Cynthia

Passport in hand, I walk up to the controller. He checks that everything is in order before letting me pass.

Here I am in Scotland. A new life is beginning and I hope it will be better. I leave behind so many bad memories, which I am happy to leave in France.

I leave the airport in a hurry. My heart is compressed and excitement is pulsating through my veins. Outside, I take a breath of air, squint and scan the parking lot. Lord Keith MacKay told me that his driver would take me to their house. I see the black car, and this time my heart misses a beat. A huge limousine is waiting for me. They don't do things by halves!

My steps are quick. I only have eyes for the vehicle a few meters away.

I don't know much about the MacKays. I have only conversed with them a few times and have found that they are polite. The photos I received from them showed me two lovely men. They are magnificent. I must have looked at their portraits for an eternity. I'd recognize their faces in the dim light.

At the limousine, the driver calls out to me. He's still inside, sitting behind the wheel. The passenger side window is down. He nods, inviting me upstairs.

Wow! It's off to a good start, you know! I made way too many films during the trip. I imagined a gallant chauffeur; the door and carries my luggage to the trunk. Not even. Well done for me! I should stop watching stupid movies! I finally have proof that it only happens on screen.

In the limousine, my eyes are all over the place. There is a tray with a glass filled with a red liquid, a box adorned with a gold design, a letter, and a white rose. Everything you need to seduce a woman! I look up, but can't find the driver. A black tinted window prevents me from speaking with him. I sigh, before turning my attention back to the presents.

I grasped the letter with a trembling hand. It smells like a man's perfume, virile. I don't know which one, but it's powerful.

The vehicle starts, while I immerse myself in reading.

Dear Cynthia Ryce, I hope you had a good trip.

I am delighted that you are finally honouring us with your presence. Since we've been talking about it, my brother and I have been looking forward to meeting you.

Unfortunately, I won't be able to be there when you arrive at the manor. My brother, Steafan, will show you your apartments. But I will be with you as soon as possible.

A glass of wine and cupcakes are provided. Feed yourself.

Lord Keith MacKay.

Classical music plays in the background. I recognize immediately. It's Vivaldi, the Four Seasons. The atmosphere immediately becomes relaxed. I sit at the back of the leather bench, after grabbing the glass filled with a red liquid.

I don't know how long the car has been driving, but through the windows I can see the change of scenery.

Goodbye to the many roads and houses. Here we are at BettyHill.

I didn't expect this, although I looked at each path via Google Maps. It's much quieter and charming. In the end, the fear I felt for weeks was silly! I feel like I'm going to like it here, much more than in France.

The limousine turns right onto a dirt track. Trees hide the sunlight from us until we arrive in front of a large gate. The driver appears to have gotten out to open it. With a lump in my stomach and pressed against the glass, I detail the exterior of the manor. To get to the gates, you have to go around a body of water with a weeping willow. My eyes don't miss a beat of the show. A frog jumps from one lily pad to another.

The vehicle stops. There is silence. The black window then lowers. A charming man looks in the rearview mirror. His features are truly seductive. Pale skin, square jawline, prominent cheekbones.

My author's brain kicks in. I have an idea for a story. A young woman and a driver. She wants to, he doesn't.

Good God, I should control my hormones. I'm not here to fantasize about men. But to come up with an amazing idea for my next story.

My last job was a Christmas romance. I want to juggle between several genres. Romance and the Policeman. I couldn't think of anything better than coming to a mansion where unexplained murders have been committed. As many as seven women were killed within its walls. The murderer was never caught, and the opening of the mansion on weekends as a hotel was stopped.

Maybe I'll find some clues? The murderer himself? The excitement is at its peak. I can't wait to be able to do some research, to question the inhabitants. I'm going to play it Miss Marple. Of course, I'm not oblivious. There is the risk of coming face to face with the serial killer. The last victim was two months ago. There's no doubt about it, it's the same methods every time. Based on all the information I could find. I'm pretty sure the killer will strike again. Or her, since I can't tell if it's a woman or a man. One thing is certain. The murderer could still be in the city, worse in the house. What if it was one of my guests? I'd rather not even think about it...

I'm not stupid. I didn't run headlong into the claws of the unprotected male. I took something to defend myself. A Swiss Army knife and a tear gas canister.

