he said again, this time being careful to use his normal voice and she obeyed, albeit reluctantly, swinging her leg over the saddle and rotating her hips to face him.
He was a very tall man and luckily her mare was quite short, so he had no trouble in wrapping his hands around her narrow waist and hoist her from the saddle as if she were a child on a pony.
Unfortunately, that was also the moment when Poppy seemed to have had enough of waiting. The mare huffed and took one impatient step ahead.
The unexpected movement made Lizzie squeal in panic. She leaned forward, clumsily snatching his neck and then burying her face on his collarbone, effectively throwing her weight on him.
Caught by surprise, Brun staggered a step back, but was quick to recover balance, tightening the grip around her waist and pulling Lizzie against his chest to steady her.
The moment their bodies touched, the whole world suddenly became perfect and neither of them moved.
He most certainly did not want to move.
Very slowly she lifted her face. Her laboured beathing blew gently on his neck making every inch of his skin pebble in response, while a stream of sensual images flooded his mind. Her eyes found his and Brun stared into that green depth feeling paralysed, as if she had put a spell on him. Her lips parted in surprise and his eyes could not move from her mouth, his body aching with the desire of kissing her.
Kiss her?
She is not Triarell! She is not Triarell! She is not Triarell!
The mantra went on and on in his head and only with more effort than he had initially anticipated did he manage to release his grip and gently push her away from him.
“Are you okay?” he asked and was surprised by how husky his voice sounded to his own ears.
Lizzie took a step back, lowering her eyes, “Yes, thanks. Sorry I panicked,” then she pointed at the food bags on the ground, “I’m starving! Let’s find that chocolate cake!”