I have wondered many an hour how to begin this tale, wondered which moment would be apt to serve the vital purpose of being introductory. I thought perhaps the moment a young dark-haired ruffian handed a pretty girl an untidy handful of wild Red Campion, or the moment at which the water ran red in Sigtrygg's Burn. But I shall begin with the deathly silence following a winter's storm – a silence which is only disturbed by the gentle pitter-patter of stray morsels of snow falling from the blanched branches of oaks and evergreens. That and the heavy crunch of my cold, sodden boots through the white December shroud covering the landscape. I felt my mood reflected in its starkness. I felt wild and uneasy, and although there was silence my ears rang. It seemed as though every step took an age and I felt as though I was certainly trudging as opposed to walking at a reasonable pace. But every glance I made at the folded piece of parchment persuaded my feet to endeavour.

I had always admired the colour that wintry weather paints the sky during the twilight hours, but Scotland made it a blend of pinks and oranges of which I had never seen the like. For a brief moment, I wondered what the Deuce I was doing, walking in such a climate in a land I did not know, hundreds of miles from my home. It made my pulse quicken with anxiety momentarily, before my foot kicked a solid object drowned in snow. I stopped and knelt down to uncover this object, to discover a buried milestone, declaring proudly that Inverness was to be found fifty-one miles north. I uncovered it further and found what I wanted. "Loch Mòr, 2 miles." My fingers stung with cold and I shoved them back into my coat pockets to deaden it. And on I trudged.

Upon my finally discovering the wooden sign signalling I had reached Loch Mòr, I did wonder where indeed the loch was, for all I could see about me were tall trees and craggy hills. Still, the silence was so profound that I could hear my own heart beating. That was until another sound caused me to halt and stand motionless in a narrow lane between trees and a stone-walled field. I found it rather unnerving to hear approaching footsteps and not have the faintest idea from which direction they came. The crunch of a heavily-shod individual grew nearer and my heart beat to rival the increasing sound. A figure emerged from behind the trees.

A heavy-set man dressed in a long coat stopped in the lane upon seeing me and thrust his long walking stick into a mound of snow beside his feet. A handsome border collie followed and sat at his side.

"Good day, Miss," he called politely in a local brogue, tipping his cap. He stepped further forward. The collie trotted excitedly along the lane toward me and thrust its nose into my hand.

"Nell, leave!" the man commanded firmly. The dog immediately obeyed, returning to her master's side.

"Good afternoon," I replied, conscious that my own accent would certainly draw attention.

He peered at me with curiosity and furrowed his brow, his forehead creasing deeply. "Well, Miss. You're a little far from home, aren't you?"

"I'm looking for the loch. Or rather, I'm looking for Cainnech House."

I noticed the man's expression change to one of harder intrigue, perhaps even concern. "Cainnech House? What business do you have at Cainnech House?"

"Business that concerns the master of the house. Do you know him?"

"Aye, I know him. Well, you've found the loch, it's just behind those trees. As for the house, follow this lane another half-mile and you'll come across it. Big iron gates."

"Thank you," I smiled, through my pain and discomfort.

"Come, Nell," he ordered the dog, before opening a wooden gate into the field.

"Your name?" I called as he walked away.

"McCarron," he replied. "Angus McCarron."

"You've been a great help, Mr. McCarron. I'm Ianthe Reid."

I continued along the lane and glanced backwards to see that instead of disappearing among the sheep in his field as one would expect, Mr. McCarron stood at the gatepost and watched me as I walked away. Disconcerted and a touch alarmed, I quickened my pace.

As the farmer McCarron had promised, half a mile along the edge of the loch, I arrived at a wooded area with a set of tall wrought-iron gates inconspicuously situated among the trees. There was no sign, no label displaying the name of the house, but I chose to proceed nonetheless, upon the directions given to me.

I took a sharp intake of breath upon seeing the grand residence come into view from behind the trees. Built to compliment its surroundings with grey stone and small trellis windows, it appeared very handsome with snow resting upon its rooftops and towers. A wintry Highland palace. Could he really live here?

