Out of Sight Read online

  Isla worked methodically, from one side of the room to the other, to a backdrop of rain lashing against the windows, until her stomach growled in protest. She perched on the dusty sofa to eat her homemade cheese sandwich. Every fibre of her being was cold. She needed tea.

  Isla followed Ryder’s directions to the kitchen, or at least what she remembered of them, but it quickly became clear that she’d gone wrong somewhere when she found herself at a dead-end. She retraced her footsteps, the tap of her heels chasing her down the narrow, windowless corridor, setting her nerves on edge.

  She came to a narrow door with a metal latch and swung it open hopefully, but it only revealed a steep, stone staircase twisting away to the upper floors. Isla guessed she was in the old servants quarters, which meant she was in the right area at least. She closed the door and pressed on, taking a left turn down another narrow corridor, at the end of which, a door had been propped ajar.

  At last, the kitchen.

  Two steps led down onto the tiled floor. At one end of the room was a fireplace big enough to stand inside, and in the corner, an old Belfast sink leaned away from the wall, its tap dripping steadily. The range cooker looked like a relic from another century.

  The only sign of modern life at all was the high-tech coffee maker on the side. In contrast, a small copper kettle stood atop the stove. Isla groaned when she realised that was her only option.

  As she waited for it to boil, she occupied herself noseying through the contents of the cupboards, but for the most part, they were disappointingly bare. The only things she could find in abundance were tins of shortbread and empty whisky bottles. Her theory that Mr MacRae was a dying man was looking more and more likely. Why else would anyone live like this?

  The kettle began to whistle, jarring her back to reality. As Isla poured her tea, she had a nagging sense that this job wasn’t going to be all that she’d imagined.

  She’d leapt at the opportunity when Len had offered it. She loved working out in the field, and appraisals were one of her favourite aspects of the job, but that hadn’t been her only motivation. Isla didn’t need Len to tell her what this contract represented, they all knew. Hope. It was their chance to get Parsons & Co back in the game, and the books back in the black. If she pulled this off, she might save them from ruin.

  But now that she was actually inside Rosehill, that hope was fading fast. The bill for the inventory and appraising would keep the lights on for a few months, but what they really needed was for Isla to make a sale, preferably something epic.

  Admittedly she hadn’t seen much of the place so far, but from the little she had, she was getting the distinct impression there was nothing of true value lying within its walls waiting to be discovered.

  Isla added two lumps of sugar to her tea, and drank it there in the drab kitchen, watching rain slide down the leaded window.

  Feeling warmer, but more cynical, Isla found her way back to the entrance hall, emerging beside the staircase extending far above her head.

  Maybe she was being too hasty. After all, she’d only seen two rooms. If Mr MacRae really was dying, perhaps he was being nursed on one of the upper floors, which would explain why the ground floor had fallen into squalor. He could be lying up there right now, surrounded by all his finest possessions, Isla thought, squinting up into the gloom. The hairs prickled on the back of her neck. Or, maybe she should just get back to the ballroom and hope for a miracle beneath a dust sheet. She hesitated, with one hand on the mahogany bannister.

  What harm could it do to have a look? She reasoned. It wasn’t as though she was snooping, not really. She was there to evaluate the contents of the house. It’s what Mr MacRae had contracted her to do.

  Isla started climbing- the stairs creaking beneath her feet.

  Portraits in gilt frames lined the walls of the staircase, each with a name and date beneath it. ‘The Much Hon William Douglas, Laird of Rosehill’ and next to him hung a picture of his wife Elizabeth, their son John, and on it went, rows of Douglas ancestors, and not a MacRae in sight.

  Odd.

  There were other nameless portraits too, and Isla gazed up at their faces, wondering if any of them were the treasure she was looking for. Art was Tim’s speciality, not hers.

  Maybe Len had made the wrong choice after all.

  The staircase brought her to the first-floor landing, before twisting away onwards and upwards. From the gallery, she could see the gloomy entrance hall laid out below, while the first floor stretched away from her in either direction.

