The Dog House (Harding's World of Romance)

First Edition Harding’s World of Romance,
January 2013

Copyright
©2013 by Nell Harding

All rights reserved under International Copyright Conventions.

Chapter One

This was definitely not the way to meet her neighbours.

Fiona Buchanan crashed through the thick bracken and bushes that carpeted the floor of a magnificent old forest in hot pursuit of her escaped dog, Livingstone. Her earlier curiosity to see the grounds of her new neighbours’ estate was now drowned out by a stronger desire not to see any more of it than necessary and to return undetected to her humble rented cottage on the other side of the stone wall. But Livingstone seemed to have other ideas.

Fiona
swore softly as she caught sight of the rascally mongrel heading for the edge of the wood where it gave way to glimpses of a verdant lawn. There went any hope at discretion.

“They guard their privacy very tightly,” the old man,
Alistair MacPherson, had warned her as he handed over the cottage keys. “As long as you steer well away, you’ll have no problems. But they were never that keen on renting out the gate-keeper’s home after they stopped using it. They really only let us stay on as a grudging courtesy.”

How ironic that within a day of moving in
Livingstone had found the low spot in the crumbling garden wall. Fiona’s vague plan to stop by one day with a tray of home-made shortbread to introduce herself to the castle inhabitants was now thrown to the wind, along with any hope of cordial relations as she stumbled to a halt at the treeline and stared in horror at the scene.

Apart from her large,
hairy hound bee-lining toward the activity, the setting was exquisite. A moderately-sized castle of simple grey stone was set back from a clear lake by a stretch of immaculately-trimmed lawn, with clumps of flowering rhododendron and patches of rose garden to add islands of colour on the green. The forest where Fiona was now hiding met the lawn at the tip of the lake and ran all along the southern shore, while the gravel driveway that ran past her cottage ended discretely in some out-buildings set some distance from the castle. Behind it all rose the steep, open hills of the highlands, austere yet inviting.

But what
was causing Fiona dismay was the sight of a picture-perfect wedding reception set up on the front lawn. A large marquis tent was set up for a dinner party, while on the lawn long tables with starched white tablecloths glinted with sparkling champagne glasses and trays of canapés, which two well-dressed caterers were circulating among the guests. The latter were dressed in the most expensive suits and gowns that Fiona had ever seen, as they milled close to the lake where the lucky couple were posing for photos on the wooden dock.

Fiona
barely had time to acknowledge the disproportionally high percentage of beautiful people gathered together before her eyes shot back to the dog, who was heading straight for the centrepiece of the whole arrangement, a table set apart with a staggeringly high wedding cake that reproduced the castle grounds in miniature.

It was too late to stop him, too late for
Fiona to do anything but feel her knees go weak with dread as the large mutt continued on his course toward disaster. For a hideous second it seemed inevitable, but at the very last moment he was noticed by one of the caterers, who shouted loudly enough to make the dog veer to the left, missing the wedding cake but managing to careen into the table of champagne glasses which crashed to the ground with the musical tinkling sound of expensive crystal breaking.

The noise drew the attention of the guests, who turned back toward the castle in time to see the tipped table and the caterer chasing the dog back toward the forest. At least
Livingstone’s curiosity seemed to be satisfied because he crashed willingly back into the woods and continued toward home. The caterer abruptly stopped running, straightened his jacket and returned briskly to the scene to help his colleague clean up the mess.

Fiona
found herself rooted to the spot, peering out from behind the shelter of a large beech tree. Her mind was racing rapidly through her brief list of poor options. The noble thing to do would be to present herself and apologise, and no doubt win the wrath of her neighbours and a hefty bill for broken crystal. The second option, to turn tail and flee after her dog, felt cowardly and somehow immoral, but at this moment seemed the better choice.

Fiona
was not irresponsible by nature, but neither did she possess the sort of overwhelming self-confidence that it would take to stride out of the woods in her Wellington boots, yoga pants and torn jersey to explain herself to the upset and glittering wedding party. She stared at her frayed, bright red sweater as if seeing it for the first time, deciding that it alone could wreck such a perfect scene and wishing that she took just a little more care in choosing her wardrobe when she was writing.

In the end she justified her cowardice by telling herself that the sooner this little incident was over, the better it was for the reception. Her unwelcome presence would only prolong the situation and allow anger and explanations to take centre stage on the bride and groom’s special day. So she remained in her place, peering out to make sure that everything was put to rights before she beat her retreat.

Fortunately the wedding couple seemed the least put out of all by the furry wedding-crasher, wrapped up in each other and their photo session by the water. The other guests were reacting with a mix of surprise, confusion and indignation, but none seemed as irate as the man whom Fiona assumed to be the best man.

He was a singularly handsome man,
tall and broad-shouldered in a well-cut tuxedo with an attractive face, frank and open with a square jaw. His light-brown hair glinted in the sun as he strode away from the dock with a powerful gait to speak briefly to the caterer, who was pointing in Fiona’s direction. For an excruciating moment Fiona felt sure that she had been seen, but apparently he was describing the dog’s flight because his arm continued to describe the escapee’s trajectory before turning back to the ruined table.

