Vows of Revenge

Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

K ASSIA STOOD NEXT to Damos, gazing out over the loch in front of them, a dreamy expression in her eyes. Had she ever dreamt that life could be so wonderful? No, she never had—it would have been impossible that she could ever have dreamt it so. Because never had she dreamt that a man like Damos could be in her life.

But the very expression ‘a man like Damos’ was wrong—it was Damos himself she had never dreamt about.

How wonderful he was! Just wonderful! And since that wonderful night she had spent with him her life had been transformed. Transformed into blissful happiness.

She turned to look at him now, her gaze drinking him in. He was standing beside her on the beach, binoculars pressed to his eyes, watching a large bird soaring over the forested far shore, behind which the ground rose upwards to a high, rounded ben.

She felt her heart give a little skip, the way it always did when she looked at Damos.

Is this really real...me being here with him?

That first morning, surfacing from that wonderful night, it had seemed almost a dream to her. But it was a dream he’d made real—was making real every day.

They’d spent all that first day together in his suite—in his bed—dining in as well. It had been another whole day until they’d surfaced.

‘Let’s get out of London,’ he had said. ‘I want you all to myself—somewhere miles and miles from anywhere.’

Kassia couldn’t have agreed more. She wanted Damos all to herself as well.

The Highlands of Scotland fitted the bill perfectly. Here, standing on the stony little beach, with the dark water of the narrow loch lapping gently near their feet, the only dwelling for miles around was the place where they were staying.

A castle—a genuine Scottish castle. Theirs for a whole fortnight.

It was only a small one—a solid, stone-built keep, set back from the loch’s edge. It had an imposing entrance hall upon whose walls was a fearsome display of weaponry, a gracious drawing room with a cavernous fireplace and comfortable tartan sofas, an elegant panelled dining room with an oak table and furniture, and upstairs a bedroom with a four-poster bed with velvet hangings, and cosy sheepskins on the polished wooden floor.

The castle might be ancient, but it came with modern plumbing and central heating—and a married couple, the MacFadyens, to cater to their needs.

Kassia had texted Dr Michaelis from London, and told him she was going to take her annual leave after all, then headed north with Damos, on wings of wondrous happiness.

Was she wise to run off with him like this?

Her words to Valerie Cardman echoed in her head, after Valerie had asked her if she’d known Damos long.

‘Not very long...’

That first dinner with him on his yacht, for the sake of his funding next season’s excavation, then a day out at Blenheim, an evening dining at the Oxford college, and then the Art Deco dinner-dance at the Viscari.

That was all, really. Barely three days.

Yet here she was, plunging into a glorious, wonderful, ecstatic affair with him.

How well do I know him—I mean, really know him?

She heard the question in her head. Heard it and discarded it.

‘It’s an eagle—I’m sure of it!’ Damos exclaimed.

Kassia was glad of the diversion to her thoughts.

‘I think eagles keep to the high ground, don’t they?’ she said doubtfully.

‘Well, it’s swooped down from the ben, then,’ Damos persisted. He lowered his binoculars, turned towards Kassia. ‘Why are Scottish mountains called bens?’ he asked.

‘No idea,’ said Kassia. ‘We must look it up. It’s probably Gaelic. I do know what a Munro is, though.’

‘A Munro?’

‘Yes, they are the mountains that are over three thousand feet—around a thousand metres or so—named after the Victorian mountaineer who first climbed them all. It’s now a tradition—to bag a Munro!’

Damos looked interested. ‘Could we bag one?’

‘We’d need some decent kit,’ Kassia said. ‘I think there are plenty that don’t actually need to be climbed, as such, but even walking would require proper kit. Idiots still go up in trainers and tee shirts, and then slip and fall. And then the weather turns and Mountain Rescue has to be called out.’

‘We’ll buy all the right kit,’ Damos pronounced. ‘It must be sold everywhere in Scotland. Then we’ll drive to Inverlochry and load up with everything we’ll need. Are you up for it? Bagging a Munro?’

Kassia’s eyes rested on him. For Damos she would bag every Munro he set his sights on. Climbing them with him at her side would be bliss...