  She paused, listening for sounds of life, but there was only the distant patter of rain.

  Isla made her way slowly down the corridor into the west wing of the house. The polished floorboards were crooked and uneven beneath her feet. A light breeze whistled from beneath a closed-door ahead, sending a wave of goosebumps over her arms. Acting on impulse, she closed her hand around the antique brass doorknob and leaned gently against the door. It creaked open, and Isla’s heart began to pound.

  What if it was the old man’s sick room? But her curiosity outweighed her fear, and Isla peered around the doorframe.

  It was a bedroom, that much was obvious. A huge four-poster bed took up most of the space, stark white sheets spilled across its surface, trailing onto the floor, and a crimson red coverlet rippled over them. The rest of the furniture lurked in shadow around the edges of the room. The window had been propped open, and a voile panel blew in the breeze.

  Isla skirted the unmade bed and walked towards the open window. There was an earthy, sweet scent in the air she couldn’t quite place, that stirred something inside her. Not a memory exactly, but a flare of recognition.

  As she rounded the huge bed, her foot slipped in something wet on the floor. A squeak of terror escaped her, but it was only rainwater, pooling beneath the open window.

  What had she expected? Isla scolded herself for letting nerves get the better of her, and took a deep breath. It was then that she spotted a second door in the panelled wall.

  Interconnecting rooms...interesting.

  Maybe the room beyond would hold more promise than the one she stood in. Hope flared inside her, but then the brass doorknob twisted, sending her heart leaping back into her throat.

  The door swung open, and in front of Isla stood a half-naked man.

  A white towel was knotted at his hips, and Isla’s eyes followed the trail of damp, dark hair from where it emerged above the towel, over the hard lines of his stomach, up to where it spread out across his broad chest. His razor-sharp jaw was covered by stubble in the same glistening shade of black, creeping around his wide, downturned mouth and between his top lip and long, straight nose, but it was only when her gaze reached his unseeing eyes, that it finally hit her.

  It was Ethan MacRae.

  Isla’s breath left her in a whoosh, and he heard it. His head snapped towards her, wavy dark brown hair falling across one eye, the light catching the web of raised silver lines that crisscrossed his face, like a Venetian mask.

  “Who’s there?” His voice was gruff and heavily accented. His amber eyes skimmed over her, coming to a standstill just left of where she stood, gripping one of the bedposts as though her life depended on it.

  To say he wasn’t what she’d been expecting was a vast understatement. Adrenaline raced through her system, and for one wild moment, Isla considered fleeing.

  “I can hear you breathing,” he said.

  Damn.

  “Who are you and what are you doing in here?” The tension in his body was visible, every part of him looked coiled and ready- but for what, Isla wasn’t sure.

  “I-” Isla’s voice cracked, and she swallowed a couple of times. “Isla.”

  His brow creased, shifting the pattern of scars slightly. What had happened to him?

  “The appraiser,” Isla clarified, her voice sounding strange and breathy even to her. She expected a look of recognition, but instead, his expression changed to one of blank fury.

  “
What the hell are you doing in here?” He pushed his thick, dark hair from his face, and Isla watched mesmerised as it immediately fell back into place.

  “I...uh…”

  Shit! What was she doing in here?

  The realisation that she was in her new client’s bedroom, and that he was dripping-wet, semi-naked...and unexpectedly hot, hit her like a brick to the face, and blood rushed to her cheeks.

  “I’m so sorry!” she blurted. “I was just looking around, I didn’t know anyone would be in here.”

  His jaw clenched. “You were looking around my bedroom?”

  Mortification swamped her. “I didn’t realise it was your bedroom,” Isla mumbled.

  “The still-warm bed wasn’t a giveaway?”

  Isla glanced down at the unmade bed. An image of him lying naked in the tangled sheets flashed into her mind and she swallowed hard. “I didn’t-”

  “What? Think you’d get caught?”

  “No!”

  “It’s not as if he can see, so I may as well go snooping around his room?”

  “No! That’s not it. I was just curious.”