I felt my nerves begin to tighten as I approached the robust, wooden door of the imposing house. I raised my hand to reach for the door-knocker, but momentarily lost my courage, letting my arm drop and stepping backward.

I looked back in the direction from whence I had come and noticed the most superb of aspects across the loch from the place where I stood. There was not a sound. Just tranquillity and peace. The magic of the scenery reawakened my senses. I had come so far, I would be a fool to turn back upon reaching the very doorstep of the place I had been searching for. I swiftly turned and tapped the knocker upon the wood before my mind could have the opportunity to convince me otherwise.

The door opened quickly. A steely-looking lady with a strong jaw and round spectacles opened the door.

"Yes?" she demanded.

I thought it a peculiar way to answer the door, but being in another country was bound to bring differences of culture, I reassured myself. I thought perhaps manners were a little frayed in Scotland.

"Hello, my name is Miss Reid and I wish to speak to the master of house."

She appeared bemused and did not invite me in. "And what is it in regard to?"

"With respect, Madam, that is between your master and myself."

I intended to then ask the name of her master, but the woman spoke before I could. "Wait here," she ordered, slamming the door shut.

Although rather taken aback, I did as I was instructed. But thankfully, I was not made to wait for too long. The door opened again and I was coarsely invited into the entrance hallway, before being ushered into an adjoining room. The house was dark, lit dimly with candles even though it remained light outside. The furnishings too were dark, fashioned from murky woods and tartan patterns. Mounted heads of stags and other parkland beasts hung from the walls and obscure portraits of honourable men peered at me hauntingly. I certainly felt overwhelmingly as though I were being watched. Instinctively I sought the little light there was in the room and moved nearer the window while the woman left to fetch her master. I rested my hand on the wooden window ledge and felt my eyes again being drawn to the pleasant sight of water beyond the gardens.

A sharp creak caused me to turn my head suddenly and a man stood before me. I thought him rather surly-looking upon first appearance, although now I suspect it was the surroundings which created that unfortunate effect. His features were long and linear, his hair Celtic and his eyes somewhat gloomy. I remember I thought him rather sturdily built for a man of leisure.

"Sir, pardon me. Are you the master of this house?"

"That I am," he replied with a deep, Scottish inflection to his way of speaking. "The housekeeper informs me that you have business to discuss with me," he said, with a hardened expression. He gestured to a chair and I sat opposite the fireplace, which lay unlit and filthy with ash. He stood, leaning his elbow upon the mantle.

"Yes, Sir. I do."

"Well what can I do for you, Miss..?"

"Reid. Miss Reid. I do apologise for my happening upon you with such spontaneity, Sir, but I am looking for someone. This house was given to me as his last known address."

He furrowed his brow. "Who?"

"My father. That is, my father by birth. I was raised by adoptive parents in Derbyshire."

His expression seemed to change, almost as though a thought had just hit his mind with force. He stood still and peered at me intensely.

"My father's name was Erskine. Erskine Magor," I continued.

His arm slipped from the mantle and his fingers fumbled shakily for the chair arm to his side. I noticed his face drain of its colour to such an alarming extent that I thought he had fallen ill. He slumped into the armchair opposite mine and kept his eyes firmly fixated upon my face.

"Erskine?" he murmured, his voice apparently stifled by shock.

"Yes, Erskine Magor. Do you know him?"

"Erskine," he repeated, rising to his feet suddenly and pacing toward the window.

"Are you alright?" I enquired. He turned and paced back to the chair and sat down for a second time. I thought his behaviour awfully odd. His face was now ridden with anxiety and he could barely keep still, his hands twitching. He sat forward and his eyes bore into me.

"You're Erskine's daughter?" he asked.

"Yes – so you know him? My father?"

He rested his forehead against his hand and rubbed his brow nervously, his eyes still carefully scanning my face.

"Jesus, you have his eyes," he gasped almost inaudibly as he covered his mouth with his hand.

"Who was he? The only information I have is this address."