But then everything with Damos at her side was bliss.

‘But not today. Today is just a getting-to-know-this-place day,’ he said. He looked around him. ‘It really is pretty good,’ he said approvingly. ‘A loch all to ourselves...a castle all to ourselves. And sunshine too.’

‘And midges. The curse of the Scottish summer!’ Kassia laughed. ‘It’s better here by the loch, I think. The breeze is keeping them away.’

‘We can have a picnic lunch here,’ Damos said.

Kassia groaned. ‘How can you think of lunch already, after that gargantuan breakfast Mrs MacFadyen loaded us up with? Not so much a full English as a full Scottish. You put away at least two kippers and half a dozen Scotch pancakes—and that was even before you tackled the bacon and eggs and toast and marmalade!’

He turned back to her. ‘I need to keep my strength up,’ he said.

He dropped a kiss on her mouth. As he drew back, his eyes were glinting. They were the colour of the dark, peaty loch water, Kassia thought, as she gazed helplessly back.

‘And so do you,’ he murmured wickedly. He kissed her again. ‘Glad we came?’ he asked.

Her eyes shone as she answered him. ‘Oh, yes,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, yes.’

Her questions—questions she did not even want to ask—evaporated into the clear Highland air. Perhaps she had known Damos only a short while, and perhaps she was being swept away by him, by her own happiness—but how could she argue against it?

And it wasn’t just the sensual ecstasy she found in his arms.

That first day with him, after bumping into him like that, out of the blue in Oxford, surely had been a sign? And the easiness between them, when she had never thought there could ever be anything between them—surely that told her there was a connection there? Something that went beyond the heady delights of the nights they spent together?

We can talk together, laugh together, be together. And it feels so right, so natural...as if it were meant to be...

Surely all that was a sign that what was happening between them was good? That she could trust it. Trust Damos—and trust this wonderful, blissful happiness...

‘Good,’ he said, and there was satisfaction in his voice. Then he pointed towards the end of the little beach. ‘There’s a path there. Shall we see where it leads? Work up an appetite for lunch?’

He set off, and Kassia followed. The path was wide enough, threading between the shoreline and the spruce and birch, to afford easy going along its mossed surface, even in the trainers she and Damos were wearing. For anything more demanding, let alone bagging a Munro, they would definitely need proper walking boots.

They got them the following morning, after driving into the local town—a good twelve miles away from their remote castle—together with a fearsome array of mountain-proof gear that Damos insisted on. Kassia smiled indulgently. He was so enthusiastic she hardly liked to point out to him they were unlikely to need quite so much.

The shopkeeper was perfectly happy to cater to his foreign customer’s very expensive enthusiasm, and as they finally left, piling umpteen bag-loads into the back of the four-by-four Damos had hired when they’d landed at the airport on arrival, Kassia smiled fondly.

‘You,’ she said, ‘have made that Scotsman a happy, happy man!’ Her expression sobered. ‘I just wish you hadn’t bought so much for me, though, Damos.’

He shut the tailgate with a slam.

‘How could I bag a Munro without you? I wouldn’t even know what one was, for a start! Now, all that kitting up has made me hungry. Where shall we have lunch? How about over there?’

He pointed across a cobbled square lined with solid granite buildings towards an ancient-looking pub.

They walked towards it together, Kassia slipping her hand into Damos’s, knowing how right it felt. How very right it felt to be with him. She felt a glow inside her. However much she might have rushed into this affair with Damos, it was something she was going to trust.

Because I know I can.

Damos’s brow furrowed in concentration. Duncan MacFadyen, the husband half of the castle’s married couple, was teaching him how to cast a fishing line. It required focus, and just the right amount of flexibility in the wrist.

‘Aye, that’s right, your grip’s fine. Now, lift back, and—’

The line shot forward, arcing across the water. Damos, like his tutor, was standing calf-deep, wearing waders, in the shallow, fast-flowing river.

‘Och, not bad...not bad, laddie,’ said Duncan MacFadyen. ‘Now, reel it in and try again. Watch for those low trees, mind, or they’ll tangle your line in a gnat’s breath!’