  “Have you never heard what happens to cats?” Ethan MacRae arched one dark eyebrow at her and Isla’s mouth went dry.

  “You should have asked Ryder if you wanted a tour.” He crossed the room with a fluidity that surprised her, but then she checked herself.

  Why shouldn’t he be able to cross his own bedroom with ease?

  She was still mentally adjusting to the idea that this guy really was Ethan MacRae. The same Mr MacRae she’d been speculating about, and imagining as a sickly old gent, not long for this world.

  The muscles in his back rippled as he leant against the doorframe. “Ryder!” he bellowed his assistant’s name through the partially open door.

  Less than a minute later, Isla heard footsteps thundering up the stairs, and Ryder burst into the room. When he saw her, standing by the bed his mouth fell open, his pale blue eyes widening.

  “Get her out of here.” Ethan MacRae said gruffly.

  Anger cut through Isla’s embarrassment. How dare he talk about her as if she wasn’t even in the room?

  “I’m standing right here,” she snapped.

  He jerked his head towards her, with obvious surprise. “Aye. You are. In my bedroom.”

  Damn, he had a point.

  “Once upon a time, I wouldnae’ve complained about getting out the shower to find a beautiful woman standing beside my bed. But unfortunately for the both of us, those days are over. Now, if you dinnae mind-” he gestured to the door.

  Ryder stepped towards her as if preparing to escort her out if necessary. “Miss Belmont, if you’ll follow me-”

  He winced at her thunderous expression. Of course, when she turned her glare on Ethan MacRae, he had no idea, which only made her angrier.

  Okay, so she shouldn’t have been in his room, but would it have killed him to be civil? To use her name at least? Isla stomped wordlessly past Ryder and out into the corridor. She heard him jogging after.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I got lost,” she lied.

  Ryder gave her a sideways glance, and she knew he didn’t believe her.

  She sighed. “I just wanted a look around.”

  “You could have asked,” Ryder said quietly. “I would have shown you myself, and told you which parts of Rosehill are off-limits.”

  “Off-limits?” Isla paused on the staircase.

  “It’s just the tower really, and Mr MacRae’s room...but it’s a bit late for that.”

  She felt herself blushing. “Is he always like that?”

  She thought maybe Ryder wasn’t going to answer, but eventually, he turned back to her. “Yes.”

  Great. “Is Rosehill his ancestral home?”

  “Ethan?” Ryder sounded surprised. “God, no. He bought it at auction a few years ago, along with everything in it. He was planning to renovate it.”

  Suddenly everything started to make sense. The appalling condition of the place, the abandoned rooms. Rosehill wasn’t a home, it was a project. But if that was true, why was he living in it? And why hadn’t he made a single noticeable improvement?

  Isla frowned. “You said he was planning to renovate it…has he changed his mind?”

  Ryder looked away. “You’d have to ask him.”

  Not very likely after that encounter.

  “Remind me again where the bathroom is?”

  Ryder pointed her in the right direction and this time Isla managed to not take any wrong turns. She locked the bathroom door behind her, sagging against it.

  What the hell had just happened?

  The image of Ethan MacRae standing in front of her in a towel - a very small towel - as water dripped from the ends of his long hair onto his bare chest, felt like it would be burned into her mind forever. Isla’s stomach flipped remembering how she’d felt under his sightless gaze. Like a deer in whisky-coloured headlights.

  Above the porcelain sink, an oversized, gold-framed mirror reflected her turmoil back at her. Her blonde hair fanned out from her face in unruly waves, her dark blue eyes were overly bright with black mascara smudged below her lashes, and her cheeks were streaked pink with a mix of embarrassment, anger, and - she had to admit - desire.

  Isla rinsed her hands beneath the ice-cold water and splashed some onto her face. Not that it helped. The moment she’d laid eyes on Ethan MacRae, a spark had ignited somewhere deep inside her, and it was going to take more than a splash of water - or even being yelled at - to put it out.