He rose to his feet again and appeared to be trying to compose himself. He swept back his dark hair with his hand, checked his pocket watch from within his waistcoat pocket and adjusted his cravat. His tone of voice returned to some degree of normality and he returned to the mantle, leaning his elbow upon it as he had done earlier.

"Erskine Magor worked here years ago. A stable hand. He died some years ago."

I found the news something of a disappointment, having travelled for days in the hope of being able to meet him, but what concerned me more was the reaction I had received from the master. "I see," I replied solemnly.

"I'm sorry I can't help you more."

"Well, could you tell me a little about him? I take it you knew him as you seem to remember him well."

"I didn't know him well. He was just a stable hand. This used to be the guesthouse for the Royal Estate, so he would saddle horses for the King's guests."

"The Royal Estate? This house was on the Royal Estate?"

"Why yes, it still is. Braecraith Castle is further around the loch. It's where King Edmund spends his summers and occasional winter. Didn't you know that's where you were?"

"I knew it was near here, but I didn't know it was part of the estate. Who lives here now."

"Oh I am sorry," he said, "I do forget my manners on occasion. My name is Colonel John Logan. I'm a – a friend, I suppose, of His Majesty. He allows me to reside here."

He briskly walked across the room to the door and opened it. "As I said, I'm sorry I could not help you more."

I could not help but assume he was extremely eager for me to leave. But I could not fathom why. What had I said to upset him so much? I did not believe for one moment that he knew Erskine Magor as little as he tried to imply. But why should he wish to deceive me about such a thing? Indeed it was clear that Colonel Logan wished me to leave, but I had no intention of leaving yet. Intrigue and curiosity quickened the flow of blood through my veins and I was determined to discover more.

"Do you know more of him than you claim, Sir?"

"I do not, I assure you," he replied quickly, walking out of the room. I followed him into the entrance hallway, where I found him in the company of his housekeeper, the strong-jawed spectacle-wearing lady.

"Mrs. Quirke, please ensure Miss Reid gets to her carriage safely."

"Carriage? I don't have a carriage."

"Your horse then."

"I don't have a horse. I arrived on foot."

"On foot?"

"I took a carriage to Strathgarn but he wouldn't take me any further in this weather."

"That's ten miles!" the housekeeper exclaimed.

The Colonel opened the door to reveal a surging blizzard which had sprung from nowhere during the short time I had been indoors.

"She can't walk ten miles in that!" she added.

"Please, let me stay. Just until the weather clears," I said.

He appeared to be pained with the responsibility of the decision. He did not want me in the house any longer, nor did he want the guilt of my dying of exposure on his hands.

"It's ten miles, Colonel," the housekeeper repeated softly.

He sighed and slammed the door shut. "One night," he declared. "She can stay one night, then she can leave tomorrow when the snow has ceased. Put her in the Burnley room."

The housekeeper took my small bag of clothes and led me upwards along a wide, carpeted stairway. Just as the farmer had done, the Colonel watched me as I proceeded away from him. I longed to know why.

"Mrs. Quirke," he called as we reached the top of the stairs. "Inform Ianthe of our rules regarding the Southern Wing."

"Of course, Colonel," she replied.

She walked quickly along the landing and we passed door, after door. I wondered how many bedrooms a king could possibly need for his guests. Then again, 'need' and 'royalty' are not normally synonymous.

She opened the door to the Burnley room and handed me my bag. It was incredibly large, with windows larger than I had seen in the rest of the house, and I grew rather thrilled at the thought of sleeping in a four-poster bed.

"Here is your room. Stay here now until dinner. Wander the corridors on this floor, by all means, but the other wings are out of bounds to guests."

"Including the Southern Wing?"

"The Southern Wing is locked. It's always locked."

"Why?"

"The master doesn't have a use for it. It's better off locked. Dinner's at six," she blurted, slamming the door behind her as she left.

I approached the window and gazed at the hypnotic veil of snow falling beyond the glass, clouding the cold window pane with my breath. It was while daydreaming that I suddenly realised the Colonel had called me 'Ianthe' as I climbed the stairs – a name I had not yet given him.