Damos did as he was instructed. His focus was absolute. But then, when his mind was set on something, when he saw a goal he wanted to achieve, he went after it until he had it in his possession—whether it was skill at fly-fishing, or...

His thoughts were diverted for a moment. Behind him, curled up on a groundsheet and tartan rug on the bank, he knew Kassia was sitting, half reading, half watching him, enjoying the pale Scottish sunshine, batting away the midges.

Kassia—her name was sweet in his head. Sweeter than he had ever imagined it would be. But then, how could it not be? She was all that he wanted, and this remote spot in the Highlands was the perfect place for her to be with him. It gave him Kassia all to himself, far away from anyone else. His thoughts were shadowed for a moment. Far away from Greece, where word might get out of their being together. His eyes darkened as he thought of her father and Cosmo Palandrou. Then, deliberately, he pushed them both aside. That whole business was for later—not now.

The shadow left his eyes. Now was for Kassia, for his time with her, for their time together.

And how good it was...how very, very good. Every single moment of every single twenty-four hours.

He felt his breath catch with searing memories. By night, Kassia’s passion for him swept him away. She was as ardent in his arms as that very first amazing night. She gave herself so totally to him, so completely—and he returned it in full. Never had he known how it could be...

And by day? Oh, by day there was hour after hour of good times, one after another.

They had bagged their Munro, duly kitted out, making a day of it. They’d chosen an easy one, unused as they both were to hill-walking, ascending up through larch forests to emerge on to the heather and head up to the peak, where they’d hunkered down out of the keening wind to eat their sandwiches and the obligatory Kendal Mint Cake, looking out from their lofty viewpoint over the glories of the Scottish Highlands spread around them, mile after mile.

The next day, needing a rest, they’d set off in the four-by-four to explore the area, driving past brooding lochs and forest-covered slopes, all ringed by heather-covered mountains. They’d stopped for lunch at a wooden lodge, both of them braving haggis and neeps—Damos smiled in recollection—before driving on to seek out a towering waterfall plunging down from the heights, sending myriad rainbows dancing over the spray.

Yesterday Duncan had taken them out on their own loch in a motorboat, exploring the far shore, cruising the length of it, while he regaled them with bloodthirsty tales from Scotland’s warlike history, of feuding clans and invasion from both the Vikings and the English. And today Duncan was initiating him into the mysteries of fly-fishing...

‘Och, laddie—did I not warn you?’

Duncan MacFadyen’s admonishment made Damos realise that he’d let his thoughts wander and his second cast had, indeed, caught the low-hanging branches on the far side of the river. Disentangling it took Damos some time, but he had learnt his lesson and refocussed his attentions. After another half-hour he was doing distinctly better, and Duncan was saying they might try for a fish after lunch.

Lunch was taken seated on folding chairs around a table that opened up from the boot of the four-by-four, which was drawn up near the riverbank for the occasion. As ever, Mrs MacFadyen had done them proud, with a hot raised crust venison pie, poached salmon scallops, root vegetable salad, and fresh-baked crusty bread with salty Scottish butter and tasty Scottish cheese, all washed down with local beer for him and Duncan, and cider for Kassia.

Their repast finished with a ‘wee dram’ that Duncan produced from the silver hip flask kept about his person.

Damos downed his in one. Kassia choked over hers.

‘Oh, good grief!’ She looked at Damos and Duncan. ‘How on earth do you cope with that?’

Duncan chuckled. ‘Practice, lassie, just practice,’ he said. He turned to Damos. ‘Ye’ll be wanting to visit our local distillery, mind. They’ve a fine single malt—aye, verra fine indeed. Take a bottle or two back with you to Greece. And if it takes your fancy you can buy yourself a cask, keep it here to mature. There’s many a rich man does just that.’

Damos’s eyes glinted. That might be a good idea. He went into a detailed discussion with Duncan about the excellence of the local whiskies and then, a second and final sampling of Duncan’s flask done, went off with him to try his luck with a salmon.

