The Balmoral Incident by Alanna Knight Page A

eyes glowing through the dark, picking up my scent. No, no, absurd! I had been assured the last wolf had been killed a long time since. What about foxes then with their sharp teeth? I thought of my extremities being nibbled by foxes as I slept. Deer, what about deer? Would they attack? Or would they be more scared of me than I of them?
    I wrapped my jacket more closely about me and too afraid to close my eyes now, I kept listening to the silence. A new sound that obliterated the panic of foxes or that imaginary wolf pack.
    Running water, rushing water indicated a stream or ariver somewhere quite close at hand. I must be near the Dee. I stood up. Could I reach it? An encouraging sound but common sense told me it was folly to try, dangerous to follow, stumbling about in the dark. I was suddenly too weary, too tired.
    I sat down again. Got to make the best of a bad job and grateful that it was a windless night and not raining, I snuggled into my thin summer jacket, closed my eyes, said a prayer and settled to await first light.
    I awoke with a start. For a blissful moment thinking I was in my own bed and had had a terrible nightmare. I listened.
    Breathing, definitely human, laboured and close by.
    Then I knew I was not alone.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    I was not alone. A man was bending over me, a dark shadow against the pale moonlight. I could not see his face clearly, but I heard his voice.
    ‘Lost your way, miss?’
    Oh, thank God! One of the forest rangers, a ghillie more like. As he moved I heard the metallic sound as he removed the rifle from his shoulder. ‘You know you’ll be catching your death lying there.’
    He sounded amused, a smiling voice. A shaft of moonlight touched his face as he put down rifle and satchel to unroll something. A rain cape, a man’s, smelling of sweat and cigar smoke. He was going to smother me.
    I sat up, alarmed, stifled a scream, fought it off.
    He laughed. ‘What’s wrong with you? I’m not going to hurt you – trying to help. You’re half-frozen.’
    A tall man towering over me. His accent, not local Deeside, more Highland or Irish. The moonlight filtering through the treetops had vanished but not before there was enough to reveal a glimpse of his face. Pale, with that wayward lock of dark hair. So like Danny’s.
    I came to my senses. This was the man I had seen talking to Lily in Ballater. Our driver Dave thought he was a ghillie, had seen him hanging about the stables. What a relief.
    ‘Are you hurt, miss?’ Solicitous, anxious to help, to reassure.
    I jumped to my feet, wobbled a bit and he caught me, held me firmly by my elbows for a moment.
    ‘Steady now, miss.’
    ‘I am quite all right,’ I said coldly and handing back the cape. ‘Thank you, but I don’t need it.’
    ‘Sure now? What happened to you, did you faint or something?’
    I was now standing feeling the cold without the warmth of his arm around me. I said firmly: ‘Of course not. Just got lost, that’s all. Took a short cut in the dark.’
    He had the grace not to laugh. ‘A short cut? At this time of night? And where was it you started from? Do you remember? The gipsy encampment is a fair distance away in the dark.’
    ‘I am not a gipsy,’ I said shortly. ‘I came from the castle, my brother is a member of the royal household. I was at a party—’
    I stopped – why was I telling him all this, excusing myself?
    But he had moved closer. Tall, over six feet, wide-shouldered,he blocked out what little light there was and dwarfed my less than five. He towered over me and leant forward, that damnable forelock almost touching my face. Oh no, not damnable, that other dear memory.
    He sniffed, took a deep breath and smiled. ‘Been drinking? And too much of it for a lady at that party, I’ll be thinking. Not used to it are you, miss?’ His smile was faint reproach. ‘And they go rather heavily on the wine and usquebaugh up yonder at the castle.’
    He paused, hands on hips, regarding me. ‘Newcomer, are