  Isla looked up at her blurred reflection, blinking water from her eyes, and heard Ethan MacRae’s voice echoing through her mind, calling her ‘beautiful’. But how would he know?

  Three

  Ryder was waiting for her in the entrance hall.

  “Are you ready for your tour?”

  The last thing Isla wanted right now was to go wandering about the castle and have another encounter with Ethan MacRae, but she could hardly say that when she’d been so keen earlier, and besides, from the way Ryder had looked between her and Mr MacRae back in his bedroom, she was fairly certain Ryder wasn’t about to let the two of them bump into each other again. In fact, she’d wager it was a pivotal part of his job description not to.

  But why? Aside from clearly being a bad-tempered arsehole, why did Ethan MacRae hide himself away in his own castle?

  “Sure.” Isla smoothed imaginary creases from her dress. “Can’t wait.”

  Ryder led her through the seemingly endless corridors of Rosehill Hall, pushing heavy, creaking doors open to reveal the dusty, unused rooms beyond. The place had a sense of desolation about it, that was impossible to shake. To his credit, Ryder kept up a cheerful monologue of names and dates, that Isla half-listened to as she strained her eyes into every dark room, looking for something - anything - that might spark her interest.

  “You’ve already seen the ballroom obviously,” Ryder said, but he pushed his way through the double doors anyway, and Isla followed him inside.

  “The terrace faces west.” Ryder swept back the faded brocade curtains and motioned for Isla to join him. She peered out at the moss-covered terrace, rain bouncing off the low stone wall. In the distance, a row of trees stood like sentinels.

  Ryder followed her eye line. “Rose Wood,” he said. “Ten acres of woodland. There would have been great hunts in there, back in the day.”

  Isla suppressed a shiver. “Just how big is the estate?”

  “Fifty acres. More originally, but land was sold to pay off debts over the years, reducing it down to what stands today.”

  Fifty acres? Isla tried to imagine it, but couldn’t. “Still, sounds plenty,” she muttered.

  Ryder chuckled. “Don’t worry, we can leave the tour of the grounds for another day.” He winked and dropped the curtain back into place, sending a shower of dust swirling around them.

  In the entrance hall, Ryder paused at the bottom of the grand staircase. “Up or d
own?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He gestured to a dark archway to their left. “Down to the dungeons? Or up to the first floor?”

  Isla raised an eyebrow at him. “Dungeons?”

  “Cellars then.” He winked. “But as dismal as any dungeon. When you’re down there it’s not hard to imagine what their original purpose might have been.”

  “I think I get the gist,” Isla said. “Up it is then.”

  On the first floor, Ryder ushered her away from Ethan MacRae’s room, and the handful of rooms that lay beyond.

  “There’s nothing much down there anyway,” he said breezily.

  But Isla couldn’t help her backwards glance over her shoulder as they walked into the opposite wing.

  They passed bedrooms with moth-eaten curtains and bathrooms with cracked tiles and rusted taps. True, she was only glimpsing from doorways, but Isla’s heart sunk as room after room revealed nothing remarkable, or at least nothing she could sell. The fact that Rosehill Hall stood in such a state was remarkable in itself.

  Isla followed Ryder up the grand staircase to the second floor, dust puffing from the thick, burgundy runner beneath their feet, as centuries of Scottish nobility glared down upon them. Eyes seemed to rake over Isla’s skin as she passed each portrait, their expressions questioning: who was she and what the hell was she doing there? Isla felt like asking herself the same thing.

  “This used to be the nursery-” Ryder was pushing against yet another door to reveal yet another sorrowful room. This one had wide, curtainless windows, with a view of Rose Wood. There was more furniture in here than in any other room Isla had seen so far. Her eyes rested on the rocking chair beneath the window and heavy dread settled in her gut at the thought of sitting up here alone, cataloguing it all.

  Isla found herself grateful when Ryder pulled the door closed again.

  “And what’s that?” she asked, keen to move on. Ryder followed the line of her finger to the arched doorway that stood ahead. Unlike the other doors, this one had a grille of metal bars in front of it.