He looked about him as he waded back into the water. This was good, this day—very, very good. The sun, the scenery, the salmon—and Kassia.

What more could he want right now?

Greece, Athens, Cosmo Palandrou, Yorgos Andrakis and any thought of outmanoeuvring them, helping himself to Cosmo’s logistics empire and taking it from under Yorgos Andrakis’s nose, seemed very far away.

Irrelevant.

And supremely unimportant.

Kassia’s hand hovered over the chess board. She was deeply uncertain over what her next move should be. She could hear the rain pattering on the drawing room’s leaded windows. The fine weather had turned, although the MacFadyens had said it was only a summer squall and would blow out overnight. Until it did, the drawing room was a cosy retreat, with the log fire roaring.

They’d kept indoors all day, except for an extremely bracing—and brief—expedition in gumboots and macs to the edge of the loch. Damos had huddled into his waterproofs, but Kassia had laughed, letting the rain wet her hair, and being buffeted by the wind—which had not been cold, only gusty, whipping up the waters of the loch and bowing the birch trees.

Damos, less used to British weather than Kassia, had endured it for five minutes, then called time, heading back to the castle.

She’d gone with him willingly, glancing sideways at him to where raindrops had caught his eyelashes, making her own heart catch as well. As it did every time she looked at him.

She stole another glance at Damos now, still hesitant about her next move. Chess was not her thing. She could never plan or plot ahead sufficiently. Damos—who had, so he’d told her, learnt chess on long sea journeys when he was a deckhand—was way better than her at it.

An enigmatic smile was now playing about his mouth as her fingers hovered indecisively, first over her bishop, and then her knight.

‘I wouldn’t, you know,’ he warned. ‘You’ll lose your rook if you move your bishop, and you’ll expose your queen if you move your knight. Here, this is safest...’ He reached to advance one of her unused pawns. ‘Now your other bishop can threaten my other rook. Except—’

His hand moved to his own pieces, and before she realised it he’d moved his knight to guard his rook, which then gave his bishop free run at her king.

‘Check,’ he said.

‘Oh, grief—what do I do now?’ Kassia said in dismay.

‘You move your bishop to intercept mine and protect your king—which will likely lose you your bishop, but...’ he pointed out ‘...it then lets your knight threaten my queen.’

She sat back, pretty much lost. ‘I just don’t think I’ve got the right kind of mentality for this,’ she confessed. ‘I can never see more than one move ahead—if that.’

Damos smiled pityingly. ‘Foresight is essential—and planning ahead. And not just in chess, of course. In life, too. It’s about spotting unexpected opportunities, if they present themselves,’ he went on. ‘And then moving to exploit them.’

She frowned. ‘“Exploit” is not a pleasant word.’

He gave a shrug. ‘It just means use,’ he said.

‘Precisely,’ she answered.

He shook his head. ‘There’s a difference between using opportunities to one’s advantage and using people to one’s advantage...making use of them.’

‘I suppose so,’ she allowed.

Her thoughts strayed back to that exchange with him at Blenheim, over the implications of another word— ambition . Like ‘exploit’, and ‘use’, ‘ambition’ was another word she was wary of, associating them too much with her father.

But Damos is nothing like him! she retaliated.

He would never make use of other people to his own advantage. Hadn’t he told her, that day at Blenheim, that he’d made his money honestly? She should trust that declaration—he would never do anything underhand, exploit others, take advantage of them, use them for his own ends. Her thoughts darkened. Totally unlike her father, who never bothered with people he could not make use of, or who were not useful to him.

She was glad that at that moment there was a knock on the door and then Mrs MacFadyen was coming in, wheeling an old-fashioned wooden tea trolley. Yet again she had done them proud, with fresh bannocks, potato scones, toasted tea cakes and an array of jams and rich butter. If that left any room, there was a plate of crisp shortbread and a freshly baked Dundee cake, glistening with cherries and laden with almonds.

Damos was rubbing his hands in happy anticipation, praising her efforts and thanking Mrs MacFadyen enthusiastically with his ready smile. The stout, middle-aged Scotswoman was no more immune to Damos’s charm than any female, and bridled with pleasure at his fulsome compliments.

