The Castle and The Redhead (Pt. 1)
Setting: an island off the west coast of Scotland.
To Thomas MacAlistair’s unaccustomed ears, the explosion sounded like a firework splitting the evening’s October sky — quite different from the sheets of thunder that had passed through an hour earlier after what had felt like the hottest day of the year. It disturbed the peacefulness in the small sixteenth-century castle he’d bought almost a year ago.
Through a window in the castle’s upper gallery, an orange flare flamed through the darkness, indicating the reason for the disturbance.
MacAlistair grabbed his binoculars and went to the castle wall. He opened an oak door leading onto a former gun battery, which is now a roof garden with a spectacular panorama.
A mile from shore, the binoculars revealed a fishing boat in trouble. It seemed small, its stern primarily submerged in the high seas, and the bow appeared marooned above the waves. He could see the lights of other fishing boats in the area, so he didn’t worry if anyone would be lost.
Then MacAlister felt a hand on his shoulder and smelled his sister’s cologne. “Is this what possessed you to buy the place, Thomas, so that you could watch real-life dramas unfold? What’s happening out there? I saw the flare.”
MacAlistair lowered the binoculars and turned his attention to his sister, dressed in her black cape. Its hood veiled her black curly hair, and her prominent nose was the only distinctive feature. There were times when her support was invaluable, but there were occasions when her behavior was insufferable. Such a time was now.
“Is that your fancy dress for this evening’s dinner party?”
“What do you think? Is it witchy enough?” She said, twirling so that her cape rose.
MacAlistair closed the door after allowing Aline through first. “It’s Halloween, Aline. It’s perfect. Thanks for coming; I know it’s out of the way.”
“That’s so you, Thomas. Out of the way? You bought a damn whole island with a sixteenth-century castle on it. I’ll never understand you. So, tell me, what is going on out there?”
“I think there’s a fishing boat in trouble. But there are other boats nearby. How are our guests?”
“Boring as hell, Thomas. I don’t know how you could stand them every day. Their wives are whispering to each other why you would keep Medieval flooring.”
Thomas MacAlistair stood in the gothic window, looking across at what daylight would reveal as wild scenery, and smiled. He reflected on his decision to purchase the castle as a second home and how it would fair under the auspices of his sister, to whom he’d entrusted the day-to-day supervision until the acquisition of his company had been settled. Still, as a prominent entrepreneur, it was a prestigious residence where he could dine, accommodate, and impress his influential friends. How could they fail not to be?
The plan is for Aline to manage the castle staff. David Hambleton, the butler, had moved from London to undertake the task. Mrs. Simms, who had been recruited from among the Scottish Estates’ best as the household cook, and John Gibbings, the young landscaper and handyman, who he’d been assured was both a gifted landscaper and a diligent worker, were also included.
With the wind buffeting its stout walls, MacAlistair let his sister return down the steps to entertain the guests with drinks before dinner.
A leading architect in the resurrection of old castle walls expertly designed and oversaw the work to restore the original fortified walls. Although its many rooms were small and encouraged intimacy, the castle also contained areas where entertainment could be provided for essential guests.
MacAlistair was getting dressed for dinner when he heard Aline’s footsteps hurrying up the stone steps outside the room. The door burst open.
“Thomas, your drama appears to have been successfully resolved. Come, witness a happy ending.”
MacAlistair shook his head but allowed Aline to snatch his hand and lead him back to the roof garden — “Behold,” Aline said, pointing down to the boat dock, “a fair maiden is rescued.”
MacAlistair grabbed the binoculars again, bringing them to his eyes. A small rowing lifeboat had come ashore over the parapet, visible in the fading evening light. Embarking from it, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and supported by the gardener, John Gibbings, MacAlistair watched the woman step from the rowing boat. For a second, the setting sun slipped from behind raging clouds and reflected off her long red hair; not a fair maiden at all.
The wind whipped her hair around her face, and he saw her profile as she swept it back. Her face was full and healthy-looking, and her high cheekbones and straight nose gave her a refined look, though he didn’t immediately see elegance.
Aline watched as her brother’s chest swelled. “Do I detect a heavy breath of attraction, brother? Can she be that pretty?”
“I’m merely curious, Aline. Make sure she gets what she needs. If the rescue service doesn’t come out tonight, I’ll take her to the mainland first thing in the morning.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Aline said, mocking him and grinning mischievously as she turned to leave.
“Aline, try not to have our guests bothered,” MacAlistair said.
Aline smiled and curtsied.
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