The driver nods to me at the door. He wants me out of his car. I let out a sigh and grabbed my suitcase, which I preferred to keep with me. With my bag on my shoulder, I open the door before turning to the man.

"Thank you for the ride! Have a nice day."

He just shakes his head vaguely, as if he doesn't listen to me. The impression that goes through me leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

No sooner have I set foot on the ground than my suitcase is grabbed. Steafan MacKay, whom I recognize directly, smiles at me and holds out his hand.

"Good morning, Miss Ryce." My official introduction is Lord Steafan MacKay, brother of the owner of the premises. I am delighted to meet you in the flesh."

He grabbed my hand and brushed it with his cold lips. It's true that it's a bit cooler here than I had expected. I'm going to have to buy thick sweaters, because the ones I took are too thin!

My arm falls to my sides. He looks at me with an arched eyebrow. As if I had something on my face. My eyes scan his face and write into my mind how powerful he exudes.

"You're going to swallow flies," he said, smiling.

That's right, he speaks perfect French. Via email, I translated into English so that they would understand. On the phone, I was trying to speak as best I could with my crappy accent. They must have thought I was an idiot! After several weeks, they confessed to me that they spoke a few languages. Including French.

"It's nice to meet you, too."

He smiles faintly.

"Come, I'll show you your apartments."

He invites me to follow him, raising his hand in the direction of the building. We walk in the direction of the manor house's door. It looks like an old haunted castle straight out of a horror movie. Yet I like it. It has a lot more charm than in the pictures. There is no better way to appreciate and be moved by something than to admire it in real life.

Lord Steafan MacKay opens the big, creaking door, probably made of oak, and shifts so that I can pass. The beauty of the place takes my breath away. A large wooden staircase is right under my nose. I suddenly feel pressure in my lower back. My head swivels and I discover that my host has put his hand on it, to make me move forward. I do so, turning my attention back to the mouldings at the corners of the staircase. You'd think it was tailor-made.

"Your apartments are on the second-to-last floor, the third. The front floor contains my brother's bedroom as well as mine and our bathrooms. Yours is on your floor, next to the walk-in closet where you can store your clothes."

While pointing out where I'm going to sleep for the next three months, we climb the creaking steps. We don't dwell on their floors and move on to the one they dedicated to me. I can't believe it. The bathroom is at least eight square meters, the walk-in closet is a bit bigger, and the bedroom is huge for my taste.

In the photos, they looked smaller. They had, I think, given me the dimensions, but I hadn't realized. The room is fit for a princess, even a queen. I have room for three or four people to sleep in it!

But that's not all. Across the street from my room is a library that they made available to me for my research.

They, too, would like to unravel the dark secret that surrounds these places. They were suspected, but quickly exonerated. Some witnesses, who were coming to sleep at the time, saw a stranger walking in the garden in the middle of the night. They all said the same thing: the man was tall, dressed in black, and disappeared in seconds. As if it had been nothing more than an imagination played by their minds.

Lord Steafan puts my suitcase in the dressing room. Gracefully he turns back to me.

"I hope your trip went well."

"Oh yes, thank you."

Lord Steafan leans forward, one hand behind his back, then straightens up. Her dark eyes – a color I can't make out – plunge into mine.

"I'll leave you, your meal will be ready at seven o'clock sharp. Be on time. If you need anything, I'll be in the living room, the room across from the kitchen."

"Okay, thank you."

He leaves me alone in this big room. When I turn around, I hardly realize that I will be spending all my nights there, until I leave Scotland. Three months. I have three months to try to understand what happened and get inspiration for my next novel. The last one was a hit and my publisher wants one in the next few months.

Of course, I didn't know how to say no. I assured him to write one and send it to him. For the past two months I have been going around in circles in my small apartment in Paris. It was impossible for me to draw inspiration from my life I'm single and didn't kill anyone.

Only, I'm not one to write about myself. I prefer to invent a minimum or to base myself on real stories, far from the people I know. Otherwise, it's hard for me to detach myself from the people close to me. The heart gets in on it and writing becomes complicated.

I take my time unpacking my things. I want to store everything properly so I don't have to do it again later. A nervous laugh escapes my throat when I see that my clothes don't even make up a third of the wardrobe. I should have taken it all, even if it meant having too much. Right now, I feel ridiculous with all the empty space there's left.