‘Och, get away with you!’ she told him, bustling from the room.

Kassia smiled affectionately at Damos. She tried to imagine her father even thanking Mrs MacFadyen, let alone bothering to compliment her.

He and Damos are complete opposites—totally different in character.

She couldn’t even make allowances for their differences arising from the origins of their respective wealth. Both men were self-made—her father and Damos—but there the similarities ended. Her father was ruthless, always using other people for his own ends—if he could, he’d have used her, his own daughter. She knew that bitterly well.

Damos is nothing like him—nothing!

It warmed her to think so.

‘OK, what is that phrase in English? Are you going to “be mother”?’ Damos was asking her.

And, again, it was a welcome interruption of thoughts she did not want to have.

She reached for the teapot—silver and elegant—and filled their cups—fine porcelain. The renting of this castle was not coming cheap, that was for sure. As well as the castle itself, furnished with antiques and luxuriously appointed, there was the lavish fare provided by Mrs MacFadyen, as well as the ‘extras’ on offer from her husband.

She and Damos had already ticked off fly-fishing and boating on the loch, as well as putting their four-by-four through its offroad paces on a tough, unmade track into the forest. Damos had driven—with Duncan to guide him—and obviously enjoyed it hugely, while Kassia had hung on for dear life. Duncan had taken them bird watching, too—Damos had been smug about finally spotting a golden eagle soaring way over the mountaintop—and even deer stalking, though both she and Damos had made it clear that they were just going to stalk, not shoot. Kassia was conscious that that was somewhat hypocritical, considering the delicious venison dishes that appeared at the dinner table...

As for dinner—Mrs MacFadyen did them proud there, too, every night, and Damos and Kassia responded accordingly. Though they dressed down for their activities in the day—their newly bought walking kit was seeing a lot of use—at night Kassia delighted in dressing the part for Damos. He put on his tux, and she the pale blue chiffon evening gown he’d insisted on buying her in London—along with an array of well-cut co-ordinates that flattered, rather than concealed, her tall figure.

Now, with the wonderful new confidence in herself that Damos had released in her, she knew that for the first time in her life she could really enjoy wearing fashionable clothes, making the most of herself instead of the least. And to that end, every night here in the Highlands, she made up her face for the evening and dressed her hair elegantly, glowing inside as Damos’s admiring eyes rested on her.

Then she would take his gallantly proffered arm and walk down the imposing flight of stairs beside him, sweeping into the drawing room for pre-dinner drinks and then taking their places at either end of the polished oak table in the adjacent dining room, laden with silver and crystal, shimmering in the candlelight. There, they would await the arrival not of dinner, but of the piper who would announce it. He was Duncan’s nephew, and he would march into the dining room in full Highland regalia, the music of the pibroch filling the room.

After he’d retired, dinner would follow hard on his heels. With vintage wines, rich dishes and traditional Scottish desserts, they dined sumptuously—Kassia had swiftly become a fan of Scottish raspberries, heather honey, toasted oatmeal and whisky cream whipped up into cranachan.

And finally, after heading back upstairs, her hand once more on Damos’s arm, she would be escorted to their bedchamber. And there, with a sensuous skill that sent her into helpless meltdown every time, he would let his fingertips glide over her skin, arousing, touch by touch, all the sweet, sweet fire that he always so wondrously elicited from her and set glowing in every tremulous cell of her body.

To make her his.

Consummately, consumingly his...

And he is mine—oh, he is mine.

Because he was. Surely he was? How could it be otherwise when every night she held him as close to her as he held her to him? His heart beat against hers; hers beat against his. As if it could never be any different.

And in those precious hours—in the sweet, slow watches of the night—how could she not think, hope, believe what every passing day, every passionate night, was telling her.

I am falling in love with him.

Was it wise to let it happen? To give herself up to all that she was feeling? To give herself up to the tremulous, uncertain, but oh-so-longed-for hope that Damos might be falling in love as well? Did she...could she...dare to hope...?