They were too far away for
Fiona to make out either the words or the exact expressions on their faces, but it seemed that the best man was staring furiously in her direction before he turned abruptly, issued a few orders to the caterers and returned to the other guests, passing among them with light touches on the arms, a comment here or there and generally some sort of reassurance to bring the party back on track.

Fiona
’s gaze drifted back to the bride and groom, hoping for some insight into her neighbours. The bride was a stunning blonde in an elegant, vintage-looking dress with a pearly bodice and multiple layers of skirt billowing from her wasp-like waist. The groom was long and lean with a shock of blonde hair, looking trim and suave in his wedding suit. Only now did they seem to realise that something unusual had happened, but the excitement was already dying down. The table had been righted and the debris swept away, while a new tablecloth and set of glasses were already being set out.

Fiona
leaned back against her tree in relief. Perhaps the entire incident wasn’t really such a disaster after all, just one small hiccup in an otherwise perfect day. Of course, it might have been far worse and she still felt guilty for not even daring to take the blame, but she would have time later to decide how to approach this, after her neighbours had enjoyed their wedding day. This was no moment to intrude, and sometimes discretion is the better part of valour, as they say. Reassuring herself by this, Fiona slipped back into the woods the way she had come, heading back to the gatekeeper’s cottage on the far side.

This time she had more opportunity to admire the old forest, the stands of smooth-barked beech trees above a carpet of fern, and thicker clumps of pine and spruce. She would have enjoyed the walk more had she not been thinking what an extremely unfortunate start this was for her relationship with her neighbours. 

She moved more slowly this time, largely to keep from making too much noise but also because it was hard to run in rubber boots. She had pulled them on unthinkingly when she had decided to take a break from her work to play with Livingstone, never suspecting that all it would take was a passing squirrel to highlight the unstable nature of the old, moss-covered dry-stone wall when faced with forty kilograms of dog.

The problem was that not only was the dog new to his surroundings,
but he was also new to Fiona. She had taken him on as a favour to old work-mates who were going away for the year and who needed to find somebody with a country property to keep him.

“He’s the friendliest dog you’ll ever meet, but just a tad rambunctious,” was how they had described him to
Fiona. “He just needs a bit of room to play outdoors and he’ll be fine.”

Fiona
had never owned a dog because she had never had the space, either growing up at home or in student flats. But she had always imagined the pleasure of such a loyal companion and was already falling for his enthusiastic welcomes and the comforting, warm weight on her feet when she read. Livingstone had already been through a few homes because of his need for space and she was happy to offer to help out now that she finally had a yard of her own.

The cottage had a lovely garden, slightly gone to
seed, with tangled brambles lining an old stone wall which Fiona had assumed would contain her new companion. She herself had been glad for the company, having been warned by several people that she would find the cottage lonely and isolated once the short Scottish summer ended.

Isolated was exactly what
Fiona had been looking for, and she had fallen in love with the cottage at first sight. Steeped in history and full of quirky charm, it was set in the angle where a clear-running stream met the road in a clump of trees, a guardsman’s cottage from earlier times on the edge of the vast castle estate. The old stone building had thick walls which Alistair assured her “take forever to heat in summer, and even longer in winter”, but the effect in the small living room was cosy, and it was here by the fire that Fiona had set up her workspace.

Best of all, it was in the heart of the highlands which
the early nineteenth-century poet Sean Campbell had written about so passionately. This allowed her to immerse herself in his world while she deciphered his notes. It was close enough to a village not to feel completely cut off, yet far enough not to be tempted by the distractions of the pub. She had a lot of work to do and a limited budget; hiding herself away in the countryside was the perfect solution if she was going to finish her book in the allotted year.

She had been c
ommissioned to write a book on the lesser-known Scottish poet after having discovered a previously unknown notebook of his during her earlier research on Mackenzie House, a historical building in the region. Now that she had finally finished that long research project for her doctorate, she had been given this unique opportunity which came with a certain amount of prestige but very low funding and a tight timeline. As a result, she had been glad to move away from the distractions of the city to immerse herself in Campbell’s own landscape for a year of hard but interesting work, with few friends to tear her away from her discipline and little to spend her meager grant on.

The elderly couple who had tended the cottage for the past half-century were moving to the village of Glen Murray, just five kilometres down the road.
Still they warned her of how desolate that stretch of road could be in winter.

“It’s just a trial, for a year,” they clarified. “We may be back if we don’t like the town lifestyle.”

“A year is all the time I have,”
Fiona told them regretfully, already sensing how attached she might become to the cottage and countryside.

“You’ll find it awfully lonely,”
Alistair had cautioned her, his voice sounding dire.

“You don’t have a fiancée or family to come stay with you?” his wife, Connie, had asked worriedly.
“It’s no place for a young single woman such as yourself.”

“No worries, I’ll have company,”
she had assured them firmly, thinking about the dog she was to pick up the next day. There was also Sarah, who worked in the local pub, whom she had befriended during her research at Mackenzie House.