I go to the bedroom and set up photos on the wooden bedside table. There's a picture of my parents and a picture with the whole family together. My parents, my uncle and aunt and my cousin. They're the only people I don't want to forget. The rest – such as my ex – doesn't matter. On top of that, I add a book that I started a short time ago.

My phone starts to vibrate as I decide to change. The message is from my editor. She asks me if I'm up for receiving a box of books to sign for a competition. I accept and go back to my business. When I glance at the time, when everything is put away, I see that it is already six-fifty-three. I grab a rubber band, tie my hair back and run to the first floor. My heart is beating a little fast. I'm stressed. This is my first meal away from where I live. It's the first one that means my life is changing. For a few weeks, of course.

In the living room, Steafan MacKay sits in a large old-fashioned armchair. He is immersed in reading a book with a red cover and no title on it, as before. I clear my throat, almost embarrassed to disturb him. His square-jawed face lifts up towards me. A smile appears on his thin lips.

"Are you settled? Happy with your apartments?"

"Yes. It's all perfect, Lord..."

"Just call me Steafan. We're going to have to talk a lot, so we might as well break the ice now."

"Okay."

My answer is short, blunt. The way he expresses himself intrigues me more than it makes me laugh. Yes, few people speak like that, in a more or less sustained language.

"You can go and eat. The stove will serve you. It's in the next room. Have a good meal."

He nods to the frame that leads to a room, where I can see a table and chairs. I thanked him and walked without saying a word to the dining room. There is indeed cutlery for one person. Has he eaten yet? Is he waiting for his brother? I can't answer.

Sitting down, a woman emerges from what I imagine to be the kitchen. She has graying hair, mahogany brown eyes, and reddened cheeks. Not once does she speak to me, or glance at me. It must be an order from his employer. She is the only one serving me throughout the meal. The dishes follow one another and quickly, I am full.

The woman clears me and leaves the room for good. I get up, worried by the way he acts. Her superiors are not there, no one sees her. As I make my way to the kitchen, where she has gone, I hear a throat clearing that stops me in my tracks.

"Miss Cynthia Ryce, I am honored to have you here."

The male voice, hoarse, seems to be a few meters away from me. A warm breath tickling the back of my neck makes me realize that I'm not wrong. I turn around on myself, breathless. My eyes naturally plunge into black pupils. The man in front of me looks a bit like Steafan. A little older, I'd say. He also has prominent cheekbones, dimples on his cheeks when his lips are stretched, and a dimple on his chin. Her lips are fuller than her brother's. Her pallor jumps out at me. Is he sick? Or is it because of the faint neon lights that light up the room?

The man leans forward, grasping my hand in his cold palm. He mimes a kiss, without touching her, then sits up gracefully. The sparkle in his eyes is intense, but I can't tell what it is.

"Mr. MacKay. I'm also happy to be here."

"I have no doubt of it! My brother must have shown you around our house. What do you think? Is it to your liking?"

I arch an eyebrow, amused. He probably knows that his mansion is big and beautiful. Sounds like a way to be complimented! Or I make up my mind.

"I must admit that yes, it is really magnificent. I had already seen the pictures you sent me and I find your house even more splendid!"

He smiles, nodding slightly.

"I know," he whispers. "Would you like to spend the evening in peace or in our company? We have friends over."

"Oh no, I'd rather stay in my room. If you please."

"You can do what you want, as long as you don't set the house on fire. With that, you can go to your room. Your breakfast will be at six-thirty to-morrow morning. Good night."

With these words, Lord Keith MacKay turned on his heel and left the dining room. Is it me, or did he just dismiss me for the night? I let out a deep sigh. He was the one I had the most conversations with. I expected at least he... I don't know, offers me a little tour of his mansion. Or even have a longer chat with me. No, I would have loved to spend time with them to learn more about them and their home. But there's no way I'm going to intrude on their party. Especially with their friends I don't know.

I swallow my disappointment. In contrast to his features, Lord Keith MacKay is much colder. The tone he used, curtly, to tell me to go to my room, sticks in my throat. I go straight up to the stairs. In the living room, the two brothers sit and talk without worrying about me. I go out and up the steps. A good evening Cynthia is heard. This is Steafan's voice. I answer him in the same way before going to my floor.